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spikedfearn · 26 days ago

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All That's Left Is Yours

Part I

Walter "Lion" Kaminski x fem!reader

summary: Walter Kaminski doesn't know how to be loved without bracing for impact. A washed-up fighter living out of motel rooms and underground leagues, he's spent years surviving hits—in the ring, from his brother, from the world. But when you, a runaway with a sharp mouth and a sharper gaze enters his orbit, everything starts to tilt. The closer you get, the more Walter fears what his hands—trained to hurt, never to hold—might do.

wc: 8k

a/n: I’ve been working through Jack O’Connell’s filmography and the Remmick Discord recently did a group watch of Jungleland—and wow. I knew I was going to love it, but I didn’t expect Walter to tug at my heartstrings the way he did 😭 Dedicated to Liz @fuckoffbard for both beta reading and crafting the banner, you dropped something queen 👑

Disclaimer: You DO NOT need to watch Jungleland to read this fic but I highly recommend giving it a watch, Jack absolutely crushes it!!

warnings: emotional trauma, abusive family dynamics, sibling codependency, past drug use (mentioned), PTSD, fighting/violence, sub!Walter, praise kink, past physical abuse (mentioned), hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, angst with smut, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, unsafe living conditions, unhealthy coping mechanisms, toxic sibling relationship, trauma bonding as a form of intimacy

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Masterlist

Part I: Roadside Attraction

The soda machine clicked, rattled, then swallowed your crumpled dollar like it was nothing. No fizz, no reward. You stared at the red-lit buttons like they owed you something, like they might start speaking and tell you what the hell to do next. But they stayed quiet. Just like you.

It was cold for a desert night. Not cold enough to shiver, but enough that the concrete seeped into your spine as you curled up beneath the flickering fleabag motel sign, your back pressed to the blocky warmth of the vending machine. Your toes were bare and caked with dry blood and gravel. You’d ditched the shoes miles ago, traded them for a gas station sandwich and a bottle of vodka that had long since burned its way through your gut.

You didn’t look up when the footsteps stopped. Not until the low voice cut through the hum of the highway:

"You planning to stay there all night?"

His voice was worn down and gritty, like it had been soaked in whiskey and rung out. The kind of voice that came from a man who’d been punched more times than he could count and still stood tall about it, vowels rough around the edges courtesy of a northeastern accent.

You didn’t answer.

A shadow blocked the light overhead. Broad shoulders. Lean build. Knuckles taped. Face half-hidden under a hoodie, but even in the neon sputter you could see the bruises painting his cheekbone. Left eye a little puffy. A fighter. And not the shiny kind with sponsors and cameras. This one was all backroom and blood.

"I’m not gonna call anyone," he said, voice low. "But you’ll freeze out here."

You looked up. He looked back. It wasn’t pity in his eyes. You would’ve spat on him if it was. No, it was something worse. Recognition. Like he knew the way it felt to run until your legs gave out. To keep your back to the past until the ache in your spine turned permanent.

He fished into his pocket, pulled out a motel key. Room 8.

"I’m not gonna ask," he added. "You want a shower and a bed, it’s yours. I sleep on the floor anyway."

Still, you didn’t move. Not until he dropped the key on the concrete beside you. He didn’t wait. Just turned and walked away, boots scraping the pavement, the bruised side of his face catching the light before he vanished around the corner.

The key dug into your palm when you pushed open the warped motel door.

Room 8 smelled like stale cigarette smoke and borrowed time. The air conditioner rattled like it was dying. There was one bed, neatly made. The sink dripped.

You didn’t see him inside.

The bathroom light buzzed weakly as you flipped the switch. You caught your reflection in the mirror and winced—blood dried at your temple, mascara smeared down your cheeks like you’d been crying even when you hadn’t. The hoodie you wore (not yours, never yours) hung off your shoulders like it didn’t belong.

The water was lukewarm, the pressure shit. But you stepped in anyway.

You peeled off the hoodie and your ragged shirt. The water hit your skin and stung where you were scraped up, but it felt like something real. Something cleansing. You let your forehead press to the motel tile, inhaled mildew and rust, and exhaled the memory of someone screaming your name from a porchlight you never wanted to return to.

Outside, you heard the soft thud of boots on concrete again. Then a lighter flick. The faint, sharp tang of smoke drifting through the thin walls.

You didn’t need to look to know he was right outside the door, leaning against the rail, smoking something cheap, flexing bruised hands with every drag. Trying not to think about you.

You were trying not to think about him.

You stepped out wrapped in one of the motel’s threadbare towels, the water still dripping down your thighs. The bathroom door creaked open. He didn’t turn to look. But he didn’t leave either.

You stood there a minute too long. Listening to his breath.

Both of you pretending like you weren’t listening for each other’s sounds. Like you hadn’t already started building something unnamed in the silence.

And still—he said nothing. Just one long drag of his cigarette, one slow exhale.

Like he was waiting to see if you'd come out again. Like maybe he didn’t want to sleep on the floor tonight after all.

You cleared your throat. Quiet, but just enough to cut through the buzz.

"I’m not staying long," you said. Your voice sounded raw.

He flicked ash into the night air. Still didn’t look at you. "Didn’t figure you would."

Another beat. You hated the silence more than you thought you would.

"You got a name?"

He turned his head then. Just slightly. His eyes met yours under the orange glow of the walkway light. They were tired. Bloodshot. But something flickered there.

"Lion," he said simply. "What about you?"

You hesitated. Names had power. Names meant someone could find you. But you told him anyway.

You watched his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile. Not yet.

He nodded once. "Alright then, sweetheart. Get some sleep."

And then he walked back inside. Left the door cracked. Just wide enough for you to follow.

You stood at the threshold, towel clutched like armor, bare feet planted on the motel carpet that smelled like mildew and cigarette ash. The door was cracked open just enough to catch the whisper of his presence—Lion’s shape slouched in the dark, the thin light from the bathroom stretching shadows across his back.

He didn’t look when you stepped inside. Didn’t say a word. But you felt the shift in the air. Like the way he dragged on that cigarette changed once he knew you were behind him. The silence filled in with something else—tension, heat, the thrum of two damaged people orbiting the same wreck.

You closed the door behind you with a soft click.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The TV was off. The only light came from the slatted bathroom door behind you and the red eye of his smoke.

“I can take the floor,” you said, voice hushed, unsure why. Maybe because the quiet felt sacred. Maybe because you were still dripping, and every breath between you felt too loud.

His laugh was short and dry. “Already told you—I sleep like shit anywhere. Might as well let the floor take the fall for it.”

You didn’t move. Just stood there in your towel, skin goose-pricked from the AC groaning in the wall unit. Your gaze fell to his hands. Thick-knuckled, calloused, bandaged in places. Hands that didn’t know how to be gentle but maybe wanted to try.

“I’ll dry off. Then I’ll go.” You said it, but you didn’t mean it. Not really.

Lion finally turned his head. Looked at you. Really looked.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, not greedy—just tired and curious, like a man taking in something rare he didn’t know how to name.

“You bled through your bandage,” he murmured.

You glanced down. A dark blot of red soaked through the towel near your knee, the scrape reopened. You hadn’t noticed. Didn’t feel it over the slow pulse building in your core, the way his voice kept getting lower, rougher, the longer you stood there.

He reached for the ice bucket lid on the side table, turned it over, pulled a first-aid kit from beneath it. You hadn’t seen it earlier. He unscrewed the cap of a bottle of rubbing alcohol, then held it out without standing.

You stepped forward. Took the bottle. His fingers brushed yours. Just a flicker. But it lit something.

You knelt down in front of him—slow, deliberate. Not sexy. Not flirty. Just there. Between his knees, towel still clinging to your body, water still trailing from your hair onto your bare shoulders. You pulled the hem back enough to clean the scrape. His eyes never left your hands.

Neither of you said a word.

He flicked the cigarette out into the metal ashtray beside him. His hand dropped to his thigh. Rested there. Twitching just slightly.

“You do this a lot?” you asked after a beat, voice barely above a whisper. “Pick up strays?”

He exhaled slow. “Only the ones with a mean left hook.”

That made your mouth twitch. You shook your head, but you didn’t move away.

“You gonna ask what happened?”

“Nope.”

“You wanna know?”

“Yep.”

You looked up at him then. Close enough now that your knees brushed his boots. He smelled like soap from a gas station bathroom and sweat soaked into cotton. Tobacco. Musk. Blood. He looked down at you with something almost tender beneath all that fight-hardened bone.

“I can’t sleep either,” you said.

“I know.”

Another breath passed between you. It felt like a line in the sand. Like if you moved now, everything would change.

So you didn’t move. You stayed right there, with his knees bracketing you and the towel slipping lower down your back, and the heat of his stare holding you still.

And finally—finally—he said:

“You should get in the bed.”

Not a demand. Not a command. Just something raw and honest.

You hesitated.

And then you stood. Dropped the towel. Turned your back to him as you pulled the scratchy motel sheet up over your body, slipping between covers that still held his heat.

He didn’t follow.

But when the lights finally cut out, and the room went dark enough that you couldn’t see the ceiling for the silence, you felt it—his hand brushing your ankle. Just a graze.

Like he was checking you were real.

Like he needed to.

And something about it made your chest ache. Something about it made you wonder.

How often had he done that—reached out, quietly, carefully—just to see if something he cared about was still there? How many times had things disappeared on him without warning? How many hands had he held just long enough to feel them slip away?

You wondered if that was why he touched like that—soft, fleeting, like anything more would scare it off. Like permanence was a luxury he didn’t believe in.

The air conditioner sputtered its last breath sometime just before dawn.

You woke to stillness. Not the kind that soothed. The kind that pressed against your ears and made you too aware of your own heartbeat. The cheap motel sheets clung to your skin, itchy with dried sweat and the weight of someone else’s silence.

The light bleeding in through the blinds was soft—desert dawn pink and melted gold. Your eyes dragged across the ceiling, then to the empty space beside you. The bed was cold now.

Lion hadn’t slept in it.

Your gaze shifted to the floor.

He was stretched out on the thin motel carpet, one arm flung over his eyes to block the sun. His hoodie had been peeled off sometime in the night, wadded up beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. The rest of him—bare from the waist up—was bathed in the kind of early morning shine that made it hard to look away, fractals of light dancing off the gold pendant hanging down and resting against his sternum.

Lean. But cut with that kind of wiry strength earned from fists and failure. There was nothing polished about him. Nothing effortless. His body was a map of fights he didn’t win, of nights that left marks.

But what you noticed first wasn’t the bruises.

It was the ink.

A tattoo bloomed on his left side, stark black against the pale skin of his ribs. A budded cross—elegant, almost holy, but done in thick lines that stretched down to his hip bone. It followed the curve of his body with a precision that made your throat tighten.

It was the kind of tattoo that looked like it meant something.

The kind of tattoo someone might get when they had something to prove. Or something to grieve.

You sat up slowly, careful not to make the bed creak. But his voice cut through the quiet anyway—low, raspy from sleep.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You looked down. He hadn’t moved his arm. But you could see the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“You didn’t,” you lied.

“Liar.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to ask about the tattoo. You wanted to ask about a lot of things. But the morning air felt too fragile, like words might break it.

He finally pulled his arm away. Blinked up at you with those same tired, blue eyes. The bruising had darkened overnight—sick purple above his cheekbone now.

“You get any sleep?” you asked.

He rolled onto his side, elbow propped beneath his head. “Some.”

You nodded. Your fingers twisted on the edge of the motel sheet. He noticed.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he said, voice still rough. “I’m not gonna touch you.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Not unless you ask.”

That made your breath catch.

“I wasn’t—” you started.

“You were,” he interrupted, not cruelly. Just honest. “It’s fine. You’re allowed to be nervous. I’m not exactly a picture of comfort.”

You let the silence sit for a moment.

“I saw your tattoo,” you said eventually.

That brought a real smile. Just a flicker.

“Yeah?” he asked, tone unreadable.

“It’s…unexpected.”

“People usually expect barbed wire or brass knuckles.”

“I expected nothing.”

That made his eyes narrow slightly. Not suspicious—just focused. Curious.

“Well,” he murmured, “you’re the first person to see it sober in a while. So congrats.”

You didn’t laugh. But you didn’t look away either.

The room was quiet again. Tense, but not sharp. Just stretched thin between two people who knew how to pretend nothing mattered. Who didn’t know what to do with the moments when something actually might.

He sat up slowly, every muscle moving like it remembered pain. His back cracked as he stretched.

“Want coffee?” he asked.

You blinked. “Here?”

He smirked. “There’s a machine in the lobby. Shit tastes like burnt tires, but it’s hot.”

You thought about it.

Thought about saying no.

But you didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”

He grabbed his hoodie from the floor, dragged it on without looking at you again. But before he stepped outside, he paused. Hand on the doorknob.

“You can stay,” he said, quietly. “If you want.”

Then he left. The door creaked shut behind him.

You were alone again.

But it didn’t feel the same.

The crowd wasn’t loud—it was vicious.

Packed into a basement so humid the walls sweat blood, every shout felt like it came from somewhere deep in the throat. Somewhere animal. They didn’t cheer for skill. They didn’t want grace or footwork or strategy.

They wanted carnage. Blood.

Lion knew that before his fist ever hit the canvas.

His jaw ached from the first right hook, a bone-deep throb that crackled up to his temple. His opponent was a wall of meat and rage, a prison-yard brute with fists like cinder blocks. There was no technique. Just power. And Lion didn’t need his brother shouting from the side to know that power would win this crowd over long before heart ever did.

“Stop dancing and hit him!” Stanley barked from the corner, voice thick with panic disguised as anger. “You want him to walk all over you? Huh? Lion—get up!”

Lion spat blood. His vision shimmered. The world tilted just enough to make everything feel slightly wrong—too fast, too loud, too hot.

He got up anyway.

Because Stanley needed the money.

Because Stanley had smiled that fucking smile earlier that day and said, “This one’s easy, bro. Guy’s all show, no stamina. You just gotta take a few rounds, make it ugly, then put him down. Easy payday.”

Easy payday.

Lion barely registered the fourth hit that cracked his eyebrow open. He just felt the warm trickle down his temple, thick and wet, slipping into his eye. The crowd roared. The brute cracked his knuckles. Stanley screamed something else, but Lion couldn’t hear it.

He was already gone.

Gone into that space in his mind where it was just fists and fire. Where everything else fell away except the weight of his body and the will to keep standing. To not break.

Because he didn’t have the luxury of breaking.

Not when Stanley had already bet half of it.

Not when you were waiting, maybe still asleep in the motel bed, not knowing what the hell he’d gotten roped into.

You heard the door before you saw him.

He didn’t knock.

He just opened it like it was still his room—even though he’d let you keep the bed, even though he’d left hours ago with nothing but a promise of shit coffee and that quiet, bruised voice telling you you could stay if you wanted.

You were still in bed, half-dozing with the curtains cracked to let in the morning sun when he stumbled in.

Stumbled.

That was the only word for it.

His steps weren’t steady. They were uneven, like the world tilted just slightly under his boots and he hadn’t figured out how to stand on it yet.

You sat up fast. “Lion?”

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it like it was the only thing holding him upright.

His face was a mess.

Split brow. Eye swollen nearly shut. Blood crusted from his lip to his chin. His knuckles looked worse—skin torn open, bones shifting wrong under the stretch of bruised flesh. The same hands you’d cleaned less than twelve hours ago.

“What the hell happened to you?” you asked, heart dropping.

He didn’t answer. Just blinked slow, eyes locking onto you like he was making sure you were still there. Still real. Like the only thing that mattered was that you saw him like this—wrecked, standing, and silent.

“Sit down.” You were already sliding out of bed, grabbing the shitty motel towels and the first aid kit he’d used on you.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Been worse.”

You knelt in front of him anyway. He didn’t stop you.

You peeled his hoodie back, the fabric stiff with sweat and blood. His body flinched when you touched his ribs, and that’s when you saw it—another set of bruises blooming over his tattoo, new and angry. The budded cross twisted just slightly with every breath.

“Jesus, Lion…”

“I took a fight.”

“No shit you took a fight.”

You pressed a cold washcloth to his brow. He winced, but didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t think you were still fighting,” you said, softer this time.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “I wasn’t.”

You waited. The silence stretched.

“Then why?”

That’s when you heard it—a knock at the door. Two quick raps. Familiar. Confident.

Before you could move, Lion stood. Winced. Opened the door.

Stanley stood there. Sunglasses, too-white smile, a wad of cash folded in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“Atta boy,” he said, like Lion had just passed a test.

Then he saw you.

And smirked wider.

“Well shit,” Stanley drawled, eyes dragging over you in nothing but one of Lion’s shirts. “Guess we’re celebrating, huh?”

Lion didn’t say a word.

But his jaw tightened.

Hard.

Stanley didn’t even pretend to stay long.

He made himself at home fast—lit a cigarette without asking, sat on the edge of the motel dresser like it was his throne, and slapped the wad of cash down beside the TV remote with a grin that made your skin crawl.

“Got another lined up for Friday,” he said, like he was talking about weekend drinks. “Same guy running the pit. Big payout this time.”

Lion stood with his hands braced on the bathroom door frame, head bowed slightly like he was willing himself to disappear into the wood. His knuckles were still bleeding. You hadn’t even finished bandaging him.

Stanley didn’t notice. Or he did and didn’t care.

“He’s a bruiser, but nothin’ you can’t handle,” Stanley went on, flicking ash on the floor. “And hey—if you go down in round three, we double. Bookies already think you're soft.”

Lion didn’t say anything. Not even a grunt.

You stepped forward, barely keeping the venom out of your voice. “He can’t even see out of one eye.”

Stanley looked at you like you were an amusing commercial break. “He’ll be fine. Lion always bounces back. Don’t you, bro?”

Still nothing.

Not a word.

Stanley stood up then, snagging the cash again. “I’ll hold this for now. Just so you don’t blow it on painkillers and whores.” A wink in your direction. “No offense.”

You didn’t flinch. But your fists clenched hard enough to pop your knuckles.

When the door shut behind him, it was like the air collapsed. Like all the tension that had been floating in the corners of the room finally snapped loose.

Lion didn’t move. Just stood there, staring at the place Stanley had been.

You crossed the room, slow and quiet, until you were right in front of him.

“Lion,” you said softly.

Still, he didn’t look at you.

“I don’t get it,” you whispered. “Why do you let him do this to you?”

His breath hitched.

And then he laughed.

But it was a dead thing. A broken thing. Like it had rotted in his throat and came out anyway.

“Let him?” he echoed, voice raw. “You think I let him?”

He finally looked at you then.

And something in his face had cracked wide open.

“This is all I have,” he said. “This is it. Motel rooms, blood money, and fights that don’t mean shit. I’ve been fighting since I could walk. And he’s the only one who ever put food in front of me after.”

“That’s not food,” you snapped. “That’s scraps. That’s chains dressed up like favors.”

He didn’t respond. Just ran a hand through his hair, pacing now.

“You think I don’t know that?” he muttered. “You think I don’t wake up every goddamn morning and wish I’d walked away ten years ago? That I hadn’t spent my whole life being dragged around by someone who just wants to be the brains behind my broken body?”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you stepped toward him.

And touched his face.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even gentle. It was desperate. Anchoring. Real.

He leaned into it, just barely.

And for the first time, he looked like he might shatter.

“I’m tired,” he whispered.

You nodded.

“I know.”

The room was quieter after his outburst. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but quiet like the lull after a storm. You’d seen men blow up before, punch walls, throw chairs. Lion didn’t need any of that. His voice had done all the breaking.

Now he sat on the edge of the bed with his fists in his lap, head down, body humming with everything he hadn’t said. The anger. The guilt. The shame that clung to him like the blood drying on his skin.

You came back with the first-aid kit. Didn’t ask permission this time. You just dropped to your knees in front of him like you had the night before.

This time, he didn’t flinch when you touched him.

You worked slowly. Hands steady. The scrape above his eyebrow had crusted, but it split open again as soon as you wiped it. He didn’t hiss. Just stared at your face like the pain kept him grounded.

“Sorry,” you whispered when you dabbed too hard.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.”

You moved to his hands—those knuckles, those battered fingers. They were worse up close. One was likely fractured, swollen so bad the skin looked ready to burst.

“Jesus, Lion…”

He gave a tired half-smile. “I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

That shut him up.

You wrapped his right hand carefully, fingers brushing the rough skin of his palm. He stared down at the top of your head as you worked, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. You finished the left hand, taping it just tight enough.

When you looked up, he was already looking at you.

For a second, it was just that.

The light buzzed overhead.

The air conditioner kicked on, rattled, died again.

His thigh brushed yours.

And something shifted.

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you, maybe it was him. Maybe it was always going to happen.

But his mouth was on yours and it was nothing like you expected.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t rough.

It was desperate.

Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips just in case the world took you away.

His hands—bandaged, trembling—cradled your jaw like you were something fragile. His kiss tasted like blood and salt and something quieter underneath. Something scared.

You kissed him back with both hands tangled in his hoodie, pulled him down to you like you needed him to feel how fast your heart was racing. How real it was.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far. Just pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing heavy. Quiet. Real.

“I don’t go by it anymore,” he said, voice barely audible. “Haven’t in a long time.”

Your fingers curled against his thigh.

“But if you’re gonna stay—” he paused. Swallowed. “You should know.”

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

His breath tickled your lips when he said it.

“Walter.”

You blinked.

“That’s my name. Walter Kaminski.”

You didn’t smile.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t make it smaller than it was.

Instead, you whispered, “Hi, Walter.”

And for the first time since you met him, he looked like he didn’t want to run.

The warmth of his name still lingered on your tongue by the time night fell.

Walter.

You didn’t say it out loud again. Not yet. Not while he was already pulling back into himself, curling up in the corner of the room with a bag of ice on his side and a far-off look in his eyes like he was already bracing for what came next.

You’d made the bed for him.

He didn’t use it.

He stayed in the chair near the window, legs sprawled out, hoodie zipped halfway up like armor. The bandages on his hands were fresh, but you could already see the bruising underneath turning darker by the hour.

You sat on the edge of the bed, chewing your thumbnail, watching him in the reflection of the black screen of the TV. Neither of you had turned it on.

“Are you gonna take the fight?”

The question floated between you, suspended in the dusty air. It sounded smaller than you’d meant it to.

Walter didn’t answer right away.

You hated that you already expected that.

“Stanley’s not gonna let it go,” he muttered eventually. “If I don’t show, he loses money. If he loses money, he gets mean. And if he gets mean—he finds ways to make me pay anyway.”

You frowned. “He’s not your boss.”

“He is if I keep letting him be.”

You turned then, facing him fully. “Then stop.”

His jaw flexed.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not,” he snapped, standing suddenly, the chair scraping loud against the laminate floor. “You think I don’t want to be done? You think I don’t want to walk away and disappear and never take another hit again?”

His voice cracked.

You didn’t flinch. You stood too. Right in front of him now.

“Then do it,” you said, voice low. “Stop letting him bleed you dry.”

“I owe him.”

“You don’t.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like you were something that shouldn’t have stepped into his world but did anyway, and now he didn’t know what the hell to do with you.

He turned away. Punched the dresser with his bandaged hand. Didn’t even curse. Just breathed heavy through his nose like he was holding back more than blood.

“I don’t know how to be anything but this,” he said finally. “I don’t know how to be someone you stay with if I’m not fighting.”

You crossed to him. Placed a hand on his back. Felt him flinch and stay all at once.

“You don’t have to know yet,” you whispered. “You just have to try.”

Silence.

Then: “Stanley booked the motel through the weekend.”

You exhaled slowly. “So we’ve got a few days.”

He turned, looked at you again.

Soft. Wrecked. Open.

“Yeah,” he said. “A few days.”

The motel lobby was quiet.

Desert quiet—heat pressed against the glass, flies buzzing near the snack rack, an old box fan rattling against the check-in desk. You stood there, fingers curled around a styrofoam coffee cup, waiting for the guy behind the counter to stop pretending he wasn’t watching you.

“Can I help you?” you asked finally.

The clerk—mid-forties, bored eyes, receding hairline—shrugged. “Nah. Just didn’t expect to see you come outta Room 8 this morning.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

He smirked. “You his girl or something?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” he said quickly, hands raised. “Just—he’s usually alone. Or with the other one. The loud guy in sunglasses. You’re new.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t owe him one.

Just grabbed a second cup of that awful burnt coffee and walked out.

But the words followed you.

You his girl or something?

Walter was sitting on the hood of a rusted-out car behind the motel, shirtless in the sun, knees pulled up and cigarette dangling from his mouth. The bruises on his ribs had ripened into something nasty. The bandage on his hand was already fraying.

You handed him the coffee. He took it without a word.

“You alright?” you asked.

He nodded.

Then squinted. “Why?”

You shrugged, sitting beside him. “Motel guy asked if I was your girl.”

He paused.

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel the way his whole body stilled. Like you’d reached under his skin and pressed on something he hadn’t let anyone near in a long time.

“What’d you say?” he asked.

“Didn’t.”

He flicked ash off the hood. “Good.”

“Why? That hard to believe someone might care about you?”

Silence.

Then: “It’s not that.”

You turned to look at him.

He finally looked back.

“It’s that people who care about me don’t stay,” he said. “And when they try, they get hurt.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

“Yeah.” He stared at you for a long second. “That’s what scares me.”

Stanley showed up like he always did—loud, smug, and uninvited.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed folding the same two clean shirts Walter owned when the knock came. He barely glanced at the door before dragging it open.

“Look at you,” Stanley crowed, stepping into the room like it belonged to him. “Didn’t think you’d be up. You take a nap or a beating?”

Walter didn’t laugh.

You stayed quiet.

Stanley’s eyes slid to you. “Ah. She’s still here.”

You didn’t like the way he said that—like you were a stray dog who hadn’t wandered off yet.

“She got a name?” Stanley asked, looking at Walter now.

“Yeah,” Walter said flatly. “She does.”

Stanley waited, eyebrow raised. No answer.

You could see it coming. The moment when curiosity soured into suspicion. When Stanley tilted his head just slightly and looked at you like you were a piece of something valuable. Something vulnerable.

“You gonna tell me who she is, or should I guess?” he said with a crooked smile.

And before you could open your mouth—before you could laugh it off or lie or do anything to defuse the moment—Walter stepped forward.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

But purposeful.

His hand came to your waist.

Fingers warm, firm, curling just enough to make the gesture unmistakable. Possessive. Protective. Territorial.

Yours.

You felt it like a punch to the gut.

And so did Stanley.

The look in his eyes shifted—something calculating, something darker. Like he’d just found another way to get at Walter if he ever needed it.

But Walter didn’t let go.

He just looked at his brother, jaw set, mouth a tight line.

Stanley grinned. “Well, shit.”

And then he left.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the spell broke.

Walter let go.

You turned slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said.

He met your eyes. “Yeah, I did.”

You wanted to ask why.

But you already knew.

Because you were becoming something Stanley could use.

And Walter? He was already starting to care too much to let that happen.

The motel room creaked with the kind of stillness that wasn’t peace.

Just a low hum of things unsaid, hanging between the chipped walls and the uneven floorboards. The TV was off. The coffee was cold. And Walter hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He was sitting in the same chair near the window, elbows on his knees, knuckles pressed against his mouth like he could hold himself in with just that much pressure. His bruises had darkened. The side of his face was turning a sick kind of gold under the pale light.

You watched him from the bed.

He hadn’t spoken since Stanley left.

Not even when you offered him food. Not when you handed him water. Not when you pressed your palm against the small of your back like it hurt to watch him sit so still.

He didn’t even blink when the ice bucket finally gave up its last sigh of melt.

You stood, bare feet ghosting over the worn motel carpet. Crossed the room without saying anything. And this time, when you knelt in front of him, it wasn’t to tend wounds or wipe blood off his skin.

You just wanted him to see you.

To feel you.

“Walter,” you said, quiet but certain.

His eyes flicked up. Hollow. Distant.

Until they met yours.

And everything in him shifted.

You climbed into his lap without asking.

Straddled his thighs, hands curling around the sides of his jaw. You didn’t kiss him—not yet. You just pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered.

He exhaled, shaky and sharp. Like he’d been holding it in since the door closed.

“I’m still figuring this out,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You won’t.”

A beat passed.

Then you felt it—his hands coming to your hips, tentative at first, like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold something that hadn’t already slipped through his fingers.

Your hands slid up into his hair. His mouth brushed yours.

The kiss came slow.

Not like last time.

Not like need.

Like relief.

Like a man who’d been starving for a touch that didn’t come with strings. Like someone who finally understood what it meant to be wanted without it costing anything.

You broke it first. Just long enough to whisper, “Come to bed.”

He hesitated.

“I don’t sleep well,” he murmured. “I—I move. I twitch. Sometimes I talk.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“You won’t.”

That’s when he let go.

Of the guilt.

Of the fear.

Of whatever ghosts he’d been keeping curled in his chest like fists.

He let you take his hand. Let you lead him to the bed. Let you pull back the sheets and lie beside him in the dark.

He didn’t touch you at first.

But when you curled into his side, he pulled you in with one arm and held you tight. Like he was afraid someone might come through the door and take you away.

And when he finally spoke, voice hoarse and half-asleep, it was just three words:

“Just stay, alright?”

You didn’t answer.

You just stayed.

The room was dark except for the amber lamp on the nightstand, humming soft against the silence.

Walter lay on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting across his stomach where the bruises looked like spilled ink under his skin. You were curled beside him, the motel blanket tangled somewhere around your calves. Neither of you had slept. Not really. Not since that night.

Not since you crawled into bed with him and didn’t leave.

You could feel him vibrating beneath the stillness—like his body never fully powered down, even when he was quiet. Like he was always waiting for something to blow.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked, voice low in the hush.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Didn’t expect to.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself on your elbow, watching the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

“Tell me something,” you whispered.

He smirked faintly, one eye cracking open. “That broad of a request might get you in trouble.”

“I mean it. Anything. Anything you’ve never told anyone.”

He stared at the ceiling again. The air shifted.

A long, thin silence stretched between you.

Then—

“When I was thirteen,” he said slowly, “I found a dog behind a liquor store. Just a mutt. I named her Ash. She used to sleep under the trailer with me when things got bad. Only thing that made it feel like something might actually care if I didn’t wake up one day.”

You said nothing. Just listened. Let him bleed.

“I kept her for years. Stanley knew. He knew how much she meant to me. Last year, when things got tight, he sold her.”

You blinked. The way he said it—casual, empty—was worse than if he’d cried.

“He didn’t even tell me first. I came back from a fight and she was gone. Asked where she was. He said he traded her for rent and a bag of pills.”

A breath.

You reached over and traced the edge of his ribs—gentle, featherlight. He didn’t stop you.

“I didn’t talk to him for a month,” he said. “Slept outside. Ate canned corn out of a goddamn dumpster. He didn’t say sorry. Not once. Just told me next time not to get attached to things I couldn’t afford to keep.”

Your hand stilled against him.

“You don’t flinch,” he said, quietly.

You met his eyes. “Why would I?”

He looked at you like you were something rare. Something delicate he didn’t know how to hold.

“You gonna ask me why I ran?” you whispered.

He nodded, but didn’t push.

“My stepdad hit my mom. Cops came. Left. I told her to leave him. She didn’t. He hit me next.”

Walter sat up a little, jaw flexing.

“I packed a backpack and didn’t look back.”

“Jesus,” he breathed.

“I lived in my car for three months before I found you.”

He looked at you like he was trying to figure out what that meant. What you meant.

You reached over and slid your fingers under his bandaged hand.

“You’re allowed to be rough with me, Walter,” you said. “I won’t break.”

He looked down at where your fingers laced with his.

And for once—he didn’t pull away.

You didn’t let go of his hand.

Even as the silence settled heavy again, even as Walter leaned back against the motel headboard like he didn’t trust his body to do what he wanted it to. Your fingers stayed threaded with his—warm and sure, firm enough to say you’re safe without ever speaking the words.

He kept looking at you like he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

“You ever touch someone just to see if they’d flinch?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “You?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Used to. When I was a kid. Just light. Shoulder, hand, whatever. Like—like if they didn’t flinch, maybe they didn’t think I was bad yet.”

Your stomach twisted.

You reached out, and this time, you brought his hand to your mouth.

Kissed the inside of his wrist. The rough plane of his knuckles. The pad of each finger, slow and deliberate. He watched you the whole time, breathing shallow and tight, like your lips were unraveling him one soft kiss at a time.

When you took his index and middle finger into your mouth, he choked on a sound. One you’d never heard from him before.

It wasn’t a moan.

It was a whimper.

You sucked slow—just the tips—warm and wet and careful, lips gliding down to your knuckles, your tongue dragging just enough to make him twitch. His thighs shifted. His breath hitched. His eyes slammed shut.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he wasn’t supposed to feel this good.

You pulled off with a pop and kissed the fingertips again, then brought them down between your legs.

Guided him over your panties, soaked through now.

“I want you to touch me,” you said. “But I want it to be your idea.”

He looked at you like he was about to fall apart.

Like he was already halfway there.

“I’m scared I’ll fuck it up,” he admitted, voice barely there.

“You won’t.”

“You’re not—” he swallowed. “You’re not just a distraction.”

“I know.”

“You’re not just some girl who wants a broken boy story to tell later?”

It was a question disguised as a statement, like he was afraid to know the answer.

You took his wrist again, placed his hand just where you needed it.

And rocked your hips once—slow, deliberate—against the heat of his fingers.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

That broke something open in him.

He pushed your panties aside, tentative at first—like he didn’t quite believe he had permission. But when he slid one slick finger through your folds and felt how wet you were for him, how ready, the sound that tore from his throat was pure disbelief.

“Christ,” he muttered, eyes locked to your face now. “You feel—God, baby.”

You whimpered, grinding down against his hand, your fingers clutching the edge of the mattress for balance.

He was gentle. So gentle. Too gentle.

You pressed your mouth to his ear. “Deeper.”

He obeyed.

You gasped.

He moaned with you.

Like your pleasure belonged to him.

Like the more you came apart, the more whole he felt.

He was panting by the time you pulled your panties down your legs and tossed them to the floor. His fingers were still wet from you, resting on his thigh like he didn’t know what to do next—like he was trying not to come just from the sight of you crawling into his lap.

You straddled him slow.

Bare thighs bracketing his hips.

His back hit the motel headboard with a dull thud, and he looked up at you like you were something holy. Something terrifying. His bandaged hands hovered in the air like he didn’t trust himself to touch without ruining it.

But you didn’t look away.

Not once.

Your eyes locked to his and stayed there—steady, warm, full of something he didn’t know how to name.

You reached between you, wrapped your hand around him. He was already hard, twitching against your palm, flushed deep red at the tip like he’d been aching for you since the second you kissed him.

Walter gasped when you stroked him. His hips bucked.

“Jesus,” he whispered, jaw clenched tight. “You’re so—fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

You lined him up with your entrance and sank down slow. Inch by inch. Taking your time. Letting him feel every slick, tight second of it.

His eyes never left yours.

He moaned through gritted teeth, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding onto control by a thread.

“Look at me,” you said, even though he already was.

“I am,” he breathed. “Fuck, I am. I can’t stop.”

You rocked your hips once, slow and deep, and watched his mouth drop open. His head tipped back for just a moment—overwhelmed—but you cupped his jaw and brought him back.

“Keep looking.”

His hands rose like instinct—found your waist, your hips, then froze.

“Can I…?” he rasped.

You nodded.

He gripped you then. Soft, trembling, reverent.

You started to ride him slow.

Long, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding down until his breath came in short, desperate bursts. You tightened around him with every movement, dragging him deeper, drowning him in you.

The sound he made was barely human.

You leaned in, your forehead against his, lips brushing but never fully kissing.

“Good?” you whispered.

His grip tightened.

“So good,” he choked. “Fuck, baby—ride me—ride me just like that. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

You held his gaze the whole time. Watched it flicker and soften. Watched it fill with everything he didn’t know how to say.

Then you started to bounce properly—your thighs working, your body rising and falling in rhythm, slick and full and relentless.

His mouth dropped open again, breath catching.

You whispered right into his ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, Walter. Such a good boy. Taking me so deep.”

He whimpered.

“You feel so good inside me. Perfect. Just like this.”

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, head falling back. “Say it again—please—”

You gave it to him.

“You’re so good. My sweet boy. Just like that. Don’t stop. You’re making me feel so good, baby.”

He was trembling under you. Entire body tense, fingers digging into your hips like he was afraid to come without permission.

“I’m gonna—” he started, voice breaking. “Fuck, I’m gonna—should I pull out?”

You grabbed his face.

Shook your head slow.

“No. I want it. I want you.”

His eyes went wide—wild with it.

“You sure?” he rasped.

You ground down once more and whispered:

“Cum in me, Walter.”

He shattered.

Moaned your name, low and ragged, as he came inside you—deep, hot, shuddering through the kind of release that felt like surrender. His mouth was against your collarbone, panting, praising you through every wave.

“Atta girl…” he groaned, arms wrapping around you like he couldn’t bear to let you go. “Atta girl… took me so good…my girl…my fucking girl.”

You stayed right there, hearts pounding against each other, skin warm and damp.

And when he kissed you—soft, grateful, still breathless—it felt like something permanent.

You didn’t move.

Not at first.

The world had gone still in the soft aftershock, the motel room hazy with heat and breath and the smell of sweat and skin. Your thighs were still wrapped around him, his hands spread wide over your back like he didn’t trust gravity to keep you from slipping away.

He was still inside you. Still pulsing. Still trembling.

Walter exhaled into your shoulder. A sound more like relief than release.

You buried your fingers in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck and kept your face tucked in close. Not to hide. Just to be near. Closer than close. You could feel his heart hammering against yours like he hadn’t come down yet. Like he didn’t want to.

His voice came low, cracked open.

“Never done that before.”

You blinked. “What?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, but his arms didn’t loosen.

“Let someone stay.”

You studied him. His lashes were wet at the tips. His mouth was pink and kiss-bruised. The flush on his cheeks hadn’t faded.

“Does it feel wrong?” you asked softly.

“No.” His voice caught. “Feels like I’m gonna wake up and find you gone.”

You shook your head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, but you could see how much it cost him to believe you.

His hand came up to your face then—rough, bandaged, trembling at the edges—and he touched you like he wasn’t sure you were real. Thumb ghosting over your cheekbone. Fingertips tracing the line of your jaw.

“Why me?” he asked. Not self-pitying. Just raw.

“Because I see you,” you said.

He closed his eyes.

You kissed him. Gentle this time. Deep and unhurried, like you were sealing something in place.

When you finally eased off of him, he pulled you close again, curling around your body like instinct. Your head tucked into the hollow of his throat, his hand flat over your spine.

You felt safe there. And you knew, in the way his arms didn’t loosen, that he felt it too.

“Stay with me,” he whispered into your hair. “Even if I don’t know how to be good at this. Even if I fuck it up.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I already am.”

#i love walter because he never stopped being gentle even when the world demanded he be cruel #writing is just me projecting my need to cradle a fictional man like a wounded bird #his trauma is layered like a lasagna and I'm eating every bite #jungleland #jungleland 2019 #lion kaminski #walter kaminski #lion kaminski x reader #lion kaminski x you #jack o'connell

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sugarwarachan · 5 months ago

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part two, you dirty birdies. go read this first to catch up! summary: A city-wide blackout leads to some questionable decisions on Eraserhead's part: for four nights in a row now, Aizawa Shouta has been watching you get yourself off. Is tonight the night he joins in? pairing: aizawa shouta x citizen!reader wc: 2.4k (oops) content warnings: SMUT mdni, dark content, stalker!aizawa, voyeurism, dubcon, power imbalance (pro hero/civilian, ya know), obsessive behavior, voice kink, dirty talk, blindfolds are involved, piv sex, oral f!receiving, spanking, dom/sub elements but not explicitly stated, aizawa's big dick, creampie, unprotected sex (do not do this!!! especially with strangers!!! this is fiction!!!)

Aizawa knows he shouldn’t go back.

It was already enough of a risk to hear your voice; that he's considering confirming his identity with you should have alarm bells blaring in his head.

But logic abandoned him hours ago.

Your message, come back tomorrow <3, blinks in his head. At this point, he’s just waiting for the city to fall asleep so he can slip out along the ledge and head straight to you.

Part of him is bizarrely nervous to replace the distance with reality, but the thought of never feeling your weight on top of him erases all arguments.

As soon as night falls, he winds his capture weapon around his neck and slides out into the dark.

All day long, you’ve been aching and hot, sliding your thighs together under the desk at work to relieve some of the pressure.

There’s no guarantee he’ll come back. You’ve told yourself this ever since you woke up gasping for breath, rocking your hips against a pillow.

It’s like he possessed you, you muse on the train ride home, the force of the train cars rattling your already frazzled head. You’ve never felt this way in your life, desire snapping and fizzing under your skin.

Your apartment looks exactly the same as when you left, straight down to the kicked-over coat stand you’d jostled on your way out the door. It’s all so maddeningly ordinary that it takes everything within you not to scream.

It’s almost like last night didn’t happen at all.

“No need to sigh like that, sweetheart.”

His voice comes from behind you. Fear zips up your spine like dynamite sparking, your stomach bottoming out in one fell swoop.

He’s here.

Something winds around your wrists and face, obscuring your vision and tugging your body back. You collide with someone who smells like cedar and books and black coffee.

You breathe in his scent as the fear melts to excitement, to anticipation.

He’s here.

“Miss me, sweet girl?”

You’d think huffing him in like a fucking croissant would be a dead giveaway.

“What’s with the blindfold?” you ask instead. Angling your head in various ways does nothing. He made sure you can’t make him out, only confirming your previous hunch. He’s a pro, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want anyone to know he’s sneaking into girls’ apartments and fucking them stupid.

“You’re smarter than that.”

His voice is even better in person; you can feel the rumble of it against your neck. He loosens his hold on the cloth binding your wrists. Your hands naturally settle on the broad expanse of his chest.

He says the next thing nice and soft, “We don’t have to do anything.”

You understand the out for what it is, but you’re willing to sacrifice your sight for a taste of what he offered you yesterday.

“I’d like to do some things,” you say, and he huffs a laugh. “I don’t know what you did to me, but if you don’t touch me in the next few seconds, I feel like I’ll pass out.”

You don’t even realize you’re grinding yourself on his thigh until his hand splays across your hip, stilling you. Flipping you around, he cages you against the door, teeth scraping down the side of your throat.

“You don’t know what I did to you?” He punctuates the ask by kicking your feet apart with the heel of his boot. Your pussy clenches around nothing, a keen high in your throat. “What about what you did to me? Feels like I’ve got you floating around my fucking bloodstream.”

With a growl, he scoops you up and pins you against the door with his hips, mouth bracketing over yours.

“Can’t get your pretty little noises out of my head,” he says against your lips, sounding like a man at a confessional. His hips jerk, the length of his erection pulsing between you. “Can’t stop thinking about that pretty picture you sent me.”

He laves at your collarbone with his tongue, hand resting in the hollow of your throat. The gentlest squeeze elicits your softest sigh. He grunts at the sound, thick fingers applying more pressure before falling to your waist and locking you in place. His breath skates over your cheek; you feel the rasp of stubble on your skin.

“Let me take you to bed, sweetheart.”

God, his voice makes your knees fucking buckle. His forearm is tight around your back, holding you close.

“Please.”

You don’t recognize that whine as your voice; you’ve never sounded this eager, never felt this aching pulse in your core the way you do now. You need him to mold your insides to the shape of him, to pin you down on the mattress and take you.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. You don’t know him, not really, but you like this aspect of his personality. He makes his want for you tangible, so sharp you can practically taste it in the air. It’s like he’d rather die than leave you unsatisfied, and honestly, you don’t think anyone’s made you feel like that.

You can’t help liking it.

He taps open the door to your room with the toe of his boot. Lips slanted over yours, his tongue presses behind your teeth, licking into your mouth in the filthiest kiss you’ve ever shared with someone. It’s a sloppy clash of teeth and tongues; your hands fist in his hair as he caresses his thumbs over the skin of your hips.

“Take your clothes off.”

You obey just as you did on the phone, the rush to do so shooting a wave of heat over your face.

“That’s my girl, fuckin’ eager for it, huh?” You wish you could see his face; you want to match the feral snarl you hear with an expression. He sounds like he’s enjoying it, standing in front of you fully clothed while your arousal drips down your fucking legs.

You cross your legs together and he laughs, the hot span of his hands splaying over your hips as he tugs you to him.

“I know you’re needy, baby; you’re already doin’ so good for me. You listen just a little longer and I’ll make sure this pretty little pussy of yours gets the treatment she deserves, okay?” He cups your cunt in the palm of his hand; immediately, you rock against him, the meat of his palm bunching over your clit. He spanks your ass sharply. “Get on the bed and spread your legs open.”

Your muscles are shaky; your thighs tremble as you settle on the bed. You’ve never wanted to be able to see more than right now, spread out and vulnerable underneath a stranger’s gaze.

Before doubt can blare in your head, you hear him, “Fucking Christ, sweetheart, look at you. Absolutely gorgeous.”

His knee dips the mattress; his hands pry your thighs apart obscenely.

“She’s prettier up close,” he says, and then sucks your clit into his mouth.

You buck your hips into his face. He holds you down with his other hand and sucks harder. The sound you make has pre-cum spurting from his cock.

He’ll fucking cum like this if he’s not careful, rutting his hips on the sheets with your thighs choking off his air supply.

Worse ways to go, all things considered.

“You’ve been pent-up for a while, hmm?” He turns his head to kiss at the soft skin of your inner thigh, slick shimmering in the moonlight. He almost wishes his stubble were longer so he could capture more of your scent.

You smell so fucking good; he inhales and runs his teeth up the inside of your thigh, biting and sucking, grinding your clit on his nose. You whimper and lock your hands on his hair, silently begging for more.

He runs the flat of his tongue over your clit before breaking away. His dick jumps at your growl of frustration.

“Let’s stretch you out on my fingers first, pretty girl. I wasn’t just talking myself up yesterday.” He coats his fingers in your arousal, inhales the musky sweet scent of you like a drug. “You’re gonna need a little prep before you can take me.”

He sinks two fingers in. Your cunt sucks him in, gummy walls immediately clamping down. He drops his forehead to yours, thinks wildly about ripping away the blindfold, of forcing you to hold his gaze while he makes your pussy gush on his hands.

“More,” you cry out, and he obliges, working three fingers in, twisting and pressing and stroking, listening to your small gasps, waiting for the breath in your voice to catch. "Sho, please—"

Aizawa bites down on his lower lip when your back bows, fingers scrabbling at his forearm, holding his hand in place as you rock back and forth on his fingers. One little pinch of your clit and you’re sobbing out his name.

He lopes an arm under you and pulls you to him. Your breath comes out in shuddery little gasps.

“All good, sweetheart?”

You nod against his neck, already nosing at his throat for a kiss.

He doesn’t know what possesses him.

“I’ll let you take off the blindfold if you get on your hands and knees.”

The noise you make is so embarrassingly eager you almost cringe.

You might see him.

You arrange yourself as he asks, wiggling your ass and arching your back. You gasp when he palms your hip, pulling you back against his clothed cock.

"Can I take it off now?" you try to ask as coy as you can, but you just sound like a fucked-out mess. He feels big. You saw the picture but it's nothing compared to feeling the ridge of his shaft pulsing along the cleft of your ass. You choke on a groan, undulating your hips in a desperate move to calm the ache in your lower belly.

He grunts behind you and palms the back of your head. “Eyes forward, or you aren’t getting fucked. Understand?”

You nod into the mattress, not trusting your own voice.

"Words, princess, didn't we talk about this last time?" His tone is between condescending and tender and it's making your insides turn to fucking goo.

"I understand."

"Good."

You hear the clink of buckles, the rustle of a zipper.

"I'll only keep my eyes forward if all your clothes come off, though."

You know you're pushing it, pushing him, but fuck, you need his skin on yours so you can sear him into your fucking brain.

You squeal at the crack of pain when his palm collides with your ass.

"Mouthy tonight, honey?" There's his hand again, collaring the back of your neck. You throw your hips back at him; he spanks you again. "Fuck, you know what you're doin', don't you? My little cocktease want her pussy stuffed that badly?"

No one's talked to you like this. No one's ever said exactly the sort of profane filth you've longed to hear.

"Yes," you sob out.

"The clothes come off then, you little brat."

When he settles behind you, the hot ridge of his dick slides between your folds and you jerk back into him. The blindfold falls away.

"Goddammit," he growls out, fingers digging into the plush of your hips. "Fuck, you're soaking wet, baby. Can already feel her trying to suck me in, isn't that right?" He palms your lower belly. "You're gonna feel me right fuckin' here. I'm gonna be so deep inside you you'll forget about everything but me, you understand?"

His cockhead tips into your fluttering hole. Fuck, he is big. You peer back between your tits at where he's disappearing into you. The girth and length of him makes your stomach bottom out.

His hand pushes down on your lower back, bowing your ass up.

"Don't run away, let me work my way in, huh? Make my pretty girl feel so fucking full." Another inch of him slots inside you. The stretch of it burns slightly, but the pain recedes when he rubs little circles on your clit. "Fuckkkk, baby, you have any idea how perfect this tight little pussy is? Feels like you're suckin' the life out of me."

The drag of his cock inside you makes your eyes cross. With every thrust, he rubs the head of his dick on your g spot, hand locked in a possessive clutch on your lower belly.

"Put your hand here, feel where I'm fucking you." With one hand on top of yours, he presses down hard. You buck, the sensation almost too much. "No one else is ever gonna have this pussy, you hear me? It's fucking mine, sweet girl, mine to fuck, mine to feast on, mine to fill up with cum—"

The heel of his hand grinds down on your clit and that's all it takes before your orgasm collapses your lungs and shorts out your brain. Everything detonates, star-bursts of pleasure exploding in your core until tears stream down your face.

His rhythm barely falters as he fucks you through it, mouth hot on the back of your neck. "Keep goin', princess, you can cum again, can't ya? One more time, just for me. There's my fuckin' girl, milk every fucking drop out of me, fuck—"

You can only imagine the milky ring of cum and arousal coating his cock as he wrenches another orgasm from your tired body. His dick pulses inside you, a guttural moan reverberating from his throat so deeply you practically feel it in your gut.

He stays inside you for a few more moments, both of you catching your breath. When he slips out, you groan at the loss.

"Be right back, sweet girl. Blindfold goes back on, too."

He laughs when you pout, cloth obscuring your vision once more.

When he comes back, he dips a warm cloth between your thighs, swabbing away the gooey mess. You're so sensitive you hiss out a sharp breath. He presses a glass of water into your hand. You gulp it down with gusto.

"I already blocked off where I came in from," he's saying, and you can't help but roll your eyes even if he can't see the motion. You wonder how he chalks up this whole excursion in his stupid pro hero head.

"Don’t want anyone else getting to me or something?"

He clears his throat. "Or something."

The scrape of your window sounds. "I'd start locking these if I were you."

You know he's gone when the cloth whips away from your face, the flutter of your gauzy white curtains the only proof he was there.

taglist: @cryingintheclubdhmu @abigolemess @rindarudoesshonen @simplyraeblue @ermmclovingit @deputyazor @lizzobeth @quinn0-0 @hotlosergirl17 @mother-hellsing

#sugarwarachanwrites #aizawa shouta #aizawa x reader #aizawa shota x reader #aizawa smut #aizawa shouta smut #shouta aizawa #shouta aizawa x reader #bnha smut #bnha x reader #mha smut #mha x reader #aizawa shota smut #💋 anon

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13curses · 3 months ago

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mdni ꉂ gojo satoru ﾒ fem!reader, quiċkie, exhibitionism, backshots, crėampie, wc 1,124. ⟢

two for one, you know a bitch buy four. that bitch in question is satoru with the way he's been grabbing two shots at once with every chance he got between timely breaks, ever since you've arrived at the party.

neither of you were planning on getting wasted. you were both having fun socializing with your well-fitted cliques—each to your own—and every now and then, your boyfriend would come around, have you instinctively cross arms with him and share shots.

problem is, this has been your sole interaction. your focus has begun to drift from your enthusiastic friends whom were sipping on passion fruit 'n gin fizzes. they had the fast-consumed alcohol to blame their hazy focus on while you were watering and snacking down every shot you've taken, yet . . your brain was pulling you to satoru.

he's been making moves alright, bidding goodbye with evergrowing kisses on your mouth, cheek, jawline, and eventually, your neck. it wasn't even the attributive pecks that got you in this situation, but when he purposefully missed one and decided to grope your perky ass past your short dress, giving it an impertinent squeeze as his hot breath fanned your ear—he didn't say shit, though.

the situation in question?

you're pressed up against the wooden door which you're not even mildly sure is locked. your makeout session was sloppy, rushed, a nimble way of saying i crave you like hell, but this isn't the itch that needs to be grazed. a string of saliva falls from your lips when you're swung to face the entrance. satoru's fiddling with the hem of your dress impatiently, but he takes his sweet time to peek at the treasure-of-a-view under it.

“you've got time?” you breathe. “mh! my ass is freezing–”

“like i'd ever let that happen.”

satoru gives your butt a fanatic smack before pleating the skirt up, free hand spreading your thighs. your inner sides were gluey from the arousal he'd summoned through his antics.

the door judders as the two of you shuffle to get in position. restless seconds pass between his zipper loosening and your thong being pulled to the side, and finally, you moan onto (maybe through) the wood as you feel his mushroom tip leading the rest of his length into your gummy walls.

your spread widens in response to your weakened posture. satoru's stupidly slender fingers get the credit for holding you in place by your flexed thighs.

“oooh~you've been ready for this, gorgeous.” he teases at your natural instinct to arch for him.

“tck–get moving!” you complain, hint of desperation in your tone. his cock fits you like a glove and backing into him for stimulation is not enough at the moment.

“what's the hurry? ya craving a cocktail with your giggly girlfriends?”

nerve stomper? bratty with a chance of dick? understatements.

“toruuu! i said–”

oh, he understood the first time. he pulls back, then as he slams his hips into your ass, there's a puddly plop! sound filling the bathroom. creating the rhythm, his length is sliding in and out of you like a drunk-driven car on a wet road. despite the foolhardy comments earlier, satoru himself lets out a satisfied, higher pitched sigh, singing the vowel a.

obscene yelps leave your sweet lips, met by the palm of your boyfriend. people chatting over closed doors aren't this loud, and you weren't meant to, um . . conversate with the party peeps. sure, you could've been bent over the sink like most of couples fucking in strangers' bathrooms manage, but the scene was already set. you didn't feel doomed. at all.

the tile walls made every nasty sound echo–you could hear any fluid drop. with the pace satoru has picked up, you are slobbering over his hand, teeth grazing the pad of his palm, unable to keep your throat closed.

“you... hah- y'just had to wear a short fuckin’ dress, mhm?” satoru heaves, continuing with a perverted, out of breath chuckle. “'t got you fucked silly.”

“s'toruuu–mwaah!”

he's panting down your neck, sending chills that you can't detect in the heat consuming your body. he's hammering into you like there's no tomorrow, neither much time. you readjust your stance which leads to your heels dogmatically slipping off your feet. satoru has leaned back to watch as the flesh of your ass ripples with every needy thrust, but your failed trials to crawl back in your heels was ditzy enough to draw his attention.

he scoops you up, having you discard the footwear to choose standing on his shiny shoes instead—a cinderella story.

“hah—weakling.”

“o–ahh! shut up!” you whine, error caught in trying to act firm, followed by bitchy whines, “mwh–fuck me, fuck me, fu–!!”

your slutty pleads cause him to snicker, the sound rumbling in his chest, caught between pants. your cream is foaming around the ring of his cock, some goes to waste on the dirty floor. pretty cheeks are flushed in a crimson tint, and–did you just claw at the door? there's an indentation in the pine bark.

with your libido skyrocketing, it's not long until you feel that beguiling feel coiling in your lower tummy. if satoru was facing you, he would absolutely tease you about that dumb, fogged layer in your eyes: the result of the combined sensations. your boyfriend huffing in your ear, delivering unrestrained shots into your tight cunt, your ass bouncing like rubber with every vigorous thrust . . .

“close? i can feel you–oh-h!”

satoru moans in your ear pornographically, the best response to your anchoring core. the action becomes rabid, like two rabbits going at it. you begin backing into his arousal-coated shaft, aching for that sweet release which is burning your ears in a warning. his crowned head is bullying your g-spot savagely, so you must sink your upper teeth into your lower lip, one hand holding onto his grip, other hand clawing at the poor door still.

your orgasm detonates within you, causing muscle spasms and your eyes to roll back. the burning sensation is fuelled by satoru's thick white ropes filling your clamping hole. he buries his face in your shoulder, groaning onto your perspiring skin, infatuated with the pleasure you give him.

twitching as you do, you let your hand drop from the wood, landing on the handle . . which you push.

because you've let yourself loose, dealing with the overwhelming climax and a tall, strong, pleased and lean boyfriend resting on your much smaller figure, you also push the door. it opens with a silent creak.

adrenaline immediately overruns you to act, of course. not swift enough to avoid the few pairs of drowsy, curious and wasted eyes staring right back at you. for a split second.

aaand cum is also leaking into your discarded heels.

#𐚁̸ 𝟏𝟑th curse.#gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #gojo satoru x you #anime smut #manga smut #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo smut

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ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat · 3 months ago

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that one guy - spencer reid x fem!reader

reader has an off feeling about this one guy... so spencer has a look at said guy

genre: fluff wc: 0.8k warnings: boyfriend!spencer, r wears a dress, made up womanizer character named tristan, drinking, blond guy slander a/n: anon request!

We all know that one person.

The one that everyone likes–the one that always has the most charming smile and the most lovely personality.

In this case, it’s that one guy. All of your friends love him and you, well, don’t. It’s just a certain something about him. He’s too squeaky clean for someone who jumps from girl to girl, calling them all crazy afterwards. Every last one was either a stalker, too clingy, or so batshit that he had no choice but to dump her over text.

But nobody thinks that’s something odd.

Especially your friend that fell for him quicker than what it takes for him to write a goodbye note. You warned her, over and over. Yet, she stuck up her nose and called you an unsupportive friend.

Which is preposterous, by the way.

Your mission for the night is to find a reason why this guy is so bad. Because, right now, you’ve got unfortunate dating history and a hunch. Call yourself a journalist.

Instead of doing this all on your own, you’ve called for reinforcements. Very cute reinforcements if you do say so yourself.

Your boyfriend, Spencer Reid, the profiler he is, is going to help you get some insight on this guy. Hopefully being a male will also help.

The party was supposed to be a simple get-together for your friend group but, how parties go, too many people found out and the guest list multiplied.

Your hands smooth out the fabric of your mini dress as you look at yourself in the mirror.

“Ready to go?” Spencer asks, peeking into your bedroom.

“Yeah.”

The party is less of an ordeal than you imagined. The house isn’t filled to the brim with ass-hats with red Solo cups–instead, there are guys in suits and girls in mini skirts.

Not frat assholes, but snooty assholes.

Yes, music is still blaring and you’re sure this is Spencer’s worst nightmare, but it’s less get drunk and pass out on the couch than most of the parties you’ve been to.

“Is he here yet?” your boyfriend wonders aloud, hand on your back.

Your manicured finger points to a blond–of course he’s blond–standing and talking to a short guy in a tux by the drink table.

“Allow me to introduce you,” you grin ironically. You drag him by the hand while he never loses his grip on your waist.

The man is tall with a wicked smile and a face that says my dad owns the place, do you want to go upstairs? That face unsettles you.

He looks down at you and yells over the music, “well, hey! I didn’t expect you to come. I thought you’d be knitting or something…”

“I don’t knit.”

He nods, taking a gulp of his scotch. “Who’s this?” he asks, pointing to Spencer.

“This is my boyfriend! Spencer.”

“Tristan,” he introduces himself before his eyes find you again, “I didn’t peg you for the boyfriend type,” the man smiles like it was a compliment.

“Right.”

Your eyes meet Spencer’s for a moment before you turn back to your enemy (no, that’s not an overdramatization).

“I’m going to get a drink!” you hum in faux pleasantness.

The excuse to skedaddle was obviously not believable considering the assortment of alcohol was quite literally right in front of you.

Spencer’s gaze follows you until you’re impossible to spot even with a magnifying glass. When he turns back to the slightly shorter man, his eyes are fixed on where you–and your short dress–were last visible.

“You got an interesting girl.”

“What’s that mean?” your boyfriend attempts to sound curious, not protective.

Tristan shrugs dismissively.

“She’s… someone that gets old fast.”

Your heels click on the tile as you enter the kitchen. Everyone here is dressed so nicely. The bustling atmosphere both overwhelms and exhilarates you. Sparkling faces and smiles surround you as your fingers wrap around a flute of something bubbly. It fizzes all the way down your throat. Your brain keeps floating back to the conversation you’re missing out on.

It’s only when you feel a large hand on your shoulder that you don’t feel like you’re missing out on all that much. “Let’s go,” Spencer mutters before an awkward smile that makes his lips press together in a flat line.

You aren’t so upset to leave.

His words come out strung together and garbled while he guides you out of the party, “I don’t mean to–uh–be controlling or anything, but you should… stay away from that guy.”

And, you know what?

Yeah.

“The amount of misogynistic, conservative, and frankly perverted things that I had to listen to…” he shakes his head and his voice raises an octave to say, “also, the way he talked about you! Honestly, just, for your safety–”

“Spencer,” you giggle, spinning to cup his face. “I really just wanted an excuse not to talk to him.”

Those pretty teeth of his peek out thanks to a pretty smile. “Okay,” he laughs.Your feet bring you down the porch steps swiftly. A soft (albeit childish) giggle leaves you before you squeal, “also, his name is Tristan.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x self insert

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pnutjlly · 19 days ago

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can't sleep?

john walker x fem!reader

summary: you go to the kitchen for a drink to quench your 2 A.M. thirst. only when walker walks in do you realize you're in your panties and a black tank top. cw: nsfw, slightly smutty, sexual tension, kissing, he calls you princess wc: 1.6k

Your eyelids gradually become heavier from exhaust and sweat from both training with Walker and thoughts about training with Walker. You've thought about getting with Walker before, but you never took it seriously since you thought he was out of your league.

The one-on-one training with him today brought some of his lingering eye contact and subtle bicep flex around you to the point of realization. You don't think it'd be normal for a friend to stare at you longer than one should when you take gulps of ice-cold water during a break as sweat drips down your neck, all the way down to between your boobs. You also don't think it'd be normal for a friend to be where you are 99% of the time, coincidentally.

It's been hours of contemplating whether or not to knock on Walker's door. You assume that a cold drink from the kitchen could wash away that thought. You sigh as you sit up on your mattress and let your feet touch the cold floor. You take a few steps to the door.

The door releases a creak as you slowly swing it open. Your bedroom is right in front of Walker's. You stare at his door, hoping he'll come out and kiss you, but that's just a thought— one you've been daydreaming about for weeks.

"God, please. Make it stop, make it stop..." you curse as you hurriedly make your way to the kitchen. The mess from the game night session from a while ago remains. You predicted no one would clean up when alcohol makes a special appearance in little events like this. Yelena and Alexei had to beg Bucky together to involve a "little" alcohol for a "little change," after weeks of persuasion, he finally said yes. You bet he'll regret saying yes when he sees this crime scene tomorrow.

Cold air gently strokes your face as you open the refrigerator, looking for the can of Zero Sugar Vanilla Coke you hid from your housemates. When you can't see the can where you last placed it, your heart drops a little, so you look in other areas of the fridge. You whisper-scream "Yes!" when you find the can in a different spot. You grab and press it against your warm cheek, making your way down to your neck, successfully relieving some stress from all the yearning.

The sound you've been craving, besides Walker's moans, finally echoes throughout the kitchen: the popping and crackling from opening a soda can. The fizz flows right out of the can, the dark liquid dripping over your fingers. You immediately bring the can's opening to your lips to prevent any more mess from happening.

You've accomplished your mission, so you gently close the refrigerator door.

Due to the lack of light in the kitchen, you genuinely couldn't tell at first whether the tall figure standing before you was a ghost or a demon. Fortunately, and unfortunately, it is Walker. You stare at him like a raccoon caught red-handed rummaging through the garbage. The light from his now open bedroom saves you the extra staring to know who the person is.

His eyes scan your body up and down. You were able to crack out a "Hey... you." amidst your shock that, surprisingly, you are hiding better than expected. "Hey, you." He replies in a tone mixed with confusion and amusement.

"Can't sleep?" "Yeah. Was thinking about cleaning up all this mess to save us from a certain someone's the-importance-of-cleaning speech in the morning."

He lazily points to the living room mess you are partly guilty of. You nod.

"And you?" "I was just... I was thinking about cleaning up that mess, too." "In your underwear?"

You furrow your eyebrows at him in confusion. You immediately look down to your bottom half. To your surprise and demise, you're in your Calvin Klein underwear. That's why it felt a little colder than usual. All you could do at this point was release a defeated "oh."

"Uh-huh... Well, no, actually. I'm- I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting anyone to... come in here at—"

You inhale sharply and take a quick look at the oven's clock.

"—2:42 in the morning." you immediately exhale right after your awkward apology to release the tension on your shoulders. It turns out to have absolutely done nothing for you.

"Right. Of course. You live with six other people. That's just not common at all, princess."

He teases, and there goes his lingering eye contact again. His face doesn't express any disgust or repulse; the corner of his lip hooks up subtly, and his eyes won't dare to look at anything that isn't a part of your body. If you didn't know any better, you'd say he likes what he sees. You both know your interactions with each other after this moment won't be the same again. Ever.

"I'm gonna go dress up and come back to help clean that mess up," you power-walk past him on the way to your bedroom while having one hand pull down your tank top. "If it makes you feel any better, I wouldn't mind if you helped me clean up in your underwear." He quips. "Wait, that's not what I-" You shut your bedroom door close, leaning against it and shutting your eyes intensely to process what had just happened within two minutes.

You shake your head off to save the reflection for later; you have a living room to clean up and a guy who just saw you in your underwear to help. The urge to scream into your pillow distracts you from finding sweatpants in your messy closet. Thankfully, you find a grey pair. You struggle to get both legs in the sweatpants, hopping to your door to come back to help Walker immediately.

You take your final deep inhale and exhale to prepare for the following cursed hours of awkward and sexual tension. You swing your door open to— Walker? His hand is up in a loose fist as if he was about to knock.

"Jesus Christ, John! How many times are you gonna give me a heart attack tonight?" "Today." "Today-- whatever!"

You bury your red and hot face in your cold, slightly sweaty palms. The butterflies in your stomach make you feel as if the universe is bullying you—

"That was embarrassing. I'm sorry you had to see that." "No, I'm lucky I was the one who saw that. So... thank you."

— or maybe not. You look up at him; the height difference between you and him is prevalent now. He towers over you. You could tell from your angle that he doesn't know whether to focus on your lips or your eyes. He's waiting for some "green light."

"You're so weird," you whisper as you lift your arms and wrap a hand on the back of his neck, the other cupping his cheek. As soon as he receives this green light, he places his hands on your waist and silences your lips with his as if he never had any second thoughts about doing it.

His hungry but assuring kiss relieved the stress from weeks of attempting to confirm your feelings for him and his feelings for you. His slightly grown beard prickles your face gently, contrasting his soft lips. Your lips separate from his for a moment, and the following silence serves as an opportunity for the both of you to check if the other is doing fine. You admire his baby blue orbs that linger on your eyes and swollen lips.

You plant a peck on his lips, and he immediately follows as if he had predicted it.

His fast breathing begins to match yours, but you don't need any more confirmation that he's completely all for you; you are becoming impatient but want to savor this moment. You want more of him.

He presses his lips against yours, guiding your steps further into your room by slightly tightening his grip on your waist and walking with you.

"Come on, princess."

His rough hands make its way down to the back of your thighs, just right under your ass. You immediately understood his intention since you had been daydreaming about this very moment for weeks. You jumped and wrapped your legs around his hips, securing your arms around his neck. He catches you effortlessly and carries you like you weigh nothing. He adjusts the way he's holding you one last time, and you can't help but release a chuckle-sigh; it's as if he's flexing his strength even at a time like this.

You press your lips against him while a hand combs through his blonde hair. You could feel a super soldier trying to fight a smile so the kiss wouldn't break. He swiftly shuts the door with one foot and makes his way to your queen-sized bed that he "mistakenly ordered," never breaking the kiss.

He gently lowers you onto the bed, his tight navy Henley and your tank top rustling against the linen sheets. He breaks the kiss to hurriedly take his top and your grey sweatpants off, meeting your Calvin Klein underwear once again. He lowers himself to be face-to-face with you, the tent building up in his pants grazing your clothed pussy. You release a moan, and he takes the opportunity to join his tongue with yours.

His arm supports his entire body up; the other goes under your back in an attempt to pull you closer to his body as if it isn't already. You wrap your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck.

He separates the kiss, only a string of saliva connecting your lips with his.

"Vanilla coke?" he asks through a smile.

#john walker #thunderbolts #us agent #john walker x reader #john walker x you #john walker imagine #thunderbolts*

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theonottsbxtch · 7 months ago

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TWO HANDS | LN4

an: something a little different while i finish up some wips, i wrote this the morning t8's song came out, beautiful song again. i refuse to elaborate on the end, its just a short thing lolsie

wc: 1,9k

The bass thumped in Lando’s chest as the nightclub lights pulsed in chaotic harmony with the music. Fresh off the thrill of his victory in Vegas, his smile hadn’t left his face for hours, and the adrenaline still hummed in his veins. His crew surrounded him, some already leaning over the velvet rope at the VIP section to take selfies with eager fans, others raising glasses in cheers that melted into the cacophony of the club.

“Here’s to Vegas!” Max shouted, clinking a tumbler of whiskey against Lando’s champagne flute.

Lando laughed, letting the bubbles fizz on his tongue as he leaned back into the booth. His head tilted lazily toward the bar at the edge of the room, a stark contrast to the table’s revelry. There she was.

The bartender’s movements were smooth, practised—a cocktail shaker in one hand, a sly smirk on her lips as she teased a customer on the other side of the counter. Her dark eyes glittered under the flickering lights, and her sleek ponytail swayed with every step she took. She looked like she belonged here, commanding attention effortlessly, the kind of magnetic confidence that could outshine even the neon glare of the Strip.

Lando couldn’t look away.

“Mate, you even listening?” Oscar asked, nudging his shoulder.

“Sorry, what?” Lando asked, his voice distant, his eyes still locked on her. She’d just slid a martini across the counter, and the tilt of her head as she laughed made something twist in his chest. He’d been in the spotlight all night, but suddenly, the only person worth impressing wasn’t in his entourage.

“Nothing. Looks like someone’s caught your eye,” Oscar teased, catching the direction of his gaze.

“She works here?” Lando murmured, half to himself. The answer didn’t matter; he was already sliding out of the booth and weaving his way through the crowd.

When he reached the bar, she noticed him before he could say anything. Her smirk deepened, like she knew she had his attention. “What can I get you?” she asked, her voice smooth and warm, cutting through the noise.

“Whatever you think I’d like,” he replied, leaning an elbow on the counter, his grin just as easy.

She raised an eyebrow, giving him a look that felt like a challenge. “That’s a lot of trust to put in a stranger.”

“Then make it memorable.”

She didn’t break eye contact as she turned to grab a bottle, and he could already feel the heat rising in his chest.

“Long night?” he asked, watching her pour with precision.

“Always,” she said, her tone laced with amusement. She slid the drink in front of him and leaned in just slightly, her expression playful. “But the tips are good when winners roll in.”

Lando chuckled, taking a sip. “You always this charming, or do I get special treatment?”

“That depends,” she shot back. “What kind of treatment are you looking for?”

He blinked, caught slightly off guard by her boldness but finding himself grinning wider. “When do you get off?” he asked, his voice quieter now, as if to carve a space for just the two of them amid the chaos.

She tilted her head, considering him for a beat longer than necessary. Then, she leaned in closer, close enough that he could smell the faint trace of vanilla on her skin. “Three a.m.,” she said softly. “If you’re still here.”

Lando nodded, his heart pounding harder than it had all night. “I will be.”

The hours melted away in a haze of music and laughter, but Lando’s attention kept drifting back to her. Even as the nightclub buzzed around him, the moments he spent at the bar lingered in his mind—the curve of her smile, the way she moved like she owned the room.

By the time the music started to wind down, Lando was back at the bar, nursing what he swore would be his last drink. He was feeling it now, the warm haze of celebration buzzing in his blood. He didn’t care, though. He was waiting.

And then, there she was, stepping out from behind the counter, untying her apron and slinging it over her shoulder. Her hair was slightly tousled now, but she didn’t seem the least bit tired. She spotted him leaning against the bar, and a sly grin tugged at her lips.

“You’re still here,” she said, her voice low, teasing, as she sauntered over to him.

Lando straightened up, his own grin spreading across his face. “I said I’d wait.”

She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head as if sizing him up again. “Looks like you earned it.”

Without another word, she grabbed her jacket, nodding toward the exit. Lando followed her, his pulse quickening, excitement surging through him like the roar of an engine on the starting line.

Outside, the Strip was still alive, neon lights reflecting off the polished curves of his McLaren parked nearby. She paused when she saw it, her grin turning mischievous as she traced a finger along the hood. “This yours?”

Lando leaned against the car, folding his arms. “It’s my baby.”

She let out a soft laugh, glancing at him over her shoulder. “You trust me to drive it?”

He hesitated, just for a second, before handing her the keys. “Don’t make me regret it.”

She smirked, sliding into the driver’s seat like she belonged there. “Guess you’re a gambler after all.”

As he slipped into the passenger side, she adjusted the seat and mirrors with the practised ease of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. The engine growled to life, and the faintest shiver of excitement rolled through her. She threw him a quick glance, her grin sharp as a razor.

“Where to?” she asked, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.

“My hotel,” he said, leaning back, his voice almost a dare.

But she shook her head, shifting into gear. “Why go back to your hotel when we can go back to mine?”

Before he could respond, she pulled onto the road, heading straight for the interstate. With a flick of her wrist, she gunned the accelerator, and the McLaren surged forward, the roar of the engine echoing across the open highway. The Strip’s glittering lights blurred into streaks of colour as she weaved effortlessly through traffic, her hands steady on the wheel, her confidence palpable.

Lando could only stare, his heart pounding harder than it had on the track. “You’re good,” he muttered, almost in disbelief.

She flashed him a quick smile, her eyes gleaming in the dim light of the dashboard. “I’ve been driving since I was old enough to walk. My old man ran a garage—taught me everything.”

The way she handled the car, every shift of the gear, every turn of the wheel, was mesmerising. It wasn’t just skill; it was instinct, passion, like she was born for this. The wind whipped through the cracked window, cool against his heated skin, and he couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

“You’re not scared, are you?” she teased, glancing at him as she pushed the car even faster.

“Not even close,” he shot back, but the thrill in his voice gave him away.

She laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a jolt of heat through him. “Good. Hold on, champ.”

The McLaren tore through the night, the speed blurring the world around them. It wasn’t just the rush of the car—it was her, the way she owned every second, every motion. For the first time all night, Lando wasn’t in control, and he loved it.

When she finally slowed down, pulling onto a quiet side road that overlooked the sprawling city lights, she turned to him, her grin still firmly in place. “So,” she said, leaning back in the seat, “did I pass your test?”

He could only shake his head, laughing softly. “You’re unbelievable.”

She smirked, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “And you’re not half bad at trusting strangers.”

Lando’s breath caught, the electricity between them crackling like the city lights outside. He wasn’t sure where this night was heading, but he knew one thing: it was far from over.

Her apartment was an unexpected mix of chic and raw, like her—a blend of sleek furniture and vintage touches that felt effortlessly cool. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering city below, and the hum of Vegas seemed a world away from this intimate space.

Lando stepped inside, his gaze following her as she slipped off her jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. She moved with the same confidence she had behind the wheel, like every step was deliberate, every motion designed to captivate. And it was working.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said over her shoulder, nodding toward the sofa.

He settled onto the soft leather, letting himself sink into the moment. His eyes never left her as she walked to the bar cart in the corner of the room. The faint clink of glass echoed as she poured amber liquid into two lowball glasses. The soft glow of a nearby lamp caught the curve of her neck as she tilted her head slightly, considering her choices.

“You always drink whiskey after winning?” she asked, her voice light, teasing.

“Depends who I’m drinking with,” he replied, a slow grin spreading across his face.

She turned, two glasses in hand, and crossed the room toward him. Her steps were unhurried, deliberate, her gaze locked onto his. When she handed him a glass, their fingers brushed, and the brief contact sent a spark racing through him.

“To the kind of nights you don’t forget,” she said, raising her glass.

He clinked his against hers. “To the people who make them unforgettable.”

Her lips curved into a smile, and she took a slow sip before setting her glass on the coffee table. Lando watched her every move, the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the slight sway of her hips as she turned to face him fully. His pulse quickened as she stepped closer, her eyes glinting with a challenge he couldn’t resist.

“You’re staring,” she said softly, her voice thick with amusement.

“Hard not to,” he admitted, his voice low, rough.

She didn’t respond, just tilted her head slightly, studying him. Then, with a confidence that stole his breath, she straddled his lap, her knees sinking into the cushions on either side of him. His hand instinctively found her waist, his fingers pressing lightly against the curve of her hips as she settled onto him.

Her lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. “Just one hand?” she teased, shifting her weight slightly to one side, her body warm against his.

He exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on her hip. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

She leaned in, her lips a whisper away from his, her voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “Two hands. I want your hands on me.”

His breath hitched, the world narrowing to just her—her scent, her warmth, the way her voice sent a shiver down his spine. He slid his other hand up to her waist, his fingers tracing the curve of her body, and she rewarded him with a satisfied hum that sent his heart racing.

Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders, her nails grazing his skin through his shirt as she leaned in closer. “You always this good at waiting?” she asked, her tone playful, taunting.

“Not when you’re around,” he replied, his voice thick, his grip on her tightening as the space between them disappeared.

the end.

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hatsukeii · 10 months ago

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ring pop! / bsf!ushijima wakatoshi x reader

genre(s): heavy on the crack and fluff, dumb and dumber, ushiwaka is dense but loveable! childhood bsf to lovers! yay! sunshine! rainbows! candy!

warning(s): nothing, implied fem reader for fluency's sake, but please interpret this as you'd like!! i myself am non-binary, so at the very least you know the person who's writing has you in mind!! i still tried my best to keep everything gender neutral to the best of my ability!!

wc: 1490

tldr; “boyfriend? but i thought we were already dating?”

“Wakatoshi, can I have your second button?”

Petals of blooming sakura flowers replace the grey pavement beneath your shoes with a mosaic of dusty pink as you stand beneath Shiratorizawa’s famous confession tree. It’s a ritual that has been done for many graduations before your own, students would act nonchalant as they drag their romantic prospects beneath this very tree, all to ask for their second shirt button. This year, it’s your turn, your hands clenched behind your back as you rock forward, backward, forward, backward.

“What do you mean? My second button?”

“Yeah, your second button.”

Wakatoshi’s nose twitches in confusion and under the blanket of pollen from the flowers above. What’s so special about his second button, that you’ve dragged him under the Shiratorizawa tree for? His hand shoots up, picking at the thread sewn between each hole in his second uniform button. It doesn’t budge as he picks and pulls, until finally, he rips it off with force, handing it to you between pinched fingers.

“Here.” He reaches for one of your hands, linked with the other in anxiety and anticipation, and pushes your fingers apart, before dropping the button into your palm unceremoniously. You stare blankly at the small round in your hand, then at Wakatoshi’s deadpan expression.

“Toshi, that’s…that’s not how it works.”

He tilts his head in confusion, eyebrows furrowing as if trying to search your head for clues. The petals shuffle beneath your feet as you mindlessly grind your shoe into the ground, not sure what to make of this situation.

“I’m not sure what you mean. I gave you the second button, like you asked. Did I do something wrong?”

“Wakatoshi, I’m asking you to be my boyfriend.”

Boyfriend? Do you hear yourself? What nonsense, what has he been to you for the past six years, if not that?

“Boyfriend? But I thought we were already dating?”

You mind empties its contents as your jaw goes slack, a dumbfounded hum escaping your windpipe. You’re not too sure- no, you have not a single idea when that idea planted itself into his head. You’ve been subtle enough, right? And careful too! No love letters, or secret gifts, or bento boxes, just day to day, regular best friend interactions between the two of you. What could have possibly gone wrong?

“Dating? Where did you get that from??”

Wakatoshi frowns, hands moving to his pockets. A spring breeze whizzes by, filling the stale air between himself and you. That’s not very nice of you. Wakatoshi knows close to nothing about relationships, but he does know one thing: You probably should remember how you got together in the first place.

“You…forgot?” After all these years of tailing behind you at grocery stores, and weekly dinners at your house, and running to your place at a text’s notice, only to end up watching dramas all night and crying with you, and you forgot that you were dating? His voice quivers, a rush of betrayal in the gleam of his eyes stabbing at your chest as he grimaces at your confused expression, then back at the second button he just ripped off his chest that sits in your hand.

“I think I would remember if we‘re dating…but we aren’t.”

“How could you forget? I still have the ring pop from that day!”

What?

“Wakatoshi, the ring pop? From sixth grade?” At the mention of the ring pop, the fuzziness of an afternoon six years ago is wiped clean. You can almost taste the disgustingly artificial grape flavour that tingled and fizzed on your tongue, before sending you into a sugar high for hours, feel the cheap plastic ring that hung a size too big from your ring finger. You’re fairly certain that the company had discontinued that line of ring pops by now, the two pack too costly of a production for the cheap price they sold for in convenience stores.

“Yeah! I asked you to be my girlfriend with the second pop, and you said yes! You even wore the ring on your ring finger!”

His hands leave his pockets now, pointing accusingly at your ring finger that lacks a humorously large plastic ring. You’re not sure whether to be shocked or to laugh hysterically, not when Wakatoshi’s accusations of your…infidelity? are rooted in the sanctity and candour of a discontinued ring pop, until it all hits you at once. All the nights that he would drop off bags of groceries at your doorstep, your mother gleaming at his persistent service, and the afternoons of watching his volleyball trainings, his eyes glancing at you for approval at every legal point he makes, all the little times that led up to your eventual confession weren’t “best friend interactions.”

They were the actions of a boyfriend. A boyfriend, who (rightfully so) thought he was dating his girlfriend.

“Toshi…did it never occur to you that we’ve done absolutely NOTHING in all these years of ‘dating’? I mean, wouldn’t you have wanted to, I dunno, hold my hand? Or like, kiss me?”

Wakatoshi jolts backwards by an inch, hand travelling towards his jaw as he rubs it introspectively, trying to fan off the heat that is crawling from his chest to his neck. You stifle a giggle, before clearing your throat guiltily. No, you shouldn’t laugh at him. He’s trying his best to process the past six years of unrequited ‘dating’, how could you interrupt him? Do you have no heart, or shame?

“W-well, my dad’s always taught me not to do anything with anyone, partner or not, unless they asked for it first… and you never asked to. So, I never did.” He finally responds, as confidently as his stuttering voice could seem. “Besides, I assumed you weren’t the type of person to be into super-romantic dating, so I just never questioned it.”

You shake your head, smiling at the ground as you take a step towards him. Your hand grips his uniform button by your side, afraid that it might get lost in the petals if you drop it. Wakatoshi’s head darts from left to right, as if piecing together red herrings on a cork board, pinning down every interaction from sixth grade to now with thumbtacks as the strings tangle and twist.

“What about our drama nights? Was that also just being best friends?”

“Yes, Wakatoshi. That is what best friends do.”

“The grocery runs?”

“You offered to do them, and I assumed it was because you were always training late and wanted to help a friend out on the way home.”

“And the weekly dinners at your place?”

“We’re neighbours!”

You watch him groan, his face shoved into his now clammy palms. This is information overload, and Wakatoshi’s processor is melting down in front of your very eyes. He shakes his head frantically, his hair becoming disheveled. His hands run through his green locks, and land on his hips as his feet tap at the petal-covered ground.

“So, we have not been dating for six years, but you want to start dating from today onwards?”

"That is exactly what I'm asking."

Finally. He’s finally got it. The button weighs heavy in your hand, and you duck beneath his face to look him in the eye. He glances away, visibly repulsed by his embarrassment. He should've caught the signs...well, earlier. It somehow has never occured to him that a ring pop proposal might not be the most legitimate way to one's heart, and it certainly has never occured to him that it might have come off as an ingenuine attempt at securing a relationship.

"I meant it when I gave you the ring pop though."

Your face morphs into an effortless smile, the towering boy looking more timid than he ever has before. You haven't changed one bit since the day he's 'proposed' to you, from the smile lines that adorn your face, to the little pout of your lips when you grin. And as you look at him, eyes shimmering under the shade of the infamous Shiratorizawa confession tree, Wakatoshi is twleve years old again, missing a canine tooth on the top right side of his toothbed. He's pinching a long discontinued ring pop between both thumbs and index fingers, getting down on one bandaged knee earnestly to pop the big question.

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

And suddenly, you're twelve years old, standing right there, in front of him, tiny hands covering your mouth as you gasp and tell him yes, a million times over and more. Wakatoshi is 5'2 here, a whole foot shorter than his now eighteen year old self, slotting a ring pop that's two sizes too big on your ring finger, the candy diamond shimmering in the sunlight on the walk home. Except now, the ring pop has transformed into the second button of his soon to be forgotten Shiratorizawa shirt, residing in your clenched fist.

"I know. I know you did."

His eyes refocus as he snaps out of his thoughts, and he wonders if you still have the plastic ring from the ring pop, the one that means to him doing groceries for your household before his own, and showing up at your door to watch dramas all night in your bed, and helping your parents with the cooking before your weekly dinners. His eyes soften, the probing frown long gone from his face as he returns your smile with his own, cheeks pink and teeth threatening to show through his suppressed grin.

"Does this mean I get to kiss you now?"

"Yes, Toshi. Yes it does."

His hands spare no time to cup your face, pulling it up to his own as his fingers draw lines across your cheekbones. Wakatoshi's brain bursts in sparks of gold and red, and he genuinely ponders how he has lived until now without ever doing this once. He pulls away, unsure what else to do after, before sneezing in your face.

"Sorry, pollen, gross."

"Let's get out of here then, quick."

You grab his hand in your own, another sensation he isn't sure how he's lived without until now, and pull him away from the tree as you run to the school exit. He jogs behind you, and you turn around, your fingers interlocked with each other's.

"By the way, happy sixth anniversary, Toshi!"

author's note:

@catsoupki here's your long overdue ushiwaka prompt baby i hope you like you like ;P i had so much fun writing this omg i cracked myself AND my sister up like twenty times running her through what my plan was LMAOO

i too need ushiwaka btw i actually love him SO MUCH it's not funny anymore I NEED HIM SBSBSBSBSB the only other fic i have of him is genuinely some of the worst situations i've put any haikyuu character in recently so i have to treat him to a good one here ofc

anyways tags!!

@starlysama @chuuya-brainrot @fiannee @bailey-reeds

ok love u guys see u next fic bye bye

#ushijima x reader #ushiwaka x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu ushijima #ushijima wakatoshi #haikyuu ushiwaka #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu crack #hq fluff #hq crack #hq x reader #hq imagines #hq scenarios #haikyuu scenarios #ushijima fluff #hq ushijima #haikyuu!!#haikyuu

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yua0ra · 2 months ago

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𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐨 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐎𝐟𝐟 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐄𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭™

(𝐟𝐭. 𝐚 𝐒𝐥𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧-𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲)

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

WARNINGS: downbad!mattheo x slytherin!fem!reader, SFW, english is not my first language. not proofread | fluff ☏

SUMMARY: Operation: Matty Falls in Love™, where the plan is very much in motion—even if Mattheo is pretending it's not.

WC: 2.4K AN: Here's part 2! Enjoy...

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

The first Monday back after the weekend hit like a hex to the face.The castle felt like it had been dipped in ice overnight, your breath curling in little clouds as you trudged down the corridor toward Advanced Potions, clutching your book bag like it could shield you from the cold—and the overwhelming dread of homework returning.

You weren’t expecting much out of the day. Maybe some leftover holiday biscuits if you were lucky, and a chaotic lesson in Potions if Theo was feeling particularly dramatic.

What you definitely weren’t expecting was to walk into class and see Mattheo Riddle already at your shared table.

And not just at it—claiming it.

He had your usual seat pulled out, a folded scarf over the back of the chair like a little cushion, and—most shocking of all—a warm, steaming mug sitting in front of it.

He spotted you before you could fully compute the situation, his eyes flicking up, then widening like he’d just remembered how to breathe. His mouth opened, then closed again. And then opened again.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little rough from the cold—or nerves? “Uh. Morning. I, um… I made you tea.”

You blinked at the mug. “You made me—?”

“It’s peppermint,” he said too quickly. “I think. You said once you liked it. I mean—you were talking to Pansy, not me, but I was… nearby.”

There was a pause.

Then: “I’m not creepy.”

You blinked again, then smiled softly, touched and a little stunned. “That’s actually… really sweet. Thank you.”

You slid into your seat, fingers brushing the warm ceramic. The tea smelled perfect—minty, calming—and you tried to ignore the way Mattheo’s shoulders visibly relaxed when you took a sip and smiled at him again.

He looked like a puppy who’d just been told he was a very good boy.

Meanwhile, across the room…

Operation: Matty Falls in Love™ was in full, silent-screaming effect.

“Target accepted tea,” Theo whispered like a MI6 agent, ducking behind a stack of cauldrons. “Repeat, tea has been accepted. We’re a go.”

“She smiled. Look at that smile!” Enzo hissed, elbowing Blaise. “That’s a real smile. That’s a 'maybe-I-want-to-wear-his-hoodies' kind of smile.”

Blaise was scribbling notes like a madman. “That’s a level six emotional reaction. Possibly seven. We’re talking soft-giggle territory.”

Draco, ever cool, sipped his coffee with a smirk. “He’s going to ruin it in three… two…”

Back at your table, Mattheo was passing you ingredients without you even having to ask, murmuring the correct stir count under his breath and keeping a hawk eye on the flame.

He was calm. Focused. Controlled.

Until you leaned in.

Just a bit. Just enough to check the potion’s color, your face close to his, the scent of your shampoo completely wrecking his ability to do basic math.

His elbow bumped the ladle.

The ladle knocked over a vial of powdered moonstone.

The vial plopped into the cauldron.

The cauldron erupted.

Glitter. Pink fizz. A puff of heart-shaped steam and a high-pitched honk like someone had charmed a goose.

Slughorn let out a scandalized shriek and leapt backward. Half the class screamed. A few ducked under tables.

You coughed through the pink mist, eyes wide—then started laughing.

Not mockingly. Not nervously. Like it was genuinely the funniest thing that had happened all day.

You grinned at Mattheo, who looked like he might actually melt into the floor from embarrassment. He was covered in glitter. His fringe was stuck to his forehead. He looked like the aftermath of a Valentine’s Day explosion.

“I think,” you said between giggles, “you just invented a love potion for unicorns.”

Mattheo stared at you for a second, dazed. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Well,” you shrugged, cheeks a little pink. “Unicorns deserve love too.”

You were still smiling at him—glitter and all—when Slughorn finally regained control and started yelling about “reckless behavior” and “inappropriate potion glitter.”

Mattheo didn’t even flinch. He just kept looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth watching.

Across the classroom, the boys were losing their minds.

Draco stood and bowed sarcastically. “Ladies and gents, he’s dead. He’s in love. It’s over.”

“I have never seen a man combust with such grace,” Theo declared, writing “chaotic glitter potion = success???” in Blaise’s notebook.

“His hair’s sparkling,” Enzo said reverently. “Even his hair wants to impress her.”

Blaise closed the notebook slowly. “Phase two complete. We move to Phase three tomorrow: hallway proximity and accidental shoulder brushes.”

Draco smirked. “Don’t forget the book drop.”

“Ah yes,” Theo nodded. “The classic oops let me help you pick that up while our hands touch and soft music plays.”

Back at the front, Slughorn assigned Mattheo a week’s worth of extra clean-up duty for “unauthorized potion experimenting.”

You leaned over and whispered, “I’ll help, if you want. I mean… it was sort of my fault too.”

Mattheo blinked, stunned. “You… would?”

You gave him that same shy smile, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear. “Of course. I like glitter. And unicorns.”

Mattheo was silent for a moment. Then, very quietly: “I think I’m in love with you.”

Your eyes widened.

His eyes widened more.

“I MEANT—not in love! Just… love. Like. In a—LIKE GLITTER LOVE. PLATONIC—"

You were laughing again. He buried his face in his hands.

From across the room: “Phase three is writing itself,” Theo whispered dramatically.

- ★、

The glitter eventually faded (thanks to three different Scourgify charms and Theo’s aggressive commentary), but the effects of the “unicorn love potion incident,” as it was now being called in the halls, definitely did not.

By the time lunch rolled around, Mattheo was already on high alert. Blaise had winked at him four times that morning. Theo kept humming love songs whenever you were in a ten-foot radius. Enzo tried to accidentally lock the two of you in the corridor near the Astronomy Tower “just to see what would happen.”

And Draco? Draco was just having the time of his life being smug.

Mattheo flopped down at the Slytherin table with the energy of a man who had survived war. His hair was still a bit sparkly. His soul? Cracked.

"You're all insane," he muttered, stabbing his mashed potatoes like they personally offended him. “Completely deranged.”

"You're welcome," Blaise said cheerfully, peeling an orange with the precision of someone plotting a six-month seduction arc. “You're getting more one-on-one time with her than ever. That’s not deranged. That’s strategic.”

Theo leaned forward across the table, eyes glinting. “Exactly. And today’s strategy is… drum rolls please!: Shared Library Timeeeee!. Blaise has already rigged the schedule—”

“I did no such thing,” Blaise said, looking wildly guilty.

“—so you’re both paired for this week’s Herbology research project,” Theo continued, ignoring him. “Ms Sprout gave you both the same topic: Mandrake root temperament shifts in cold weather. Romantic, innit?”

“Yeah,” Draco deadpanned. “Nothing gets the blood pumping like magical screaming vegetables.”

Mattheo groaned and let his forehead hit the table. “This is going to kill me. I’m going to die in the library. She’ll find my cold, glittery corpse next to a mandrake diagram.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Enzo said, nudging him. “We’ll make sure you look good for your funeral. All black. Silk cravat. Maybe a single red rose.”

Meanwhile, you were sitting with Pansy, Daphne, and Millicent a few tables down, trying very hard not to smile as you kept catching snippets of their ridiculous whispering. You could feel Mattheo glancing your way every few seconds—even when he pretended not to—and you couldn’t lie… it was cute. Like really cute.

“Honestly, they’re so obvious,” Daphne said, smirking behind her goblet. “Mattheo looks at you like you’re a sacred artifact.”

“Or like he’s seen the face of Merlin himself,” Pansy added. “You breathe and he blushes.”

You flushed, nearly choking on your juice. “Okay, stop. It’s not like that.”

“It is exactly like that,” Millicent chimed in, casually shoving a bread roll into her mouth. “Boys don’t brew peppermint tea unless they’re in love or about to propose.”

You set your drink down carefully. “He’s just being nice.”

Pansy raised a brow. “Sweetheart. This morning he let you pick the dragon scales first during Potions. That boy is ready to die for you.”

Before you could respond, Mattheo stood from his table, clearly unaware of the spectacle he was making just by existing. He looked across the room, caught your eye—then promptly tripped over the bench.

“Yep,” Pansy said, sipping her tea with zero sympathy. “Utterly doomed.”

- ★、

By the time the last bell rang, you were already gathering your things, heart doing those tiny, ridiculous flips it always did now when you knew you'd be seeing Mattheo. You kept telling yourself it was just the Herbology project. Just a bit of partnered research. Academic. Professional.

But the butterflies in your chest clearly hadn't gotten the memo.

The library was quiet, soft candlelight casting golden puddles across the ancient oak tables and high shelves. And there he was — already seated at your usual corner table near the back. You stopped for a second in the doorway without meaning to, just… staring. Mattheo hadn’t seen you yet.

He was nervously organizing parchment into neat little stacks. Then reorganizing it. Then messing it up and trying again. His quill rolled off the table once — he caught it mid-air with a muttered, "Bloody—" — and then he immediately sat up straighter, clearly fighting some sort of internal battle about whether he looked too slouched or too stiff. He tested both. Adjusted his collar. Rubbed the back of his neck. Stared at his ink bottle like it had personally betrayed him.

You bit your lip, a smile tugging at the corners. It was kind of criminal, how adorable he was when he thought no one was looking.

And then… he spotted you.

Mattheo blinked like he was seeing a mirage. Like he genuinely couldn’t believe you were walking toward him. His mouth parted, but no sound came out for a full five seconds — and then he scrambled to his feet so fast he bumped the table and knocked over a stack of parchment.

"Hi," you said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as you sat down across from him. Your voice was gentle, a little hesitant, but warm.

“Hi,” he said, finally, voice rough like it had been hiding under a blanket all day. He was staring, his gaze flicking across your face like he was trying to memorize something. “Um. You look… warm.”

You paused, mid-quill unzip. “…Thank you?”

“I mean—like, not hot. Not like that. Not that you’re not—hot,” he said, voice rising an octave in panic. “I just meant… you have a scarf on. And, um. Sweater. Layers. Seasonally appropriate.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, a deer caught in wandlight.

“…Thank you,” you said again, trying not to laugh as you tucked your scarf a little tighter. “You’re very… observant.”

Mattheo let out a long, painful sigh and dropped his head onto the table with a thud. “I am so bad at this.”

You giggled, opening your notes. “At conversation?”

“At everything involving you,” he mumbled, forehead still pressed to the wood. “I swear Theo jinxed me. Or cursed my brain. Or poisoned my pumpkin juice.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching. “Is that what this is, then? Flirting?”

Mattheo’s head jerked up like you’d poured ice water down his back. His ears instantly went pink.

“I… I mean. I would, if I knew how,” he admitted, voice barely louder than a whisper.

You smiled — and not the usual, polite sort. No, this one was soft and quiet and just for him. You reached over and gently tapped your quill against his, like a tiny little kiss between ink-covered friends.

“Maybe I could teach you.”

Mattheo looked like he’d been hit with a Confundus charm. His cheeks were full-on red now — a deep, brilliant shade that made his freckles stand out like stars. He swallowed hard.

“Okay,” he said, almost shyly. “I’d really like that.”

Meanwhile, a few aisles down, Theo ducked behind a shelf of Magical Fungi Through the Ages and hissed into a rolled-up scroll like it was enchanted for secret messaging.

“Target is giggling. I repeat, Target is giggling. Operation Matty Falls in Love is in full motion.”

On the floor beneath a nearby table, Blaise sipped from a contraband coffee thermos and replied into his own scroll. “Phase shared library time: Confirmed. Proceeding to next phase: ‘Oops, our hands touched while reaching for the same mandrake diagram.’ Timing window: approximately five minutes.”

“Copy that,” came Draco’s voice from the far end, hidden behind a decorative tapestry and looking deeply unimpressed. “But if you make me read one more page of Herbal Sex Magic just for cover, I’m calling it off.”

“Worth it,” Blaise said, grinning.

Back at your table, you and Mattheo had actually managed to start reading through the research notes, though your knees kept bumping beneath the table, and each time they did, Mattheo jolted like he'd been hit with a Stinging Hex.

“So… Mandrake temperament shifts,” you said, glancing at him, trying to focus.

Mattheo nodded, looking determined. “Right. Mandrakes. Loud little bastards. Not romantic.”

You laughed softly. “You don’t have to keep pretending you’re not adorable.”

Mattheo blinked. “I—I’m not pretending. I mean—I am pretending. But only because you’re you.”

You tilted your head. “And what does that mean?”

He looked down at the parchment, fiddling with the corner of a page. “Means… I don’t want to mess it up. Being around you. It’s like…” He trailed off, glancing sideways, his voice a little hoarse. “It’s the only time I want to do things properly.”

You froze for a beat — not because he’d said anything loud or dramatic, but because it was genuine. Sweet. Scarily earnest, for someone who usually pretended he didn’t feel things. It made your heart thump, wild and soft and very, very real.

“Matty?” you said gently.

He glanced up, eyes wide.

“I think you’re doing just fine.”

He beamed. Blushed again. And you both bent your heads over the same page, shoulders nearly touching now.

Across the room, Theo silently held up a victory fist.

Blaise high-fived him behind a bookshelf with dramatic flair.

Draco sighed into his book.

#⋆. 𐙚 ˚ yua0ra’s works #slytherin #slytherin boys #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #wizarding world #harry potter #hp fanfic #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle oneshot #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo x y/n #mattheoxreader #mattheo x you #mattheo fluff

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strnilolover · 4 months ago

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warnings : smut. unprotected pnv (wrap it!). semi-public sex (sex in a hot tub). praising. softdom!matt. sub!reader. some dirty talk. sweet sex (?). some biting. matt slaps your thigh. titty sucking. cream pie. heavy kissing (so hot). clit rubbing. mention of wine and drinking. let me know if i forgot anything!

wc : 3k

it had been the perfect birthday so far. the day was filled with little surprises—matt’s thoughtful presents, the sweet breakfast he made you, and the way he’d kept you close all day. he even surprised you with a birthday party after you went to get your nails done for the day.

it was unlike any birthday you had ever had before.

as the day stretched on, the sun dipping down and the moon now rising, you found yourself wrapped in a blanket by the fire, sipping on a glass of wine, and enjoying the quiet moments.

it was a nice way to end your day, sitting cozy inside with the person who made your day all about you and so so special.

as the fire crackled, matt suddenly rose from the couch, his tall frame stretching as he moved towards you. his eyes met yours, smiling softly before he spoke. “I think it’s time for something else..maybe more relaxing?” he said.

your heart skipped a beat as your eyes locked onto his, your curiosity growing. “what do you have in mind?” you asked, your hand swirling the dark drink in the glass before taking a small sip.

matt smiled again. “the hot tub,” he said, his hand extending to help you up from the blanket. “come on. i’ve already got it ready.”

your pulse quickened as you turned to set your wine glass down, then took his hand, allowing him to pull you up from your position on the couch. “go get changed first, baby.” he whispered, and you nodded, giggling quietly as you ran off to your room to change.

when you were done, you were dressed in a blue bikini, the strings tied at your hips and on your back—keep the clothing in place on your body. matt was already waiting near the back door, his swim shorts on, tattooed arm on display for you to see. you walked over to him, his hand already outstretched for you to slip your own hand into. which you happily did.

gently, he lead you out the back door, where the hot tub sat under the stars. the night air was cool, the stars scattered across the sky, but the steam rising from the tub was inviting. it was the perfect contrast—the heat from the water meeting the chill of the night.

the soft glow of the string lights around the area created a warm ambiance, and matt’s hand landed on the small of your back as he guided you closer to the warm water.

the two of you had spent plenty of time in hot tubs before—either here at home or to hotels you had visited. and i was always heavenly when your body would sink into the warmth, your muscles relaxing as your body would go slump.

“you ready baby?” he asked as you finally approached the hot tubs, the bubbled fizzing around the jets as they shot water throughout the tub.

you nodded, throwing the towel you brought out to the side on one of the chairs, matt doing the same. slowly, your foot dipped into the water, your body shuddering at the way it felt against your cold skin.

it was soothing—relaxing. once your body was fully in, you settled against the edge of the hot tub, your legs stretching out in front of you as the water massaged your body. matt did the same, sitting close by as his hand came out to rest on your thigh under the water.

matt couldn’t help the way his eyes watched you—your eyes fluttering closed as you let your jaw fall slack, letting the jets massage the tension in your back.

“you’re so beautiful,” matt murmured, his fingers drawing small circles along your skin. the action made you smile, peeking an eye open to see his face. “did you enjoy your day, my love?” he asked, his fingers still dancing along your skin absentmindedly, but his gaze was on you.

you nodded, opening your eyes fully now to look at him. “s’been the best birthday ever.” you say, bringing a hand to rest over his, locking your fingers together. “didn’t need to do all of that for me.” you whisper, suddenly feeling shy as the attention from the whole day finally registered in your mind.

matt tsked, bringing your interlocked fingers up from under the water—placing a soft kiss to your hand before he moved closer. “you deserved it. you deserve everything baby. i’m just glad i was able to make it a special day for you.” and your cheeks flushed, your breath hitching as he moved closer.

the new proximity made the water feel even warmer, and the sudden surge of heat wasn’t just from the tub—maybe the wine was getting to you?. matt’s free hand came up, brushing your hair off your shoulder before leaning in, his lips brushing your shoulder, and your whole body shivered in response.

“wanna make it even better?” matt murmured, his free hand coming down to grip your hip and guiding you to turn so you were facing him. and you nodded—his voice swimming around in your head, like it was coaxing you. and before you could react, matt had you straddling his lap, the hot water sloshing around you from the sudden movement.

you gasped softly as he pulled you in closer, your chest now flush against his. matt’s eyes met your gaze, his hands moving up and down your body with a slow, deliberate pace. his fingers brushed over your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

“you look so perfect,” he whispered, his lips hovering over yours as he leaned in closer to you. “so perfect for me.”

you couldn’t contain the small sigh that escaped your lips, your body already reacting to the heat of his touch. “matt..” you breathed, your hands resting on his shoulders, trying to steady yourself as his fingers slid to your back, tracing the lines of your spine.

“yeah baby?” he breathed, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips—he was so close. it was dizzying how things escalated this quickly, but you loved it. you didn’t say anything, your hips rolling forward in an attempt to get what you wanted across.

he hummed, smirking as his hands slid back down to grip your hips. “want something sweetheart?” and you whined softly, nodding as you tried to roll your hips again, but his grip kept you in place. “yeah? gonna-“ he paused, licking his lips as he leaned in more, his lips brushing your own softly. “gonna let me take care of you? make it a birthday you won’t ever forget?”

“y-yes.” you whispered. matt chuckled, finally pressing his lips to your own. it was soft at first, but desperation got the best of you and you deepened the kiss. your tongue poking out, prodding at his lips to let you in. and he obliged, parting his lips, letting the wet muscle slip in. you moaned, your tongue gliding over his as he returned to force of the kiss.

your hands reached up, fingers intertwining into his brown locks as you pulled his face even closer—if that was even possible. you tugged, and matt groaned, your mouth swallowing the sound. with a swift, but gentle move, matt moved, guiding you backward, pressing your back against the edge of the hot tub.

the water sloshed around you both, his body slotting between your legs, chest still against yours as he leaned you down—pressing your back to the cold cement as your lower half stayed in the water. the sensation of being pressed into the edge of the tub while his body hovered over yours made you whimper, your legs coming up to wrap around his waist.

matt was the one who broke the kiss first, his breathing ragged just like your own. quickly his lips found your neck, trailing along the sensitive skin, teeth nipping as purple bruises formed along your flesh. you tilted your head back, giving him more access. “matt.” you moaned, your hands gripping his hair tighter as he sucked right under your ear.

“hmm.” he hummed, kissing across your collarbone now—slowly moving down to between your breasts. gently, his hand slid up your back, the touch making you arch towards him. and he took the opportunity to wrap his fingers around the string to your top, pulling until the fabric fell away from your chest.

you gasped as the cool air hit your now hardening nubs, but it didn’t last long when he dipped down to capture your right one into his warm, wet mouth. he groaned around your nipple, tongue swirling as his teeth bit down—biting the sensitive flesh before drawing back. watching as it slipped from his mouth, now wet with his saliva.

you cried out at the sensation, your hands wanting to push his head back down. “so needy baby.” he whispered, now turning his attention to your other nipple, giving it the same attention before he pulled away. “you want it?” he teased, a hand coming down to snake between your bodies as he pressed his fingers against your clothed clit, rubbing slow circles.

“pl-please matt..please!” you squeaked out, hips bucking up into his touch. his tongue darted out, licking his lips again as he leaned back down to press kisses to your skin. this time he moved further down, your eyes following as you propped yourself up on your elbows. your hips were still moving against his hand, but the feeling stopped as he pulled away.

a low whine emitted from your throat, but was cut off as he raised your hips higher in his grasp, both hands gripping you above the water. “shh sweetheart, m’gonna give you what y’want.” he muttered against you. and you watched with hooded eyes as he continued to kiss down to your hip bone. his blue eyes peered up at you before he smirked, trailing over to the right, his teeth latching onto the string on that side—tugging it until the bow came undone.

“oh f-fuck.” you moaned, watching as he slid his lips along your skin and did the same to the other string. your bottoms completely slipping away from your body, floating off in the water. matt couldn’t help but let his eyes fall to your wet core, your folds glistening against the fairy lights. “look at you.” he cooed, lowering your hips back into the water as his fingers came back to toy with your swollen clit. “so pretty baby. so wet f’me.”

he watched as he fingers glided along your folds, dragging them back up and pressing down a little harder. your hips bucked, moaning as your legs went to snap shut, but matt’s body prevented you from doing that. he grinned at your reaction, pulling his hand away again as his hand moved to his swim shorts. grabbing the waistband, he tugging the fabric down, letting his hard cock spring free—it obscenely bobbing up and hitting his lower stomach.

your mouth watered at the sight—watching as beads of pre cum trailed down the side. his hand gripped his based, stroking up as he gathered the pearly substance, his thumb digging into the slit before moving back down to smear it. he hissed at the feeling, pumping a few more times before bringing himself down.

your legs opened wider, welcoming him. leaning down more, he gently tapped the tip of his cock against your clit, sending waves of pleasure up your spine. your elbows lowering you back down, hands coming out to grasp at his arms. “matt..baby hurry up. please- ne-need it so bad.” you whined out, your legs trying to push him forward.

“i know sweetheart, i know. be a good girl and stay still, okay?” he whispered, the hand on your waist pulling you a little higher. you whined, but held your body still, feeling the tip of his cock move up and down on your sticky folds. he was teasing you—and on your birthday, how mean of him. your mouth opened to protest again, but before you could get a word out his cock slipped down, pushing past your puffy folds and into your slick walls.

your moans were loud and mingled, both your heads tipping back at the feeling. he stretched you so good, the slight burn making your eyes roll into the back of your skull. he always loved the way you felt around him, walls clenching like a vice. “fuck baby, y’feel so good. takin’ me so well, hm?” he gritted out, both his hands on your hips now as he slowly pushed himself until he bottomed out.

“ohhh fu-ck, mm feels s’good baby.” you moaned, your nails digging into his skin as his hips pulled back before thrusting forward again, skin flush with one another. “yeah? always such a good girl, takin’ me deep in here.” he cooed, snaking a hand up to press on your lower stomach, feeling the outline of his cock. “mhm!” you cried, back arching up into his touch.

your legs locked around him more, the water beginning to slosh over the edges as his hips picked up their pace—your wetness making him slid inside your gummy walls easier. your hips started to move with his own, fucking yourself on his cock the best you could, but his hand suddenly landed a smack to your thigh. you yelped, the pain blossoming into pleasure as your walls clenched tighter around him.

“i told you to hold still, didn’t i baby?” he grunted, your head nodding quickly. “then stay still, s’about you tonight. don’t gotta do a thing.” his words made your heart flutter, knowing he was taking care of you. “o-okay.” you choked out after a particular thrust of his hips.

but even after telling you to stay still, you couldn’t. your hips bucked up to meet each thrust of him, hands gripping him harder as his tip hit the perfect spot inside you. the water continued to slosh around your bodies, spilling out the sides as matt’s pace was ruthless. you could feel the knot beginning to form in your stomach, rapidly approaching.

but before you could give into the feeling longer, matt’s hips stopped and you cried out—eyes wide as you looked up at him. your orgasm fading away as fast as it came. “m-matt why’d you- st-stop?” you questioned, panting as your legs shook a little.

he didn’t say anything, didn’t pull out—he just gripped you and sat you up before moving himself to sit down in the water, carrying you with him. and when he sat down, his cock stuffed itself deeper inside you. you gasped at the new angle, your hips beginning to rock in their own.

“y’wanna move so much, then you can ride me baby.” was all he said before he began to move you up and down on him. you felt the burn immediately in your thighs, but you didn’t care. your arms wrapped around his shoulders and your face buried itself into his neck, moaning against his damp skin as you slid yourself up and down.

his own face buried into your neck, kissing at your dampened skin, helping your hips move as he bucked up every now and then. your loud moans and whines were muffled as you dug your teeth into his neck, biting the flesh. matt moaned, tossing his head back to give you more access. your thighs picked you up higher before you slammed back down, mewling as his tip kissed your cervix.

“shit baby—fuck do that again.” he whimpered, hands tightening on you as you lifted up again, bringing your hips down hard once more as your teeth moved to a new part of his skin. matt’s moan was loud, you could feel him twitch inside you and touch relished in the fact you were making him feel good.

you could feel the knot returning, the burning sensation in your thighs growing rapidly as well. “baby..” you moaned into his neck, letting the flesh go as you buried your face again. “yeah? gettin’ close baby? can feel you.”

“yesyesyes.” you chanted, rolling your hips now each time you moved down. you pulled away panting, leaning back as you bounced, your tits now in matt’s face—in full display for him. he leaned down, taking a nipple into his mouth as he did earlier and sucked—his hands still helping you move.

“m’so close too.” he mumbled against you, pulling away with a wet pop before tipping his head up to look at you. your fucked out face was so pretty, he couldn’t help but to moan at the sight, his balls beginning to draw taut. “kiss me- please..please kiss me.” you pleaded, and—how could he deny you?

you leaned in at the same time he did, your mouths colliding in a heated and desperate kiss. teeth clashing and tongue’s fighting one another. a hand came up to the back of your head, threading through your hair as matt held you in place—the other one continued to help you bounce.

you moaned into the kiss, your gummy walls tightening more as the band became too tight. “m’gonna- mmph!” your words and sounds were swallowed as matt kissed you deeper, desperately rocking his hips up quicker into you. and that’s all it took.

a scream slipped as you body shook, your fluids rushing out around his cock and it didn’t take long before matt was right behind you—doing a few final thrusts before he spilled into you. the white hot substance filling you to the brim.

you hadn’t stopped kissing, your teeth lightly nipping at one another’s lips as you both panted into the kiss. your hips rocked slowly as you came down from your high before they came to a stop.

when you finally came to a stop, your breathing was ragged—body shaking from how intense it all was. you pulled away from the kiss, matt’s jaw hanging slack as you took in his own flushed and fucked out face.

you giggled tiredly, your body slumping forward as you laid your head against his chest, cuddling up to him in the now very over heated water. his arms came up to hug you close to him, head moving to press a kiss to your own with his swollen pink lips. “happy birthday sweetheart.” he whispered.

“best birthday ever.”

a/n : this was supposed to be posted on my birthday but i just now finished it..it was collecting dust for almost a month..

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sodaclanandco · 1 year ago

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Can I… boop Fizzkit?

Do it if you are to.

#answered #Ooc #Fizz kit #wc oc #warrior cats oc #my art #fen-the-space-dragon

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capuccinodoll · 3 months ago

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The boyfriend act, part 9.2: "The one with the wedding" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Something’s changed, you can feel it, and you can’t fight it. Frankie keeps his promise—he accompanies you to Harry's wedding. Surprisingly, your ex isn’t the focus of the night. Instead, it's the strange, new dynamic between you and your companion that ends up tangled up in your house. Part 2 of chapter 9. WC: 12.4k

A/N: Oh God... enjoy. Hope you like it—it really helped me a lot to write this chapter this week! Love you love youuuuuuu!! Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!!If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! love you <3

The air inside the party was heavier, charged with warmth from too many bodies pressed together, energy buzzing against your skin. The lights had shifted since you last looked, dimmer now, streaks of blue and violet slicing through the dark like something alive. You stepped into it, absorbing the dizzying warmth of the room. Frankie wasn’t beside you anymore. You didn’t look for him. You didn’t let yourself.

A song was playing—something with a slow build, something from the two thousands. You didn’t recognize it, but it didn’t matter. You let the sound settle over you, let it fill the spaces between your ribs. Without thinking, you moved. Not a dance, not exactly, just the natural sway of a body finding its own rhythm. You let your eyes slip shut, your lips curving in something close to a smile.

And then, just for a moment, there was nothing heavy in your chest. No aching, no lingering weight. Maybe it was fleeting. Circumstantial. Maybe it was the red wine, or the champagne, or Frankie. Maybe it didn’t matter. Somewhere nearby, Harry was spinning Lisa under his arm, and the sight of it didn’t hit you like it did before. The thought sat there, light and untethered, and it felt—God, it felt so fucking good.

Your feet didn’t hurt this time. At least not yet. Right now, all you felt was motion, the firm thrum of music in your bones, and the sharp, electric clarity of being completely, wonderfully untangled from everything else.

And then, again, that warmth. That familiar pressure, retracing its path over your skin—your waist, the soft dip beneath your ribs. He liked to put his hands there. You’d noticed.

Your eyes fluttered open, and Frankie was beside you, balancing two glasses in one hand like it was second nature.

Under the neon lights, he looked like a decoy made especially for you.

He didn’t say anything at first, just extended one toward you, expectant. You took it without hesitation, lifting it to your nose, inhaling the faint bite of alcohol before glancing up at him through your lashes.

“It’s not poison,” he said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the music. “That’s in the past.”

“In the past,” you echoed, and took a sip, the fizzing liquid settling on your tongue before you swallowed. You stepped in closer, resting your free hand lightly on his shoulder. “That I do know. Your attacks are different now.”

Frankie exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Are you still at it? You sound almost... defeated.”

“I’m not. I’m just—curious.”

“That much I can tell.” He lifted his drink to his lips, tilting it back, his throat moving as he swallowed.

Your gaze followed the movement without thinking, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the way the lights shifted over the contours of his neck. A pulse flickered just beneath his skin, and for a ridiculous, fleeting second, you thought about sinking your teeth into it.

You exhaled, shaking off the thought, and lifted your chin. “Well, what are you waiting for? Show me those moves, or I’m going to start thinking you’re all talk.”

He looked at you then. Held your gaze. One, two, three seconds. And then, slowly, a smirk edged onto his lips—mischief, something else underneath it.

Without breaking eye contact, he lifted his glass and tipped the rest of his drink back in one smooth motion. You followed suit, feeling the sharp heat of it slide down your throat.

He peeled himself away from you, took your empty glass along with his, and set them on the nearest table.

Something curled inside you. Expectation. Anticipation. He was coming back, moving toward you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from absorbing him fully—the disheveled mess of his hair, the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell as he took those final, closing steps.

God, you wanted to touch him. You wanted to press your fingers into the mess of his curls, trail your hands down the solid plane of his torso, the soft belly right there, show him you weren’t afraid to.

What the fuck.

What the fuck was happening to you?

His body crashed into yours, the force of it pushing you back a step, knocking you slightly off balance. But before you could even process the stumble, his hands were already on you, both palms firm around your waist, steadying you. And then he was moving again, feet shifting forward, pulling you along with him, deeper into the swell of bodies that didn’t notice you, too wrapped up in their own worlds, their own dramas, their own little universes.

Your hands found his chest, instinctively pressing against the warmth of him, feeling the solid weight of muscle beneath your fingertips. Frankie slid one hand upward, brushing from your elbow to your wrist, his touch slow, deliberate. He peeled your hand away from him, laced his fingers through yours, his grip warm.

“This music isn’t going to do us justice,” he murmured, the sound curling against your ear.

He was right—the song blaring through the speakers was all wrong. Too fast, too shrill, the beat frenzied in a way that didn’t suit this.

“That doesn’t matter,” you countered, tipping your chin up at him. “Or you can’t do it?”

Frankie exhaled sharply, something between a laugh and a scoff, and without warning, he let go of your hand. Instead, he grabbed you by the sides and, in one fluid motion, started moving with you, pulling a surprised laugh from your lips.

Somehow, you understood what he wanted without needing to be told. Your body responded to his, falling in sync, matching his rhythm. His hands framed you, adjusting you exactly where he wanted, where he needed. His hips led the way, and yours followed instinctively, as if this had always been muscle memory, as if you had been built to move like this with him.

A grin spread across your face, wide and unguarded, and when you looked up at him, you found his gaze already fixed on you, his dark eyes drinking you in, like he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

The scent of his cologne wrapped around you, seeping into your skin with every small shift between you. It made something stir in your chest, something reckless, something dangerous. Without thinking, you arched into him, pressing closer, as if there were any space left to close.

There wasn’t. Not anymore.

Then, his fingers curled around yours, firm, insistent. In one swift movement, he spun you, pulling you back against him, his arm sliding across the front of your body, locking you in place. Your head tipped against his shoulder, your breath catching for a fraction of a second. The sensation was dizzyingly familiar—how many times tonight had he positioned you like this, as if he wanted you pressed to him, as if his body was something for you to fall into?

His mouth skimmed your ear. “Does this meet your requirements?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment before you tilted your head, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“I’m on my back to you again,” you murmured. “I think that tells me something about the kind of man you are.”

His lips parted. “Don’t be a tease.”

“Why not?”

His hands flexed, fingers pressing into your ribs—not rough, not demanding, but enough to send heat coursing through your veins. Enough to make your pulse hitch. The pressure anchored you, shattered you, pieced you back together in the span of a heartbeat.

He turned you again, your body yielding to the unspoken command in his touch. But this time, you didn’t let him take the lead.

Your hands shot up, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer before he had the chance to do it himself. His breath stuttered, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, and you felt it—his hesitation, his control, the way he was holding something back.

A smile curled at your lips just as his hands found their way to your lower back, pressing, keeping you there. Like he had no intention of letting go.

You shut your eyes for a beat, as if the darkness behind your eyelids might offer you clarity, a sharp-edged thought, something to arm yourself with. But your mind was a useless, static-filled thing, buzzing in your ears, drowning beneath the erratic pulse in your throat. Whatever words you might have thrown at him had disappeared, leaving you unarmed, exposed.

So you turned to the only thing left.

You couldn't fight, but you could touch. You could bring your hands to the sides of his face, feel the heat of his skin under your palms, and close the space between you. You could press your lips to his, soft and deliberate, tilting your head just right, angling yourself toward that sliver of vulnerability in him you’d always known was there.

Frankie exhaled sharply against your mouth—you had him. Right there, in your hands, in the way his lips moved against yours; not rushed, but desperate all the same.

You needed to stay in control. Not let yourself fall on the sword you were wielding. But he got closer, somehow, his hands sliding up your back, mapping bare skin with his fingertips. One settled at your waist, fingers pressing in like he needed proof that you were there. The other skimmed higher, threading through your hair, twisting a strand around his fingers, pulling—just enough to make your breath catch, to tip your head back, to drag a sound from you that you hadn’t meant to give.

And he heard it. Of course, he did.

His breath came harder now, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that burned through whatever restraint he'd tried to hold on to. And for all your careful control, you weren’t sure if you had him exactly where you wanted him—or if he had you.

Frankie pulled back, his mouth slipping from yours with infuriating ease, a lazy, knowing smile settling on his lips. He didn’t let go of you completely—his fingers still tangled in your hair, keeping your head bowed, like he was admiring his own handiwork. The moment stretched until you let out a breath, your hands sliding back to his neck in some attempt at regaining control.

You were just about to say something—something halfhearted, a weak protest dressed up as wit—when the music changed. I Feel It Coming by The Weeknd.

Frankie hummed in approval. “Now we’re talking.”

He released your hair, his hands settling on you differently now, shifting with the rhythm, guiding you into it with him. Like it had never been a question, like it was inevitable.

You followed his lead because what else could you do? You weren’t going to step away now, make up some flimsy excuse and disappear. That would be an admission, wouldn’t it? That all of this had an effect on you. That you could be pulled into him like the tide, no resistance. And from the way he was watching you, that knowing smirk carved into his face, he already suspected as much.

Then the lyrics came through the speakers, weaving their way into the space between you.

Tell me what you really like

Baby, I can take my time

We don’t ever have to fight

Just take it step by step

Your throat tightened. A slow, creeping warmth curled its way up your neck, not the pleasant kind but the kind that came with the quiet, unbearable realization of being seen. Really seen.

I can see it in your eyes

'cause they never tell me lies

I can feel that body shake

and the heat between your legs

You closed your eyes, willing the moment to dissolve into something less intense, less unbearable. But your breath hitched anyway, unsteady, shallow. Overloaded, overwhelmed. Just for a second, but it was enough.

And then you felt him again—his cheek pressed against yours. A quiet anchor. Your eyes fluttered open, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck, holding onto something tangible. You exhaled again, this time steadier, firmer.

Like you could pretend, for now, that you still had the upper hand.

You’ve been scared of love and what it did to you

You don’t have to run, I know what you’ve been through.

The lyrics blurred into background noise. Instead, you focused on your breathing, each inhale smoothing out the jagged edges of your pulse. Frankie’s body was solid against yours, unmovable. A wall you could lean on.

Without thinking, you let yourself sink into him, resting against the breadth of his shoulders, the warmth of his chest. His arms tightened around you, not possessive, not urgent—just encompassing. Holding you there as the music stretched on, your bodies swaying in time, your feet moving without effort, without thought.

You lost track of how long you stayed like that, how many verses passed before the spell was broken. Maybe the song had ended. Maybe it had been cut short. You weren’t sure. All you knew was that, suddenly, the air shifted.

A new beat crashed through the speakers, shaking you out of the hazy moment. Everybody by the Backstreet Boys. A sharp contrast, like being yanked from a dream before you were ready. And with it, the rest of the world reappeared—people you hadn’t noticed before, bodies moving in every direction, laughter spilling into the space you had occupied so quietly with Frankie.

He stepped back, just a little. When you met his gaze, he was smiling, but something deeper in his expression made your stomach tighten.

A sudden yell broke through the music. Both of you turned just in time to see Henry at the center of the room, shouting, his movements exaggerated as he threw himself into some half-choreographed dance. A group of men circled around him, clapping, hyping him up as he mimicked the mummy dance, his hands waving stiffly in front of him.

Frankie let out a short laugh. “We have to admit, he sure knows how to have a good time.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Yeah.”

Your eyes stayed on Henry a second longer, watching his antics, his complete lack of self-consciousness. Then you turned to Frankie, and before you even realized you were going to say it, the words slipped out.

“I want to go home.”

Frankie didn’t question it. He just nodded. Then, with a quiet sort of care, he peeled his hands away from you, stepping back fully.

“I’ll hit the bathroom first,” he said. “Then we’ll go, okay?”

You nodded. “I’ll wait for you at our table.”

Frankie gave you one last glance before turning, disappearing into the crowd with unhurried steps. You exhaled, pressing your lips together as you turned on your heels, moving toward the table with a weight in your limbs that hadn't been there before.

When you sat down, another breath escaped you—longer this time, like you were letting the entire night spill out through your mouth. The music pulsed around you, loud, but the space beside you remained empty. Everyone else was still on the dance floor, their bodies jumping, twisting, losing themselves-

You stretched your legs out under the table, your gaze drifting to your shoes, the heels scuffed from hours of wear. Then, a shift in the air beside you caught your attention.

“Enjoying the night?”

You looked up. Harry had dropped into the seat next to you, his grin loose, his shirt untucked and rumpled. His cheeks were flushed, sweat beading along his hairline, and a pink boa hung lopsided around his neck, the feathers clinging to his skin.

“Where’s your guy?” he asked, voice warm, teasing.

“In the bathroom,” you said, a little louder than you’d intended, the alcohol softening your tongue. “We’re actually about to leave.”

Harry’s brows lifted, his expression exaggerated with the sluggish enthusiasm of someone too many drinks in.

“Already? So early?” The last word slurred slightly, stretching at the edges.

You frowned, the corners of your mouth twitching as you glanced toward the bar. What time was it?

“We have to get up early,” you answered, more for yourself than for him.

“Right, right.” He nodded as if he understood, though his heavy-lidded gaze suggested otherwise. “Well, again, thanks for coming. Honestly, I didn’t think you would. Thought it might be… awkward.”

You let out a short breath, not quite a laugh, not quite agreement. “Life goes on, I guess.”

Your eyes flicked toward the other side of the room, past the shifting bodies and flickering lights, toward the hallway leading to the bathrooms. Frankie was still gone.

“Yeah,” Harry murmured. “That’s right.”

Something about the way he said it sent a small, sharp doubt through your chest. You turned to him suddenly, searching his face, feeling the question settle at the tip of your tongue before you could stop it.

“Can I ask you something?”

Harry nodded, the movement a little loose, a little unfocused. He was drunk. You were drunk. But the question had already lodged itself in your throat, and you couldn’t swallow it back down.

“Why did you invite me?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “If you thought it might be awkward, why?”

He blinked at you, then smiled, like the answer was obvious. “Because it’s all good between us, isn’t it?”

You studied his face. The same face you used to trace with your fingertips, the same eyes that once felt like home. But now, looking at him, there was nothing. No rush of warmth, no nostalgia curling in your chest. Just the vague recognition of something.

“Actually, I’m not so sure about that.”

Harry exhaled, his posture tipping forward slightly. “I know I hurt you.”

You went very still.

“You know,” you said, the words pressing out of you before you could think better of them. “How much?”

His lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected the question, like maybe he thought whatever damage he’d caused had been inconsequential, forgettable. But then he smiled—an old, familiar smile, the kind that had once undone you completely—and met your gaze.

“Were you in love with me?” he asked. “I think I knew.”

Something twisted in your chest. Not pain, not exactly. Something colder, sharper. Disappointment, maybe. Or anger. Or both.

“You invited me to your wedding.”

“I knew you’d come.”

Your breath caught, your pulse stuttering. Your expression didn’t change, but something in your body must have shifted because he tilted his head slightly, watching you too closely, like he was trying to read you.

Before he could say anything else, your gaze flickered past him, drawn by movement across the room. Frankie. He was weaving between guests, making his way back toward you, and then—he saw.

He stopped short, his dark eyes landing on Harry, then shifting to you. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face, but he didn’t come closer. Instead, he nodded once, a silent message. It’s fine. I’ll wait.

And something in you deflated, because no, it wasn’t fine. You wanted to tell him no, tell him to come now, to pull you out of this conversation before it unraveled any further. But Frankie just shifted his weight, slid his hands into his pockets, and watched. Giving you space.

The last thing you wanted.

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Harry said, pulling your attention back to him. His voice was softer now, coaxing. “It’s not like that. Look—”

His hand slid over yours, sweaty and familiar in a way that made your stomach twist, though not in the way it used to. You glanced down at the contact, at the weight of his fingers pressing lightly against your skin, before looking back up at him.

“I know you and I are good friends,” he continued. “And you understand that these things can’t always be controlled. I love Lisa. I do. That doesn’t mean I didn’t value what you and I had.”

Your throat felt tight. “I have to go,” you said, pulling your hand back.

But Harry only smiled, unbothered, like he was already a step ahead of you.

“I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. If the opportunity presents itself.”

Your brows knitted together. “Excuse me?”

You turned instinctively toward Frankie, your chest tightening with something close to urgency. Was he watching? Did he understand what was happening here? Across the room, Frankie was still looking at you, his gaze steady, assessing. But from that distance, you had no idea what, if anything, he was reading from this exchange.

Harry let out a quiet laugh, tilting his head at you. “You know what I mean.”

You stared at him, your pulse drumming against your skin.

“This is your wedding,” you said, disbelieving. “Your wife is right there—” You gestured vaguely toward the dance floor, where Lisa was spinning under someone’s arm, oblivious.

“I’m—I’m kidding,” Harry said quickly, shaking his head. “Relax.” Then, with a sigh that was just a little too performative, he leaned back in his chair. “See, this is exactly why you and I were never going to work out. You never knew how to take a joke.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Your jokes aren’t funny.”

“Oh, what, I don’t make you laugh anymore?” He teased, tilting his head at you, his smirk lazy, lopsided.

You let out a sharp breath, something between a scoff and a laugh, but there was no humor in it.

“You’re drunk and embarrassing yourself, Harry. That’s enough.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Pf, I bet that—”

“Let’s go home.”

Frankie’s voice cut through the noise, sending a jolt of relief down your spine. When you turned, he was standing behind Harry, his expression unreadable but serious, his hand extended toward you. Without hesitation, you took it, fingers slipping into his, pushing up from your seat without so much as a glance at the man beside you.

Frankie didn’t wait. He turned toward the exit, guiding you with him, and you followed, eager to put distance between yourself and whatever this conversation had been turning into.

But before you could get far, fingers curled around your arm, halting your steps.

You spun, pulse spiking, and found Harry looking at you with that same smug amusement, like this was all some inside joke you weren’t in on. His mouth parted slightly, like he was about to say something—something you were certain you didn’t want to hear—but before he could, Frankie moved.

Still holding your hand, he stepped closer to Harry, leaning in just enough that you could see the shift in his posture, the subtle tension in his shoulders. He murmured something low enough that you couldn’t make out the words over the thumping bass, but whatever he said, it landed.

Frankie's mouth was close to Harry’s ear, and whatever easy amusement had been stretched across Harry’s face vanished in an instant. His fingers slipped from your arm like he’d been burned.

You felt the curiosity tighten in your chest, a sharp pull. What had he said? What could have possibly warranted such an immediate shift? You barely had time to register the thought, and before you could begin to piece together an answer, Frankie was already guiding you away.

He didn’t say anything. Just turned and started walking, pulling you with him.

You followed, quick-footed, your eyes fixed on the back of his neck, on the way the curls at his nape shifted as he moved. The music faded as you stepped into the wide hallway, plush and quiet. And your steps slowed, your grip in his loosening. He turned then, sensing it, looking at you. The lighting was soft, wall sconces casting a golden glow over everything, their reflection flickering in Frankie’s eyes. His expression was unreadable—brows drawn, mouth pressed into a firm line.

"Are you okay?" he asked, taking half a step closer, his hand still holding yours like he hadn't realized he was doing it. "What did he say to you?"

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing," Frankie said. "Don’t worry about it."

"Frankie."

"Yeah?"

He said it with a smirk, and just like that, the tension fractured. His attempt at seriousness was transparently bad, his lips twitching at the corners, the glint in his eyes giving him away. You tried to keep your expression flat, but it was impossible—your mouth betrayed you, stretching into a smile before a small laugh escaped.

Frankie’s restraint crumbled entirely. His smirk broke into a grin, wide and pleased, and somehow, it felt like the only thing in the world that mattered.

Frankie gave your hand a light squeeze, tilting his head toward the exit. A quiet gesture, like a nudge in the right direction.

"Come on," he said, shifting his weight, already prepared to move. "Tell me on the way."

But you didn’t move. Instead, you stood there, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips. You squeezed his hand in return, a subtle press of your fingers against his, before giving his arm a gentle tug—just enough to draw him in, close enough that you could see the question forming in his expression before he even voiced it.

His brows pulled together for half a second, barely noticeable. "What?"

"I have to go back inside," you said, your voice light, like the thought had just occurred to you. "Will you wait for me? Just a second."

His hesitation was immediate. “Uh… why?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, already retreating. “Call for a car. I’ll be back in a sec.” You pointed a finger at him, as if making him promise. “Wait here for me, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

And then you spun on your heels, your steps quick and light, not quite a run but close to it. You slipped back toward the entrance, ducking past a group of guests mid-conversation, their chatter faltering briefly as they registered your sudden movement.

Frankie remained where you’d left him, hands shifting to his hips, his expression unreadable. His gaze stayed fixed on the doorway you had just disappeared through, his mind already flipping through possibilities.

What the hell were you up to?

Had you gone back for Harry? Lisa? Did you forget something? Your bag? No, your shoulder—your bag was still there a second ago. So not that. Your phone? No, he was pretty sure he’d seen it in your hand earlier.

Then what?

After a few seconds of standing there, arms tense at his sides, Frankie exhaled sharply and pulled his phone from his pocket. His fingers moved over the screen, tapping through the app with an efficiency just slightly off from his usual pace.

No, he couldn’t order a car yet. What if you didn’t come out? What if he had to go back for you?

He glanced back toward the entrance. Shifted his weight. Waited.

One minute.

Two minutes.

By the third, his patience had started to thin, a restless energy creeping into his limbs. He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling through his nose. Then, with a newfound sense of resolve, he took a step forward, heading toward the entrance. If you weren’t back yet, he’d go in and find you himself.

But just as he neared the door, it swung open, and there you were, practically bursting through it. A grin stretched wide across your face, your steps quick, hurried—definitely running now.

Frankie barely had time to process the scene before you zipped past him, a laugh tumbling from your lips. You had a paper bag clutched tightly in your arms, held close to your chest like something precious, and when you glanced up at him, your eyes crinkled at the corners, bright and alight with mischief.

“Come on, come on,” you said breathlessly, urgency laced with amusement. Your heels clicked against the floor, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of the night.

For a beat, he just stared at you, then instinct took over.

Without a second thought, Frankie moved. His stride quickened as he took off after you, falling into step just behind. When you reached the hotel doors, he was already there, reaching forward to pull one open before you could even slow down. The doorman gave him a questioning look, but Frankie barely noticed.

Outside, you kept moving, your heels clicking against the pavement, a few hurried steps carrying you just past the hotel entrance before you finally came to a stop. Your breath came fast, your cheeks flushed, your whole body alight with the kind of exhilaration that made you feel a little untouchable.

Frankie pulled up in front of you, chest rising and falling like he wasn’t quite sure if he should be amused or concerned. His hands settled on his hips, his head tilting slightly, that familiar furrow forming between his brows.

“What exactly—”

“I stole champagne!” you blurted out, eyes shining. “And wine!”

Frankie’s mouth parted slightly before he let out a laugh, one of those short, incredulous ones that got caught in his chest. He glanced at the bag clutched against you, then back at your face, like he was still trying to understand what kind of person would be bold enough to rob an event of its alcohol supply and look this pleased about it.

“What?” he said, half-laughing. “How?”

You waved a hand like the details were unimportant.

“We’re not just leaving empty-handed. Where’s the car?” You cast a quick glance down the street, shifting on your feet, still buzzing with the thrill of it.

Frankie sighed, shaking his head, but there was something almost affectionate in it. “Jesus.”

“Come on,” you urged, already tugging at his sleeve.

Frankie didn’t move, standing there like he was still trying to process the absurdity of the situation.

“Haven't ordered yet.” Then, as if just remembering himself, he held out his hands and plucked the bag from your arms with practiced ease. He peeked inside. Four bottles.

“Damn,” he murmured, eyebrows lifting. “You’ve got fast hands.”

You giggled, the kind of breathless, slightly manic laughter that only came from getting away with something you absolutely should not have. A cool breeze swept over your bare arms, and a shiver ran through you just as—

“Hey! Come back here!”

The shout made you freeze. Your head snapped toward the hotel entrance, where Henry stood pointing an accusatory finger at you, his expression an almost comical mix of outrage and disbelief. Two other men flanked him, their faces still catching up to whatever chaos had just unfolded.

Henry, however, had already reached full comprehension. His usually pristine suit was a disaster, smeared with something white and unidentifiable. His face, normally so composed, was equally streaked with whatever disaster had befallen him. His hair was wild, like someone had either yanked it or he’d been through something emotionally catastrophic.

Your eyes widened. Then, without thinking, you let out a tiny, startled squeal, grabbed Frankie’s arm, and bolted. Laughter tore out of you as your feet hit the pavement, your body moving on pure adrenaline.

Frankie barely hesitated before falling into step beside you, the bag of stolen goods bouncing in his grip.

“You can’t take my Dom Pérignon!” Henry bellowed from behind, the sound of his footfalls closing in. “Come back here, you crazy bitch!”

“I can do whatever I want, Henry, the world is free!” you called back over your shoulder, breathless and delighted.

Frankie, despite running, turned his head slightly to glance at Henry, eyebrows pinched together in amused confusion.

“Your champagne is overrated anyway!” He said, voice loud and cutting through the night air. Then, as an afterthought: “You’ll never be a Backstreet Boy!”

Henry skidded to a stop for half a second, rage visibly bubbling over. Then, with renewed fury, he surged forward, picking up speed.

"Fuck!" Frankie swore under his breath, the laugh that had been creeping up his throat breaking free as he pushed himself faster.

You stole a quick glance over your shoulder, your pulse hammering, your grin stretching so wide it made your cheeks ache.

Your feet pounded against the pavement, so quick they barely felt like they belonged to you. The rush of air lifted your hair, tugging it away from your face. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d run like this—maybe high school, maybe longer.

Frankie ran beside you, his stride matching yours, never overtaking. His arms were locked tightly around the bag, the muffled clink of glass bottles rattling with every step.

You turned a corner, breath coming sharp, pulse hammering in your ears. Another few steps, then you cut across the street. Behind you, Henry had slowed, swiping at the streak of cream on his face, watching you with something like exasperation. His friends skidded to a stop beside him, breathing hard, hands braced on their knees.

“There! A cab, a cab!” You pointed, laughter spilling into your voice. Across the street, a yellow car approached, its neon sign glowing FREE against the windshield.

You threw out an arm, signaling it to stop, and it did—brakes sighing as it pulled up beside you.

Henry said something, gesturing in your direction, but his voice was lost to the blood rushing in your ears. You met his gaze briefly, a teasing smile lingering at your lips, before pulling open the back door.

You motioned for Frankie to get in first, and he did, the bag still clutched against his chest. You slid in after him, shutting the door behind you.

The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror, waiting. You gave him your address, voice still uneven with breath.

Frankie tipped his head back against the seat, eyes slipping shut for just a second. His chest rose and fell deeply, his face still flushed from the run. The cab lurched forward, merging into the current of traffic, city lights washing over the windshield in streaks of gold and blue.

"You almost got my ass kicked," he said, eyes closed, mouth tilted in a half-smile.

"You didn’t have to say all that to him," you shot back, laughter still catching in your breath.

"No, but if they caught up to us, who were they going to take it out on?" He cracked one eye open, looking at you like the answer was obvious.

"Fair point."

He turned his head fully now, watching you, his gaze dark and sharp, like polished obsidian.

"What the hell did Henry have on him?"

You hesitated, biting your bottom lip, knowing how ridiculous it was going to sound.

"I threw pie at him."

Frankie blinked. "Pie."

"Lemon pie," you clarified, the words tipping into laughter. "He was waiting for a drink and I came out from behind the bar. He saw me. I tried to make up some bullshit excuse, but he wasn’t buying it. So…I threw the pie at him. And then I ran."

For a second, Frankie just stared at you, and then he burst out laughing, his head tipping back against the seat. The sound rolled through his chest, deep and warm, until you felt it in yours too, something unspooling between you in the dim glow of the passing streetlights.

You pushed the door shut behind you, exhaling as the tension in your shoulders eased. The quiet hum of your apartment settled around you like a second skin. Frankie made his way into the kitchen, setting the bag down on the counter. One by one, he pulled out the bottles, arranging them in a neat little lineup, the glass clinking softly against the marble surface.

Mr. Darcy let out a meow, lying on the floor without moving, clearly in a relaxed state.

Bracing yourself against the wall, you slipped off your heels, letting them drop carelessly to the floor before padding barefoot toward the couch. You sank into the cushions, head tipping back, eyes slipping shut.

"I'm so tired. What time is it?"

"Twenty past twelve," Frankie said, his voice drifting closer. You cracked one eye open just as he moved past you, his legs brushing yours before he settled onto the couch beside you. He glanced at his phone, then locked it with a sigh, tilting his head back against the cushions. "I could've sworn it was like 2 am."

"Exactly," you said, stretching your arms above your head. "Which means we need a glass of wine."

Without hesitation, you pushed yourself up. Frankie huffed out a quiet laugh, watching you with something like amusement.

"I thought you didn’t want a hangover."

"I'm fine," you insisted, making your way into the kitchen. "I’m still not at the point I want to be, you know? That perfect middle ground—buzzed, happy, warm." You reached for the cupboard, fingers grazing the cool glass as you pulled out two wine glasses. "You want one, don’t you?"

"Yes, ma’am."

You set the glasses down in front of you, picking up the bottle of wine, rolling it in your hands to read the label.

"Ornellaia. Tenuta dell'Ornellaia. Bolgheri. 2002." You glanced up at him with a smirk. "Fancy, whatever that means."

You uncorked the bottle, filling each glass just enough, then lifted one to your nose, inhaling deeply. Across the room, Frankie watched you with the kind of expression that made it seem like you were amusing to him in ways he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

"I'm afraid you're a criminal," he said.

You snorted, crossing the room toward him with both glasses in hand.

"As Fiona Apple put it, it’s a sad, sad, sad world."

You sank into the couch beside him, pressing a glass into his hand. His fingers brushed against yours—just a flicker of warmth, fleeting and barely there—but still, it sent a spark up your arm. You ignored it. Or pretended to.

Frankie took the glass without a word, swirling the deep red liquid in slow, practiced circles. He lifted it to his nose, inhaling, then took a sip, letting the flavor settle on his tongue before swallowing. His expression didn’t shift much, but there was something thoughtful in the way he tilted his head, processing.

"I hate it when insufferable people have good taste," he said, face utterly serious.

A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. "Look at you. Ooh la la la."

He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, then leaned forward just enough to set the glass down on the coffee table. In one smooth, unhurried motion, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the armchair nearby. Then he shifted back into the couch, settling deeper, his posture easy, unguarded—legs spread, arms resting lazily at his sides.

Your gaze drifted over him without meaning to, tracing the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the relaxed angle of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows that never seemed to disappear completely. You let your eyes wander, cataloging every detail like you might need them later.

The white shirt clung to him in a way that felt almost unfair. It wasn’t tight, not exactly, but it fit him just right—draping over his frame like it had been tailored with only him in mind. The fabric stretched slightly across his chest, shifting with each breath, and where it met the waistband of his pants, it pulled just enough to hint at the shape beneath. His pants were much the same, fitting him comfortably, though in the way he was sitting—leaned back, legs spread, completely at ease—some things stood out more than others.

Your gaze drifted lower, to the solid line of his thighs, then up again, tracing the broad plane of his stomach. He looked… comfortable. So much so that for a second, you had the ridiculous urge to stretch out and rest your head there, let yourself sink into the warmth of him.

Instead, you said, “I like your outfit.”

Your eyes were still fixed somewhere around his torso, your body tilted subtly toward him, one arm slung over the back of the couch, your legs tucked neatly beneath you. Whether you were leaning into him consciously or unconsciously, you weren’t sure. It didn’t really matter.

Frankie glanced down at himself, then back at you. “Thanks. You gave me an excuse to wear it.”

“It looks great on you.”

He studied you for a beat, then exhaled through his nose.

“I bought it a while back. Most expensive shit I’ve ever paid for in clothes.” He stretched his arms out along the couch, grazing yours, the movement making his shirt pull ever so slightly at the seams. “So it better look good, right?” He shot you a crooked grin.

“That’s right.” You took a small sip of wine, your lips curving. “Lucky for you, I didn’t get any blood on it.”

Frankie let out a quiet laugh, his head tipping back, his chest rising and falling.

Your eyes caught on the movement of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple shifted when he swallowed.

“Do you want to see my list?” you asked, dragging your gaze back up to his face. “I’ve added a couple of things.”

He turned his head toward you, dark eyes curious. “Yeah? What?”

Without answering, you set your glass down on the coffee table and pushed yourself up, padding across the room in search of your journal. It was right where you’d left it—tucked neatly against the framed photo of Mr. Darcy and Santi on the bookshelf by the window. You grabbed it and made your way back, settling in next to Frankie again. This time, when you curled your legs beneath you, your back fit neatly into the space between his arm, stretched across the couch, and the solid warmth of his shoulder.

You held the open journal out to him. “Here. Take a look.”

Frankie hesitated, glancing at you. “May I?”

You rolled your eyes. “Like you asked last time. Yes. You can.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth as he took the journal from your hands, already flipped to the right page. He read through the list carefully, his gaze steady, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the paper. Maybe he was genuinely paying attention, or maybe the wine was making it harder for him to focus.

His eyes landed on one item in particular. “Have a New Year’s kiss. Just like Harry and Sally—but less romantic?” He glanced at you, one brow lifted.

You nodded. “Less romantic. Too much pressure.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, then frowned slightly. “Who’s Sally? Is Harry—wait. Is he that Harry? Harry? The one from the wedding?”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“No, it’s a movie. When Harry Met Sally.” You turned your head, watching his face for recognition. There was none. “The one with Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan.”

Frankie blinked at you. “Um, Tom Hanks?”

Your expression twisted in confusion. “What?”

“The one with the bookstores?” Frankie asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

You let out an exaggerated sigh, clicking your tongue. “That’s You’ve Got Mail.”

His lips twitched, the hint of a smile forming. “Didn’t realize I was talking to a rom-com scholar.”

“Didn't you ever see When Harry Met Sally?”

Frankie’s smile stretched wider, something lazy and amused settling in his expression. “Clearly not, sweetheart.”

He shifted, reaching down for his wine glass. Lifting it to his lips, he took a slow sip, then settled back into the couch. His gaze found yours again, dark, something unreadable flickering behind it.

“We can watch it if you want,” he said, his tone quieter now.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. But not now. I don’t think I can focus on anything that lasts more than an hour.”

You tilted your head at him, a teasing glint in your eye. “You say that to all your girlfriends?”

The laugh that burst out of him was sudden, cracking through his chest. His head tipped back for a second, the sound filling the small space between you.

“Okay,” you said, your own smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I’ll hold you to that promise. But in the meantime—yes. A New Year’s kiss. Not much more context than that.”

Frankie nodded. “Less romantic.”

“Exactly. I don’t need it to mean anything. Just a kiss.”

“Like kissing a stranger in a club? You could kill two birds with one stone and cross kiss a stranger and New Year’s kiss off your list at the same time.”

You shook your head, lifting your glass. “No, no. Those are two completely different things, Francisco.” You took a sip, savoring the wine.

“Well, I’m no stranger. But I can help you with New Year’s.”

You blinked. “Um?”

He shrugged, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“I can kiss you on New Year’s if you want.” He said it so simply, so matter-of-fact, that it almost sounded like a business arrangement.

A smile tugged at your lips, inevitable. “You’d do that?”

“We were kissing an hour ago, weren’t we? Why wouldn’t I? I don’t see the problem.”

You hummed, nodding absently, your eyes dipping to your glass. He had a point. You took a sip, then glanced back at him.

“That’s true. But we’d have to be in the same place that night.”

“That can be arranged.”

You let out a breath, tilting your head. “Right.”

Frankie watched you. “Now, if you want to kiss a stranger, that’s as simple as a night out, don’t you think?”

You opened your mouth to reply but realized, suddenly, that he was closer than you’d thought. The space between you had shrunk, or maybe it had never been that wide to begin with. You shifted in your seat, tucking your knees to your chest, settling deeper into the warm space between his arm and his body.

“That’s true,” you admitted.

He tipped his head slightly. “Does it have to be any stranger?”

“Well, not any stranger,” you said, considering. “A decent stranger. Not a dangerous one.” You took another sip, then added, “I talked to Emma yesterday. She said we could go out when she comes to Austin—she has a good eye for strangers.”

Frankie let out a low laugh. “She senses vibes?”

“Exactly.” You grinned. “You can come too, if you want. I don’t know if you like those kinds of places.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, like he was actually thinking it over. “

Do you want me to come with you?”

“If you don’t want to, it’s okay,” you said, too quickly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He huffed, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, I’ll go with you.” He lifted his glass, taking a sip before adding, “That way, if you need someone to pull some asshole off your back, you can use me.”

You laughed, softer this time, warmth pooling in your chest. “I'd like that.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence was comfortable, the kind that settled easily between two people with no urgency to fill it. Your eyes lingered on the page in your lap, the list of things you’d scrawled down, while Frankie lifted his glass to his lips again, tilting his head back slightly as he drank.

After a moment, he asked, “Why is it so important to kiss a stranger, though?”

You let out a breath, shifting your legs, stretching them out a little more comfortably.

“I don’t know. It’s not like it’s some grand, life-changing thing. It’s just one of those little experiences I’ve never had. I’ve never felt confident enough to just—go up to someone and kiss them. I think I’m too much of a romantic for it.” You laughed, shaking your head at yourself.

“Ah, I get it. Like an act of liberation or something, right?”

“You could call it that.” You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

He hummed in response, a low, quiet sound, and for some reason, the warmth of it lingered in your ear.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Mr. Darcy stir from his spot on the floor, stretching lazily before padding off toward his food bowl in the kitchen. You watched him go for a few seconds, then exhaled, a thought tugging at the edges of your mind.

“Actually,” you said, breaking the quiet, “I almost did it. A couple of years ago.”

Frankie’s eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

“Kissing a stranger,” you clarified.

“Oh, when?”

“A few years ago. Emma and I went with another friend to a Halloween party downtown. It was a great night, mostly. But at some point, I lost them in the crowd and spent forever trying to find them.” You let out a quiet laugh, the memory coming back to you in pieces, hazy at the edges. “I was drunk, obviously. Somehow, I ended up going through a door, thinking it led to a patio or something. And then the door shut behind me, and I realized it didn’t open from the outside.”

Frankie tipped his glass toward his mouth, watching you over the rim.

“I panicked. And then this guy scared the shit out of me.” You shake your head, remembering the jolt of it, the way your breath had caught. “Turns out he’d come up earlier and wedged something in the door to keep it from locking. And I—totally oblivious, completely useless—ruined his plan.”

Frankie laughed, setting his drink down.

“It was actually a terrace,” you went on, “not a patio or anything. And my friends were nowhere to be found. I tried calling them. No answer. He tried calling his friends too, I think.” You exhaled another laugh, quieter this time. “He was dressed as Zorro.”

He smirked. “Sexy.”

You grinned. “Yeah, but no hat.”

“He can be forgiven.”

“We were stuck there for at least an hour and a half. Maybe longer. Just talking. Flirting.” Your voice had softened, slowed. “I told him a lot about my life. And I wanted to kiss him. Really badly.” You hesitated, then admitted, “But I didn’t.”

Frankie’s eyes flickered over you. His voice was quieter now. “Why didn’t you?”

Your hand drifted to Frankie’s torso, fingertips tracing absent-minded patterns over the fabric of his shirt. You toyed with one of the buttons, turning it between your fingers as if the movement might help pull the memory into sharper focus. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed content to let you linger there.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I didn’t. And before I could even think about it, a security guard showed up and—well, that was it. He told us we had to leave. And then he asked for my number.” You exhaled. “And I panicked. I was tipsy, nervous, trying to process the whole situation, and then out of nowhere, Emma came barreling toward me, screaming my name. So I ran.”

Frankie’s mouth twitched at the corner. “You ran.”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Full-on ran. Didn’t even ask his name. Didn’t give him mine. Nothing.” You pressed your lips together, the weight of the ridiculousness settling in. “So, somewhere out there, there’s a guy who knows way too much about my life but has no idea what to call me.”

“You should’ve looked him up. Put up a sign or something. ‘El Zorro Wanted.’”

You laughed. “Right. And what, just hope he rides in on a horse to claim me?”

Frankie grinned. “Would’ve been romantic.”

“Yes, if somewhat unrealistic.” You pressed a finger against his belly, just lightly. “But I know I’d recognize him if I saw him.”

Frankie laughed, tipping his head back slightly. “Oh, you think so?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Before he could respond, Mr. Darcy meowed from the kitchen, his voice sharp and insistent. You glanced over and saw him sitting upright next to his water dish, his eyes wide with the kind of urgency you had come to recognize immediately.

You sighed, detangling yourself from Frankie’s warmth and standing up. He watched you go, and when you reached for your empty glass, he handed you his without a word. You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a brief second before you turned and walked toward the kitchen.

There, you placed the glasses on the counter and crouched down beside Darcy, who was still stationed by his dishes, staring at you with clear disapproval. Floating in his water bowl was a single, tragic piece of food—utterly unacceptable, in his opinion. You already knew what he wanted before he so much as twitched an ear.

“Okay, okay,” you murmured, swapping out the water for fresh. When you set the dish back down, he inspected it briefly before brushing his head against your hand. You smoothed your fingers over the soft fur between his ears, a silent apology for the offense.

From the living room, the sound of the television clicking on drew your attention. You glanced back to see Frankie, remote in hand as he navigated YouTube. He looked focused, his eyes fixed on the screen while his thumb moved over the buttons at a measured pace.

A few moments later, the speakers crackled to life. First, the sound of voices and laughter. Then, a melody—light and happy.

This Must Be the Place, by Talking Heads.

Frankie moved first. His shoulders bounced to the rhythm, his eyes squeezed shut, his face twisted in exaggerated concentration, like he was feeling the music with his whole body. You laughed at the sight of him, the unabashed joy of it, the way he gave himself over so completely. Before you could react, he reached for your hand, fingers curling around yours as he pulled you into a messy twirl. The movement sent a dizzy sort of delight through you, spinning your balance just enough to make you stumble forward with a breathless laugh.

His hands found your waist, feather-light at first, just a teasing brush that made you squirm as he tickled at your sides.

“Francisco!” you yelped, half laughing, half breathless, trying to swat him away, but he only grinned, pulling you closer, setting the rhythm for you both.

It took only seconds for your body to sync with his. Bare feet against the floor, moving in tandem, your laughter tangling with the music as you mirrored his steps. He danced like a drunk man at a party—goofy and unselfconscious, his hips swaying exaggeratedly, arms lifting at just the right moments. And you, tipsy and delighted, couldn’t help but match his energy, your body light and free, your head tilting back as giggles tumbled out of you.

He spun you again, this time with a little more flair, his grip firm as he turned you effortlessly, sending a rush of dizziness through your limbs. The music swelled, bright and glittering, filling the space like drops of color spilling onto the floor.

Frankie laughed—really laughed—before pulling you back into him, your body colliding softly with his, breath warm against your temple. His hands settled at your waist, grounding you, his chest rising and falling against your back as the song played on, wrapping you both in its golden haze.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, your hands drifted up his chest, fingers trailing over the fabric stretched across his shoulders. Your arms looped around his neck, fingertips slipping into the curls at his nape, twisting there, just slightly, just enough to make him shiver. His breath hitched—so faint you might have imagined it.

He was watching you, his mouth curved at one side, that lazy, knowing smile playing at his lips, and maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or the warmth of the room, or the hum still alive in your body from dancing—but you didn’t think too much about it.

You rose onto the tip of your feet and kissed him.

It surprised him—you could feel the way his body tensed, the way his breath caught—but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t hesitate. If anything, he reacted in the opposite direction entirely. His hands locked around you, one gripping your waist, the other pressing firm against the small of your back, dragging you in until there was nothing left between you but heat and breath and the sharp, electric rush of contact.

His mouth opened under yours, the kiss deepening so effortlessly it made your head spin. You tilted your chin, parting your lips just slightly, and then his tongue was there, teasing the seam of your mouth. The first taste of him sent a spark up your spine, something hot and liquid pooling low in your stomach. A sound slipped from your throat—small, needy, completely unintentional.

That seemed to tip something over the edge.

Frankie exhaled sharply, his hands gripping harder, his kiss turning feverish, hungry. He moved forward, walking you back step by step until your shoulders hit the wall, his body pressing into yours. His fingers dragged down your spine, lower, lower—until his palm cupped your ass, his grip firm, hard, his thumb pressing into the curve of your hip.

You gasped against his mouth, your pulse hammering, your skin burning everywhere he touched you. It wasn’t enough. It was suddenly, overwhelmingly not enough. The need was blooming fast inside you, hot and insistent, demanding more.

Frankie’s mouth left yours only to drag along your jaw, his lips brushing over sensitive skin before he latched onto the curve of your neck. His kisses were warm, wet, his breath hot as he worked his way down, open-mouthed and eager, sucking just enough to make you shudder, biting just enough to make your pulse spike.

Your breathing turned ragged, uneven, and when you reached for him, your hands trembled slightly, fingers slipping into his hair like you’d been aching to do all night. The curls twisted between your fingers, thick and soft, and when you tugged, just a little, Frankie let out a sound against your throat, something rough and needy that sent heat flooding through your limbs.

Then he pulled back, just enough to look at you. His face was flushed, his lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His eyes—god, his eyes—were darker than you’d ever seen them, blown-out with something raw and desperate, something barely held together. He looked wrecked.

You barely had time to take him in before he was kissing you again, fast, consuming, like he couldn’t stand the space between you any longer. His tongue slid against yours, stroking deep, and you gasped into his mouth, the sensation making your stomach twist tight with heat.

His grip on you was unrelenting. One hand still cupped your ass, kneading as he pulled you closer, while the other squeezed your waist, fingers digging into your skin as if to keep you exactly where he wanted you. Then, with a slow, agonizing drag, his hand moved higher, following the curve of your body, grazing over your ribs before settling at your shoulder.

And then—without a word, without warning—he hooked his fingers under the thin strap of your dress and pulled it down.

The fabric slipped easily, pooling at your waist in a whisper of movement, leaving you exposed, bare against him. Your breath caught as your breasts brushed against his shirt, the contrast of heat and fabric making you shiver. Frankie groaned, his head dipping back to your throat, mouth trailing lower, lips skimming over your collarbone as his fingers drifted down to your cleavage.

A moan spilled from you before you could stop it, your back arching, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging hard. Frankie exhaled sharply at the sensation, his hands moving over you with something just short of desperation, like he was memorizing the shape of you, like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

Frankie’s grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass as his other hand slid to your hip. Then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he lifted you, pressing you against the wall with his body, holding you there with nothing but strength and urgency. Your legs locked around his waist instinctively, your dress riding up over your thighs as you moved.

And then—you felt him. Hard, unyielding beneath you, pressing against the thin barrier of your underwear, sending a pulse of heat through you so intense it stole the air from your lungs.

Your eyes fluttered shut as your hands found his face, fingers splayed along his jaw, tracing the shape of him before dragging him back to you. You kissed him like you needed it to live, mouths crashing together, breathless and messy, all tongue and heat and want.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest, and then suddenly, he was peeling you away from the wall, holding you effortlessly as he walked. The motion sent a fresh wave of friction between your legs, a sensation so deliciously torturous that a sigh slipped from you.

Your mind swam—desire and alcohol tangling together, clouding your senses, making everything feel heightened, electric. Every inch of you was aware of him, of his hands gripping you firmly, of the way his breath came ragged against your skin, of the sheer heat radiating off his body.

You didn’t realize where he’d taken you until your eyes blinked open and your mouth broke from his. The room was dark, the air thick with the weight of what was about to happen. Frankie nudged the door shut with his foot before carrying you to the bed, lowering you onto the mattress with a care that sent something hot and unbearable curling in your stomach.

Your chest rose and fell in deep, uneven breaths, your skin buzzing, your nipples pebbling as a shiver passed through you. Above you, he stood at the edge of the bed, his gaze heavy, raking over you like he was committing you to memory. His lips were parted, his hair a mess from where your fingers had been, his entire body taut with restraint.

The light in your bedroom was soft, a muted glow spilling through the window, casting everything in pale blue and silver. Frankie lingered above you, his gaze locked onto yours, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes—hesitation, maybe, or something heavier.

But then you sat up, just slightly, your body tilting toward him, pulling back just enough to give him space, to show him he could reach for you again.

And he did.

His hands found your hips first, thumbs pressing into the curve of your waist, grounding himself in the warmth of you. Then, as if drawn by gravity, you fell back against the mattress, offering yourself up like an invitation.

Frankie moved, positioning himself over you, his weight settling between your legs as his mouth descended to your neck. His lips were warm, teasing, a soft drag over your pulse before opening against your skin, kissing, tasting. You gasped when his teeth scraped along your collarbone, a gentle bite soothed by the heat of his tongue as he moved lower.

Lower.

Your breath hitched when he reached your chest, his mouth ghosting over the swell of your breast before closing around your nipple. His lips sealed over you, sucking with just enough pressure to send a sharp pulse of pleasure straight through your stomach. A quiet, aching sound slipped from your throat, and when his tongue flicked against you, a fresh wave of heat shot between your legs.

Frankie groaned, the sound vibrating through your skin, and you felt the way his body reacted—the way his grip on you tightened, the way his fingers curled against your ribs as he sucked harder, the way his hips rolled just slightly against yours, pressing, teasing.

And then—his leg.

One of his thighs slotted between yours, the fabric rough against the thin lace of your underwear, pressing exactly where you needed him most. Your back arched instinctively, a shudder ripping through you as you moved against him, chasing the friction, chasing him.

His mouth never left you, his hands never stopped mapping you out, like he was determined to unravel you completely.

The hunger in you was unbearable. It twisted deep in your stomach, pulsing in time with the frantic rhythm of your heart. For a fleeting, ridiculous moment, you thought it might break free from your chest entirely.

And then you snapped.

Your hands found Frankie’s shoulders, fingers digging in, pushing him back with a force that surprised even you. A soft, wet pop sounded as his mouth pulled away from your skin, his lips flushed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale.

You didn’t give either of you a moment to think. You pressed harder, guiding him onto his back until he was lying beneath you, sprawled out on your bed, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. His eyes flickered up to yours and before he could say a word, you climbed over him, knees settling on either side of his hips, palms pressed flat against his chest.

He was firm beneath you—solid, unrelenting, there—and for a second, you just felt it, the heat of him seeping through layers of fabric, the pressure of his body beneath yours.

Frankie let his head tip back slightly, his throat exposed, his breath catching in his chest. And your gaze dropped, drawn to the place you’d been watching all night, the place that had tempted you again and again.

Without hesitation, you leaned down and latched your mouth onto his neck.

You bit—just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath, his hands twitching at your waist. You kissed him there, tongue dragging over the mark you left, mouth moving against his skin like you wanted to devour him whole, like you could eat him alive and it still wouldn’t be enough.

And then, as if possessed by something outside of yourself, your hips moved.

Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was both. But the moment you felt him—hard beneath you, pressing exactly where you needed him—it became impossible to stop.

You rocked against him, chasing the friction, the feeling, the unbearable, pulsing ache. And Frankie watched you, his eyes locked onto the place where your bodies met, his fingers gripping your waist, urging you on, helping you, pressing you harder against him.

His mouth parted like he was about to say something, but then—he sat up.

One hand braced against the mattress behind him, the other sliding up your side. His lips found your chest again, hungry, impatient, and he took your breast into his mouth, sucking, licking, dragging his tongue across sensitive skin as your movements turned frantic, desperate.

Heat built between you, unbearable and intoxicating, a tension so thick it felt like you might shatter under the weight of it. And god, you wanted to shatter.

“Francisco,” you murmured, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as the air between you seemed to crackle.

He pulled back, his face raw, his expression one of devastation. His eyes locked with yours, something passing between you—something unspoken, heavy, like a secret he hadn’t meant to reveal, or a confession that had slipped out before he could stop it.

A soft sigh escaped his lips, and then his hands—those hands that had been so sure, so confident before—settled on your hips as if trying to keep you from moving. Trying to stop something that neither of you were sure you wanted to stop.

“Baby,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, a murmur that almost didn’t reach your ears. “No.”

You froze, your body stilling, confusion rising in you. Your chest ached, your pulse fluttering unsteadily as you tried to understand what he meant. Had you even heard him? His words felt distant, muffled by the weight of everything else that pressed down on you.

And then, before you could gather yourself, his hands lifted you—effortlessly, as if you were nothing more than a feather in his grasp—and pulled you off of him, placing you beside him on the bed.

You blinked, disoriented, vulnerable, your heart thundering against your ribcage. You tried to focus, to find words, but all you could manage was his name, your voice thin, fragile, barely more than a breath.

“Frankie,” you said, a quiet plea.

He turned his face toward you, and the look in his eyes made something cold and painful twist in your stomach.

“We can't,” he said, almost too softly, his voice cracking like a broken thing.

He leaned in closer, but then, just as quickly, he pulled away, retreating to the edge of the bed, his back to you.

Your body felt like it was on fire as you sat up, knees pressing into the bed, hands reaching out for him, desperate to bridge the space that had grown between you. You touched his back, fingertips brushing his skin.

He jerked away like your touch had scorched him, a visible flinch, like he couldn’t bear the heat of your skin against his.

“Frankie.”

“We can't,” he repeated, his words barely audible.

“Why?”

“I can’t,” he said, turning his head just enough for his gaze to meet yours. There was something in his eyes—something deeper than confusion, maybe regret, maybe guilt. His jaw tightened, and the words seemed to choke him. “I-I can’t.”

"That's not—"

"I shouldn't. We shouldn't."

"Why?" The question slipped from you, quieter than you'd intended, almost lost in the space between the two of you. But it rang in your ears, your breath stilling as you waited for him to answer. You were stunned by the sudden distance, the barrier he'd just put up between you.

He exhaled sharply, staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on something you couldn't see, something distant. When he finally turned back to you, there was an edge in his gaze, something that wasn’t quite regret but more like hesitation, like he was struggling to keep his thoughts in order.

"We're drunk, baby. You're going to regret it in the morning."

"That's not true," you said, but the words felt fragile, like you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. Your heart was beating erratically, a mix of frustration and desire coiling tightly in your chest.

"It is."

"Are you going to regret it in the morning?" you pressed, your voice thinner now.

He looked at you for a beat, silent, like he was trying to decide whether to lie, whether to say something easier. Then, almost reluctantly, he shook his head.

"No."

Your hand moved instinctively, reaching for him again, your fingers brushing his back. He didn’t pull away this time.

"Frankie—"

"You don’t really want this."

"I do."

He shook his head again, his brow furrowing as he looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

"No. It’s been a complicated night, and we’ve had too much wine."

"This has nothing to do with the night, or the wedding, or anything."

He sighed, a deep, frustrated sound, and closed his eyes for a moment. When they opened again, there was a kind of resignation in them.

"You’re Santi’s sister," he blurted, and as soon as the words left his mouth, you felt something inside you snap—an illusion.

Frankie’s eyes locked with yours, but there was something pained in his gaze now, something that made your chest tighten. The way he looked at you—it was as if your mere presence in that moment, sitting in front of him, bare and vulnerable, hurt him more than it should have.

"That didn’t seem to bother you before," you said, your voice firm, holding steady despite the twist of anger in your stomach. "You’ve done worse things to me than this. You never cared that Santiago was my brother."

"This is different."

You stared at the ground, your heart sinking as the words echoed in your mind. Different. It wasn’t a word you wanted to hear. It didn’t make any of this easier to understand.

"Okay," you whispered finally, your voice soft, resigned. You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed yourself.

“I should go,” he said, turning away from you, pressing the heels of his hands against his face like he could wipe away whatever had just passed between you.

You didn’t mean to make a sound, but one escaped anyway—something caught between a sigh and a whimper. Frankie turned at once, his gaze finding yours and holding it, his dark eyes scanning your face like he was trying to decipher something written there in a language he half-understood. For a moment, he just looked. And then he moved.

He stepped toward you, reaching for your dress. His fingers pulled the strap back over your shoulder, smoothing the fabric into place like it mattered, like it made a difference. Like it wasn’t already too late for that.

“I don’t want you to leave.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and you saw the way they landed.

Maybe it was just exhaustion, or the alcohol swimming in both your systems, making everything feel softer and sadder than it really was.

After a beat, he nodded, the motion almost imperceptible. “Okay.”

He took a step back, then another, eyes still on you as he pulled off his shoes and let them drop to the floor. You sat up, watching him with a quiet kind of curiosity, the crease between your brows deepening. And then you understood.

You exhaled, sinking back onto the bed, shifting just enough to make space. A moment later, the mattress dipped under his weight.

You turned your head, finding him beside you, his face illuminated only by the faint glow filtering through the window. He was looking at you the way he always did—like he saw something you didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “Don’t be. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You swallowed. “I like being with you.”

His lips parted, just slightly. “I like being with you too.”

For a second, you hesitated. Then, spurred by the lingering hum of wine in your blood, you reached out, your fingers grazing the sharp line of his jaw. His breath hitched, but he didn’t move away.

You let your eyes slip shut.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella @satanxklaus @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @ashhlsstuff @sunfairyy

#capuccinodoll #the boyfriend act #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier fanfiction #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales smut #francisco morales fanfiction #francisco morales x you #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales smut #triple frontier #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction

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ev3rm0re-q · 28 days ago

Text

half a spell | part one ˚⋆｡°✩

synopsis: With the Yule Ball fast approaching, Beomgyu enlists you—his best friend—as his wingman in a bold plan to win over Kim Chaewon, the school’s golden girl. In return, he promises to find you the perfect date, sparking a ridiculous series of interviews. Meanwhile, you’re quietly drawn to Kai, a reserved Hufflepuff whose tutoring sessions slowly unravel something unexpected between you. But as your connection with Kai grows and Beomgyu edges closer to asking Chaewon out, something unspoken begins to shift between the two of you—just in time to make everything so fucking complicated.

pairing: gryffindor bestfriend!Beomgyu x gryffindor fem!reader, hufflepuff!Kai x gryffindor fem!reader

genre: hogwarts AU, bestfriends-to-lovers, wingman-to-lover, slow-burn romance, unrequited crush, jealousy sparking realization, love triangle (?)

warning/s: lots of swearing, slow burn as fuck

wc: 14.6k

a/n: omgg ive always wanted to write a hogwarts AU ficc LMAOO my guilty pleasure lowk omg. i was originally going to focus on beomgyu in this fic but i was like... hueningkai as a hufflepuff tho.. so here we aree. i rlly hope u guys like this bc damn did this take me a long time to write like omll

“We’re fucking doomed.”

Beomgyu dramatically drops his head onto the table with a dull thud, narrowly missing an open ink bottle.

It’s mid-afternoon.

The Great Hall during this time is supposed to be for quiet study—OWLs prep, strictly enforced and monitored by professors.

Key word: quiet.

Instead, the hall hums with restless energy. Sunlight streams through towering windows, casting light over scattered notes and half-abandoned textbooks.

The usual quiet has faded, replaced by soft whispers and the occasional burst of laughter that no one bothers to hush anymore. Quills drag lazily across wrinkled parchments, pages turned without much focus. Some people look like they haven’t slept in days; others glow, lost in the haze of delusional infatuation.

No one’s really paying attention anymore. Concentration slipping—gradually, piece by piece. A Fizzing Whizzbee pops with a sharp fizz beneath the Slytherin table, followed by a muffled snort or someone kicking their friend under the table.

At one end of the hall, a group of Hufflepuffs have given up entirely, huddled around hand-drawn dress sketches, giggling behind their cupped hands. Across the room, a Ravenclaw boy stumbles over his bag, too distracted by the girl beside him to notice his scrolls spilling out like breadcrumbs.

And above it all, talk of the Yule Ball lingers in the air like perfume—faint, sweet, and fucking everywhere.

Ah, yes. The Yule Ball.

Announced weeks ago by Dumbledore—twinkle-eyed and dramatic as always—and somehow, the news still clings to every hallway like a lovesick ghost. It’s the kind of event that manages to distract even the most disciplined minds.

Some students are practically glowing with excitement. Others? Well, they’re spiraling. Hard.

It’s everywhere. And it’s only getting worse. I mean, even the castle ghosts have started gossiping.

You’d think that with the Triwizard Tournament in full swing and OWLs just right around the corner, people would be too stressed to care.

But no—somehow, who’s asked who to the dance is still the main thing on everyone’s minds. At this point, it’s painfully clear half the student body has officially lost their minds.

And unfortunately, at the Gryffindor table... that includes my friends.

Beomgyu’s voice breaks the silence with a dramatic, hopeless tone loud enough to earn a few startled looks from nearby.

“Doomed how exactly?” I ask, not bothering to look up from my notes.

He lifts his head just enough to shoot me a glare. “Doomed as in doomed. The Yule Ball is in, what, two weeks? And none of us have dates. Or plans. Or hope.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nari cuts in from beside him. “I might have a plan.”

“You said that yesterday,” Jungwon reminds her. “Then you chickened out the second Kang Taehyun asked you what time it was.”

“Okay, well—he looked at me,” she defends herself.

Beomgyu groans out loud, before dropping his quill like he’s just sealed our collective fate. “Yep. This is it. We’re done for.”

Nari scoffs softly. “You’re being way too dramatic.”

“I’m being accurate,” he says, slumping back in his chair like he’s mourning his own future. “The ball’s in two weeks, and I’m still date-less, dress-robe-less, and dangerously close to just throwing myself into the Black Lake.”

I finally look up, exchange a quick glance with Nari, then shift my attention back to the boy in front of me.

“I thought you didn’t care about dances,” I say.

“I didn’t,” he groans once more, face now smushed into his Charms notes. “And then people started getting dates. Hot dates. And now I’m panicking.”

“You panic every time someone looks at you for more than three seconds,” Jungwon comments dryly from beside me.

“This is different,” Beomgyu whines, lifting his head just enough to meet my gaze. “This is social survival. I can’t be the only loser who shows up stag. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“What reputation?” Jungwon and I say in perfect sync, then high-five.

“Adorable,” he groans, shaking his head. “I’m basically hopeless, guys.” I lean back, letting out a breath.

Sometimes I wonder how we even got here—how a castle filled with talking portraits and disappearing staircases became just part of our everyday lives.

Beomgyu and I first crossed paths in our first-year Charms class. He was shy and awkward, always flinching every time his wand sparked. I offered to help him with a simple levitating spell, and apparently, that was enough to earn me a lifetime of chaos.

Of course, the shyness didn’t last. One week he was all awkward smiles and nervous stutters. The next, he was critiquing my handwriting, stealing food off my plate, and insisting the Bulgarian National Quidditch team had the best uniforms in Quidditch history.

Do I regret helping him that day? Absolutely.

(Not really.)

We’d known Nari and Jungwon since first year too, but mostly just names we recognized and other kids we occasionally partnered with in class. And things didn’t really click until second year. Nari and I bonded in Herbology class after a near-meltdown over a screaming Mandrake.

Beomgyu and Jungwon grew close after accidentally setting off a dungbomb in the boy's bathroom, then immediately being sentenced to scrub the floor with enchanted toothbrushes by Professor McGonagall. By third year, we were a proper friend group. Chaotic, loud, kind of a mess—but it worked.

Now, in fifth year, we’ve all survived detention-worthy mishaps, disastrous crushes, and one unforgettable cursed toilet incident together.

Through it all, Beomgyu and I have always shared this quiet understanding between one another. A bond closer than anything either of us has with anyone else.

So when he lets out that dramatic groan and slumps forward like the world’s about to end, I already know what’s about to come—even before he turns to me with that look.

And there it is.

“That’s why I need your help,” he says, pointing a finger at me like he’s just had a brilliant idea.

“No,” I say automatically.

He blinks. “You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

“I don’t need to. The answer’s still no.”

He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve wounded him. “You used to be nicer.”

“I used to have a will to live. Things change.”

He pouts dramatically, but I just raise a brow.

“Let me guess,” I deadpan. “You want me to help you find a date for the ball?”

He lights up. “Dang, you know me too well.”

Jungwon pipes up with a grin, “So, who’s the unlucky girl this time?”

We all know exactly who.

The girl who’s at the top of nearly every class and somehow has Beomgyu wrapped around her finger without even trying. A sharp mind, gentle smile, and a knack for answering the toughest questions like they’re nothing.

The girl who probably doesn’t even know Choi Beomgyu exists—beyond the occasional nod in the hall. Beomgyu shrugs, but his eyes wander—past our table, toward Ravenclaw.

Towards her.

“Chaewon,” he says.

Of course. My stomach does a slow, uncomfortable flip.

Then, suddenly, a laugh breaks out right beside Jungwon.

It’s Park Jong Seong, another Gryffindor who’s been eavesdropping our conversation.

“Kim Chaewon? Dude, that girl's got so many people interested, even some seventh years are hoping to ask her.”

Nari nods. “He’s right. It’s not just about looks or charm either. The girl's brilliant and kind too. No wonder everyone’s after her.”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.” Beomgyu shrugs.

“Come on, man. It’s easier than it looks—asking someone to the ball,” Jay says with a casual shrug.

Jungwon raises an eyebrow. “Says the guy who hasn’t even tried.”

Jay only smirks, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. He grabs his quill and scribbles something quickly before tearing the page out and beginning to fold the piece of paper.

“What are you doing?” I ask, eyes narrowing.

Jay doesn’t answer.

He just turns slightly, scanning the tables before spotting someone a few seats down—Huh Yunjin, a Hufflepuff with red velvet hair and equally sharp grades. With zero hesitation, he raises the newly folded paper airplane and launches it in her direction.

It glides smoothly before landing right next to her parchment. She blinks, surprised, then looks up to meet Jay’s gaze. He gives a sheepish wave, before gesturing softly to the note.

Curious, she unfolds it.

We watch from afar as she reads the scrawled message: Will you go to the dance with me?

A second later, her lips curl into a shy smile as she nods to him—definitely a yes. She looks to her friends, who quickly lean in, looking at the note as they whisper excitedly.

Jay leans back, smug as hell, then picks up his quill like nothing happened.

“Damn,” Nari mutters.

“Show-off,” Beomgyu grumbles.

A second later, he turns to me with wide eyes.

“Okay, so that's why I need backup. Moral support. You know, someone to make sure I don’t spiral mid-sentence.”

“You want me to be your wingman?” I say flatly.

He grins. “Exactly.”

Nari groans. “C'mon, Beomgyu, that's ridiculous. It’s a dance, not a battlefield.”

“For you, maybe,” Beomgyu sighs, placing a hand over his heart. “But for the rest of us emotionally underdeveloped disasters, this is war.”

I roll my eyes. “What’s in it for me then, if I say yes?”

“Funny you ask,” he says, before digging into his robes and pulling out a tiny, beat-up notebook.

I raise an eyebrow. “Money? Food? A cheat sheet for Potions?”

“Better.” He opens it, holding it out.

The three of us lean in, squinting at a poorly written, barely legible list.

“What is this exactly?”

“It’s a draft list,” he says proudly. “Potential dates. For you. I figured if I’m not going alone, then neither are you, my good friend. So, this way, we can sort them out together. Like auditions."

"Like auditions?"

“Think of it as... the Tournament of Eligible Wizards.”

“That’s not a thing.” Nari says.

“It is now.”

“You’re actually insane,” I mutter.

He just smiles, turning those ridiculous puppy eyes on me. “So? Will you do it?”

I don’t hesitate.

“No.”

For the next two days, Beomgyu launches what he calls a 'gentle persuasion campaign'—emphasis on gentle, despite there being absolutely nothing lowkey about it.

It first started with the small things. Him carrying my books to class like some Victorian gentleman—stiff posture and embarrassingly exaggerated bows. Him saving me a seat in the common room, then dramatically fanning it with his hand like it’s some royal throne.

And even sliding me some chocolate frogs during breakfast, each one accompanied by a cryptic note scrawled in his messy handwriting:

“For the fairest of them all ♡ P.S. Say yes to my plan.”

I try to ignore it. I really do. But when I find a single, perfectly folded origami heart on my pillow one night, I start to reconsider.

Because this? This is not subtle.

Then he takes it up a notch. This boy starts buttering up my professors.

“Professor Flitwick, wouldn’t you agree that Y/N is exceptionally talented at Charms? She just told me how she managed to perfectly cast a Protego Shield without even moving her wand!”

Or passing Sprout on the way to Herbology: “Professor, did you know that Y/N here could probably single-handedly replant the entire greenhouse, she’s just that amazing.”

It didn’t take long before that backfired—next thing I know, I’m stuck after class hours actually replanting some of the trickiest plants in the greenhouse, all thanks to him.

Of course, he came over shortly after with wide, apologetic eyes and flushed cheeks, before gently taking my hand like he was silently begging for forgiveness.

Then, without a word, he knelt down and helped me replant the delicate Whomping Willow saplings I’d been struggling with, making sure every root was set just right.

How could I possibly stay mad?

By the end of the second day, he’s pulling out the big guns—puppy eyes, dramatic sighs, and a painfully off-key (and way too loud) rendition of “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love” echoing through the corridor outside the Potions classroom.

Needless to say, I told anyone who witnessed it that I didn’t even know the guy.

All of this was enough to make me question my sanity—like a headache I didn’t ask for. And yet, there’s something weirdly endearing about all of it.

But I don’t say yes. Not yet.

Because helping him means watching it all unfold from the sidelines—something that stirs something inside me I’m not ready to face.

So instead, I focus on something that makes sense.

Namely, tutoring.

Namely, Huening Kai.

Late one afternoon, I settle into a quiet corner of the school library with Kai, tucked behind a pile of Transfiguration books and a globe that’s been spinning slightly off-axis all afternoon.

It’s calm here, broken only by the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional scratch of his quill. Kai’s hunched over his notes now, brows furrowed, bottom lip caught between his teeth. A stray strand of hair falls over his forehead, but he doesn’t notice.

“So if you switch the order of the incantation, you’ll reverse the spell completely,” I say, voice low, steady. “That’s why your teacup exploded—you basically undid the base form mid-transfiguration.”

Kai blinks, processing. “Right. That… makes sense.”

“Here.” I lean over, reaching for his notes, and he shifts slightly to give me space. Our arms brush.

“Try it this way next time,” I add, scribbling a revised sequence onto the page.

He’s quiet a moment, then says, “Thanks. You’re really good at explaining things.”

I shrug. “I’ve blown up enough teacups to learn from it.”

He lets out a quiet laugh—soft, almost shy—and I catch his smile as he glances over at me.

It’s… easy. Warm.

This all started when Professor McGonagall assigned me to help him with Transfiguration—vanishing spells, mostly. Astronomy got added soon after, once Professor Sinistra noticed he couldn’t keep his constellations straight.

At first, I thought it would be really awkward, but somewhere between late-night revisions and half-whispered complaints about homework, we just… got used to each other. Comfortable, even.

Now these sessions feel less like an obligation and more like something I don’t really mind making time for.

After a pause, I lean back with a sigh, twirling my quill once between my fingers.

“Okay,” I say, lowering my voice like I’m sharing a secret, “can I complain about something slightly unhinged?”

Kai blinks, then smiles softly. “Always.”

“Beomgyu is driving me insane.”

Kai chuckles. “What did he do now?”

“He’s been on this unholy mission to convince me to help him ask out this girl to the dance. Like, full-on campaign mode. Bribes. Compliments. Chocolate frogs. Yesterday he wrote me a poem. A poem, Kai.”

Kai lifts an amused eyebrow. “That’s… kind of sweet?”

I groan. “It was a haiku about how I’m his only hope. And he rhymed ‘ball’ with ‘downfall.’”

He presses a hand to his mouth, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Who’s the girl?”

“Kim Chaewon.” I say.

“Oh?” he says, genuinely surprised.

“I know, right?” I giggle at the way his eyebrows lift.

“The thing is… I’m not even mad about helping him,” I admit. “It’s the way he’s going about it—like it’s life or death.”

“That does sound like him,” Kai says, eyes twinkling.

“And the worst part?” I continue, voice low, "Is that I’m this close to giving in. Which I shouldn’t.”

The next morning, Beomgyu and I make our way to Care of Magical Creatures, our boots crunching softly on damp grass as the castle looms smaller behind us. The stone steps are slick with morning mist, and the air smells rich with wet earth and fresh hay.

There’s a low buzz running through the class—something about today’s creature being “a bit more exciting,” according to Hagrid. Which, knowing him, could mean anything from harmless flobberworms to something closer to fire-breathing death.

Beomgyu falls into step beside me, hands stuffed deep in his robe pockets, unusually quiet. He’s been like this all morning—restless, like he wants to say something but keeps holding back.

I can tell he’s trying not to push. Not today.

“I’m not saying anything,” he mutters after a few seconds, glancing at me. “Just… making a point that I’m not saying anything.”

“You literally just said something,” I deadpan.

He flashes me that familiar grin. “Yeah, but not the thing. So I get points, right?”

I shake my head, hiding a reluctant smile as we join the rest of the class gathered near the paddock. Professor Hagrid is already waiting, towering beside a large, roped-off enclosure with something… feathery and enormous shifting behind it.

“Right then! Everyone here? Good. Got a real treat for yeh today,” Hagrid beams. “Now, everyone gather ‘round, but not too close, yeah?”

Beomgyu nudges me as we edge into the group. “Place your bets now—giant spider or scaly death lizard?”

“Tempting, but I’m going with majestic death bird,” I murmur.

A sharp rustle of feathers confirms it. In the center of the clearing stands a hippogriff—massive and sleek, its brown wings folded neatly. It fixes us with an intense amber gaze, claws gleaming in the morning light.

“This here is Buckbeak,” Hagrid announces. "He’s got a bit of a temper, so you’ve got to show him respect.”

Beomgyu whistles low under his breath. “Majestic death bird wins.”

A ripple of gasps spreads through the students as Buckbeak fully reveals himself, wings twitching with a soft rustle. A few students shuffle back, eyes wide. Park Yejun somewhere near the front lets out a strangled noise and ducks behind their partner.

Hagrid stands tall beside the creature, his large hands resting on the rope fence. “Now, hippogriffs ain’t just any magical beast,” he begins, voice low but proud.

“They come from forests far from here—wild places where they can stretch their wings and hunt. Half eagle, half horse, see? Sharp eyes and beak of a bird, with the strong legs and body of a horse.”

We spread out in a loose half-semicircle around Buckbeak, giving him plenty of space. He eyes us keenly, feathers rippling, that sharp amber gaze sweeping the group.

"This one here’s a Highland breed, they come from up north near Inverness. Now, hippogriffs are proud animals. So you make sure you bow first, make eye contact, and if he bows back, you’re good to go.” Hagrid continues.

Beomgyu mutters under his breath, “So basically, a flying judgment machine.”

I nudge him. “Still sounds more reasonable than Professor Snape.”

Near the back, I spot a familiar figure—Kai, notebook tucked under his arm, watching the hippogriff with quiet curiosity. When he sees me, he lifts a hand in a small wave, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smile.

I smile automatically and wave back.

Beomgyu’s gaze slides between us. “Who’s that?”

“Kai,” I answer, too casually. "I tutor him Transfiguration and Astronomy."

Beomgyu raises a brow. “Tutoring,” he repeats, like he’s filing the phrase away for later interrogation. “Hm.”

Hagrid looks around with that big grin of his. “Alright then, who’s brave enough to go first?"

No one volunteers—just a lot of nervous glances and shuffling feet.

Then, almost like on cue, the whole class takes a step back—except me. I freeze, and wouldn’t you know it, I end up looking like I just boldly stepped forward on my own.

Hagrid’s eyes light up as he points right at me. “Well, well, well! Look who’s volunteered herself. Y/N, come on, don’t keep Buckbeak waitin’.”

Suddenly, every pair of eyes is on me—including Beomgyu’s—and I’m left trying to figure out if I should be proud or mortified. I nudge Beomgyu as I walk toward the creature. He just smirks, clearly entertained by how caught off guard I am.

“Assholes” I mutter under my breath, heart starting to climb into my throat.

Buckbeak's eyes track me as I move closer—sharp, intelligent, and definitely not forgiving. I try to keep my breathing steady, my steps slow.

“Alright now, Y/N,” Hagrid says gently, stepping up beside me. “Start with a bow, nice and respectful. Show ‘im yeh mean no harm.”

I nod, swallowing hard. Slowly, I bow at the waist in what I hope is the most confident and respectful bow this animal has seen in his life, fighting every instinct screaming at me to look away. My spine locks tight. My palms go clammy.

Buckbeak stares.

For a terrifying few seconds, he doesn’t move. Just breathes. Watches.

Then, finally, he bows back.

A wave of relief washes over me. I exhale slowly, trying to keep it steady. Behind me, someone mutters, “Bloody hell,” and the rest of the class finally breathes. A flicker of pride stirs in my chest.

Hagrid claps a hand on my back, nearly sending me forward. “Good job! Not many get a bow on their first try. Now, step forward slow—hand out, let him have a sniff.”

I take a shaky step forward, holding my hand out. Buckbeak leans in, nostrils flaring. His breath is hot and heavy against my fingers. He doesn’t pull away. His feathers rustle faintly with every breath—sleek, heavy, dangerous.

Oh my god, I’m doing it. I’m actually doing it—

The sound slices through the clearing like a blade. A dropped bucket. Metal hitting stone.

Buckbeak jerks his head back. His wings snap open with a thunderous whoosh that knocks the wind from my lungs.

“Shit—!” I flinch, stumbling back.

But not fast enough.

There’s a blur of feathers and claws. A warning screech. Then—

Impact.

Something slams into my side, knocking me clean off my feet. The world flips for a split second before I hit the grass, winded. There’s another sound—sharper, human. A hiss of pain. I whip around, panic flooding every nerve.

Gasps. A scream.

“Whoa there! Easy, Buckbeak! Down, boy—down!” Hagrid’s voice booms out, firm and commanding.

The hippogriff stomps, agitated—but he doesn’t strike again. Slowly, wings folding, he backs away, eyes still sharp but no longer hostile.

I scramble up, breath caught in my throat, and immediately spot Beomgyu crouched in front of me, arm curled protectively around his middle. His sleeve is torn and blood is blooming fast.

“Are you okay?” he asks first, breathless and hoarse.

“You’re the one bleeding,” I manage, eyes wide. “I...What—why would you—”

He winces, crouching lower to keep the weight off his arm. “Didn’t really think about it. I just saw claws coming at your face. Not a fan of that visual.”

I huff out a laugh that’s more nerves than amusement. “You’re actually crazy.”

There’s a tremble in my voice I didn’t mean to let slip. My hands hover uselessly, unsure if I should help him up or shake him for doing something that reckless.

He looks up at me with that stupid, lopsided grin—pale but smug. “Little bit,” he says.

Behind us, I catch a flicker of movement. Kai—frozen halfway from where he’d clearly started to move too. His hand is clenched around his wand, jaw tight, but his eyes are on Beomgyu.

On me.

On us.

Hagrid rushes over, dropping to his knees. “Sweet Merlin—hold still, lad—let me see.” His eyes go wide at the blood. “Lucky that wasn’t deeper. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

He shoots Beomgyu a look—half-scolding, half-shaken. “Brave, yeah—but reckless. What were yeh thinkin’?”

Beomgyu just gives a breathless laugh, still pale.

“Y/N,” Hagrid says, voice low and tight, “take him up to the infirmary. Quick as yeh can.”

I nod, slipping an arm under Beomgyu’s without a word. He doesn’t resist—just leans into me, jaw tight, not meeting my eyes.

And even though I’m half ready to strangle him for jumping in like that… I can’t stop replaying it.

How fast he moved. How fast I could’ve—

And behind us, Kai’s eyes follow every step.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Beomgyu hisses through his teeth. “Ow. That burns.”

“Good. Means it’s working,” Madam Pomfrey snaps.

I let out a soft breath, watching as the gash slowly begins to seal, the raw edges knitting themselves together like melting wax. The blood vanishes in slow spirals as the soaked fabric returns to its original color. After a few long minutes, she pulls back and gives me a curt nod.

“He’ll live. No flying or Quidditch for at least two days. And if I catch you messing with the spellwork, you’ll be back here with worse,” The old woman says briskly, already turning away before Beomgyu can muster a reply.

The door to her office swings shut behind her, leaving a sharp silence in her wake.

Beomgyu exhales, leaning back against the crisp infirmary sheets. His uniform is rumpled, sleeve still torn, though the blood is gone—replaced by smooth, freshly-healed skin wrapped in gauze.

“Well,” he says after a beat, glancing at me. “That was fun.”

I stare at him.

He stares back, as if surprised I haven’t said anything yet.

“You could’ve died.”

“That’s dramatic,” he says, then immediately winces when he shifts too quickly. “Okay, a little dramatic.”

I don’t laugh.

“You think?” I fold my arms.

He turns his head toward me. “Could’ve been worse.”

"You literally got clawed by a hippogriff, Beomgyu."

“Minor inconvenience,” he says, wincing as he tries to shift.

I glare at him, then sit on the edge of the bed, arms still crossed. “You’re an idiot.”

He smiles faintly. “Takes one to love one.”

That gives me a pause.

The silence stretches—just long enough to feel heavy. His smile falters slightly, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

I glance away, suddenly too aware of how close we are. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say quietly. “Get in the way.”

He shrugs with his good arm. “Didn’t really think about it.”

“That’s the problem,” I snap—but my voice is too soft, too shaky to land properly.

He watches me for a beat, expression unreadable. “You looked scared.”

There’s no teasing in it. No edge.

Just fact.

“I’ve never seen you look like that before,” he adds, quiet.

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know how to say that I was. That I still am.

For a moment, all I can hear is the tick of the clock on the wall and the distant sound of Madam Pomfrey muttering behind her office door.

“I owe you,” I say finally, voice quiet.

His brow furrows. “No, you don’t.”

“I do,” I insist. “You got hurt because of me.”

He opens his mouth, but I cut him off before he can say something else stupidly noble.

“So I’ll help you.”

He blinks. “Help me…?”

“With your big Yule Ball plan,” I say, forcing a small smile. “Chaewon. Operation Win Her Heart or whatever we’re calling it now.”

Beomgyu stares like I’ve just offered him a Hippogriff of his very own.

I nod. “Consider it your thank-you gift. For being a reckless idiot.”

A beat.

“You sure?” he asks, something unreadable threading through his voice.

“Positive,” I lie.

He grins. Not one of his usual cocky, exaggerated ones—this one’s smaller, tired at the edges. Real.

“Well,” he says, “if you’re offering…”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” he hums, eyes closing briefly as he leans back.

I study him in the quiet that follows. His hair’s a mess, there’s still a smear of dried blood on his neck he hasn’t noticed yet, and yet somehow, he still looks infuriatingly smug. Infuriatingly… Beomgyu.

But my heart’s still a little unsteady. From the moment he moved. The sound of impact. The idea of—

No.

I cross my arms. “So. What's the plan? You said you needed help landing a date with Hogwarts’ golden girl, right. What’s the first step? Flashcards? Dramatic declarations? Peacocks?”

His mouth quirks. “Tempting. But I was thinking interviews.”

I blink. “Interviews?”

He cracks one eye open. “Gotta find your perfect date too, remember? It’s a joint operation.”

I stare. “I never agreed to that part.”

“It’s a package deal,” he says, smug despite the gauze. “You help me, I help you. Everyone’s happy. I don’t bleed out. Win-win.”

I roll my eyes but don’t argue.

Because something tells me it’s already too late to back out.

And when I glance at him again—his lashes resting against his cheek, a faint crease between his brows even in rest—I realize something else, too.

That maybe the part I should really be worried about… isn’t helping him fall for someone else.

It’s what happens after I do.

“So you agreed to do it?” Nari stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Voluntarily?”

I sink into the couch beside her, rubbing at my temples. “He got hurt because of me. What was I supposed to do—nothing?”

“I mean…” She tilts her head, considering. “Yes?”

I give her a look.

She shrugs, not even a little sorry. “You do realize you just signed up to help Beomgyu stage a grand, romantic operation. That’s not a favor... that’s a side quest with emotional consequences.”

“Yeah, well.” I exhale. “Guilt makes people do stupid things.”

She hums, watching me carefully—but doesn’t press. We both stare into the fireplace for a while, letting the quiet settle. The flames flicker against the stone, and somewhere upstairs, someone slams a door.

Nari leans back with a sigh that sounds like it came from her soul. “I swear. If I have to carry my Potions group through one more sentence, I’m putting leeches in their shampoo.”

I snort. “Do it. I’ll provide the leeches.”

She slumps further into the couch, arms crossed like a personal protest. “It’s Potions, Y/N. All they had to do was test ingredients and write literally anything coherent. Instead, I’m rewriting everything from scratch.”

“Oh, I feel you,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. “My Muggle Studies group still hasn’t turned in their sections. I think one of them genuinely believes I’ll finish it out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Are they wrong?”

“…No. But I hate that they’re right.”

She shakes her head, muttering something dark under her breath, then sighs. “Oh my god. And guess what? I was supposed to have a meeting tonight—literally right now. Wanna guess who bailed again?”

I glance at her. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god.”

“Left me mid-draft with half the analysis missing just to ask that one Slytherin girl to the Ball.”

I blink. “Wait—now? During the meeting?”

“Dipshit said something about ‘perfect timing.’” She rolls her eyes. “If he’s gonna ditch his group to shoot his shot, he better fucking score.”

Across the room, Beomgyu is holding court.

Literally holding court—surrounded by at least seven people, most of them girls leaning in with sparkling eyes and slightly over-exaggerated laughs. He’s all dimples and nonchalance, grinning like a prince who doesn’t even realize he’s being worshipped.

Or worse—does realize and just knows how to make it look effortless.

“Apparently throwing yourself in front of a hippogriff gets you fans,” Nari says dryly, following my gaze. “Who knew.”

I roll my eyes, trying not to look for too long. He’s laughing with Jay and Jungwon now, casually spinning his wand between his fingers like it’s second nature—like he doesn’t have a neatly wrapped bandage under his uniform or a half-healed scar tucked beneath his sleeve.

He catches my eye mid-laugh.

The smile shifts for a second—softens. Just a flicker. But it’s there.

I look away first.

Then, suddenly, the portrait door swings open with a BANG!, and Jiho stumbles in like he’s just survived a dementor’s kiss. Pale, dazed, and clutching what remains of his dignity as he’s being half-dragged by two Gryffindor students, one arm slung over each of their shoulders like a fallen soldier.

The common room quiets, eyes turning toward the spectacle.

Nari blinks. “Is that—oh my god. Jiho?”

Nari's groupmate.

One of the guys propping him up grins, clearly trying not to laugh. “He did it. Asked out that Slytherin girl.”

Jiho opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again. All that comes out is a hoarse, soul-deep groan.

“And?” Nari asks, already bracing for the answer.

“She laughed,” he says hoarsely, like the words have personally betrayed him. “Not just a little laugh, either. Full-on cackled, like I was some punchline of a bad joke.”

I choke on a laugh. Nari is already snorting.

He waves a hand dramatically. "Then she said something about Saturn being in retrograde, or my ‘stars not being in my favor.’ I don’t even know what that means—I just blacked out after that."

He pauses for a beat, visibly mourning the moment, then staggers over to an armchair.

“You know, I’m starting to think I’m cursed,” Jiho says, flopping into the seat like a war veteran. “This is the third girl this week who's mentioned the entire solar system before walking away.”

Nari bursts out laughing. I press a hand to my mouth to keep from smiling too loudly.

He slumps deeper into the cushions with a tragic sigh. “At this point, I should just drop out.”

“Not before the project’s done,” Nari says sweetly. “Then you can spiral.”

Their banter fades into the background as my eyes drift—almost involuntarily—back to Beomgyu.

Jay’s mid-laugh, flicking a chocolate frog into the air and catching it with the kind of smooth, practiced ease that says he’s done it a hundred times. He grins, pleased with himself.

Beomgyu cracks his knuckles, like some kind of chocolate frog ninja, and tosses one up—

Only for it to bounce off his nose with a pathetic boink before flopping onto the floor.

He blinks, then tries again—this time missing so badly the frog lands on his shoe and starts hopping away. Around them, a few friends bite their lips, trying hard not to burst out laughing. Jay just crosses his arms, watching with quiet amusement.

Jungwon shakes his head with a soft chuckle and pats Beomgyu on the shoulder. The boy only shoots him a mock glare but can’t hide the grin tugging at his lips.

I bite back a laugh, the corners of my mouth twitching.

Because as much as I want to pretend this whole plan is just a favor—a simple “thank you” for him saving me from the hippogriff—I know better.

I know I’m pretending I don’t feel anything when he’s near.

But for now, I shove that down. Focus on the plan. The interviews. The “win her heart” nonsense that somehow feels way more complicated than it should.

For now, I’m just going to help Beomgyu—because he needs me.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

“Merlin, I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

“You agreed to it.”

“Because you emotionally blackmailed me with your near-death theatrics.”

Beomgyu grins like it’s a compliment. “It's my specialty.”

We settle into a quiet corner of the courtyard, sunlight flickering over the blank parchment between us. Beomgyu’s already uncapped his ink, treating this like some kind of strategy meeting.

“So,” he says, “what’s your type?”

I blink. “My what?”

“Your type. Tall? Brooding? Has opinions on cauldron safety? I need something to work with.”

“You’re serious.”

“You think I got almost trampled by some bird-horse just to half-ass a matchmaking campaign? Of course I’m serious.”

I sigh. “…Can’t believe you’re calling it a campaign.”

“Why start with me?” I mutter more to myself than to him. “Shouldn’t we be talking about what you’ve got planned for yourself instead?”

Beomgyu shrugs. “Yours is more fun.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He looks at me like he’s weighing something, then shrugs.

“My part’s easier. Cause I already know what I want, and Chaewon already knows me… kind of. We just have to shift perspective." He taps the parchment with his quill. “But with you? People need an introduction.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds dramatic.”

He smirks. “Because it is. Now come on. You’re stalling. Ideal date. Go.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Someone... real. Smart. Decent. Not allergic to listening.”

“No dramatic peacocking?”

“I’d prefer they not scream poetry across the Great Hall, yes.”

He scribbles something on the parchment. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll find someone better than me.”

“Maybe..”

He laughs—but it’s delayed. A half-second too late. The smile that follows doesn’t reach his eyes, not at first.

I exhale. “I want someone grounded too."

I pause, biting the inside of my cheek.

Then, adding. "Not performative, though. Someone who can make me laugh without trying too hard. I want them to be quiet-smart too, not the loud, know-it-all kind.”

Beomgyu doesn’t respond right away.

He just nods once, quill still poised over the parchment like he’s giving it his full, ridiculous attention. After a beat, he flips it around and slides it toward me, ink slightly smudged where his hand dragged across the corner.

“Here,” he says. “Updated list. Crossed out some, added a few.”

I scan the page.

There’s a neat little X next to someone I vaguely remember snoring through our Potions final. Another’s been crossed out with the note “snores in Divination.”

I’m halfway through an underlined name when something in the middle catches my eye—bold, circled, underlined twice.

“Wait—Park Sunghoon?” I blink, holding the parchment up like I misread it. “You actually put him on the list?”

Beomgyu barely looks up, still doodling in the corner of the page. “Yeah. Why not?”

I blink at him. “As in, top of his class, probably gets fan mail, currently competing in the Triwizard Tournament Park Sunghoon?”

He shrugs like we’re talking about some random guy in the courtyard. “I heard he also volunteers in the infirmary, is fluent in three languages, and I'm pretty sure the guy bakes when he’s stressed too.”

“I know that. Everyone in the castle does. That’s why this is insane!”

“Is it?” he says, finally glancing at me, one brow raised.

“Yes!” I gesture toward the parchment. “The guy's got a literal fanbase and hasn’t even come close to losing a round in the tournament. And he’s tall. Like, how-is-that-even-fair tall.”

Beomgyu fights a grin. “So what I’m hearing is… he’s perfect.”

“What you’re hearing is that he’s not even remotely in my league."

He shrugs again, calm as ever. “Reach for the stars, Y/N.”

“That’s not reaching for the stars,” I mutter. “That’s launching myself into space with a broken wand and a prayer.”

He laughs under his breath, then leans forward, elbow on the table, smile softening.

“Look, if I’m out here doing the most to win over Chaewon, you’re not getting away with playing it safe either.”

My eyes narrow. “So this is like a solidarity thing?”

“It’s like a ‘why the hell not’ thing,” he says, still smiling. “Besides…” He taps the parchment once. “You’re you. And if that’s not enough, then that’s his problem.”

He says it like it’s nothing, like it’s obvious—but it sticks more than I want it to. I glance back down at the list. Sunghoon’s name is circled in bold and clear writing. Like Beomgyu genuinely believes I could stand a chance.

I clear my throat. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you if I spontaneously combust trying to talk to him.”

He smirks. “We’ll make sure to have Madam Pomfrey on standby."

I roll my eyes, before nudging him and tapping on another name. “And Choi Soobin? That's also new.”

“Yep, from Ravenclaw,” he says. “He's a bit clumsy, but in a charming way. Grounded. Observant, like you said. Feels like someone who’d actually remember your birthday.”

“Are you really finding me a date or just tossing random names on a list?”

“A bit of both,” he admits. “But Soobin’s sweet. I saw him trip over his own shoelace once and he actually apologized to the floor. I figured you’d appreciate that kind of sincerity.”

I can’t help but grin, looking at the crossed out names.

“You don’t waste time, huh?”

“Nope,” he says with a grin. “I believe its better to narrow it all down before the interviews.”

“Quality over quantity,” I say, folding my arms. “Fine. But I’m not going to go easy on them.”

He laughs. “Wouldn’t want you to.”

I trace a name with my finger, suddenly quieter.

“Do you really think any of these guys would want to… actually go out with me? Or even say yes to all this chaos?”

Beomgyu looks up, expression unreadable for a beat. His eyes meet mine, steady and serious in a way that steals my breath for a second.

“If I were them?” he says. “I’d be crazy not to.”

My throat goes a little dry.

Before I can say anything, he snatches the parchment back.

“Also—hear me out—I think we should add that Durmstrang champion to the 'maybe' list.”

I stare at him. “You mean the one who made that second year burst into tears just by looking at them?”

“Yep. I thought he might be your type.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him blink since the opening ceremony.”

“Exactly. You love a challenge.”

I groan, half-laughing. “You’re dumb.”

Beomgyu grins wide.

I straighten, voice steady. “Alright fine, but this whole thing has to wait until after OWLs. No exceptions.”

He opens his mouth to protest.

“No,” I say firmly, cutting him off. “This is a non-negotiable.”

Beomgyu raises an amused eyebrow. “After OWLs it is then.”

Later that night, the castle feels quieter, the weight of the day settling into stillness.

“Okay,” Kai murmurs, squinting at the diagram in front of him. “If the angle of elevation from the northern horizon is thirty-seven degrees and Mars is in retrograde… what does that mean again?”

The Astronomy Tower is nearly empty, bathed in soft blue moonlight and flickering candlelight. A light breeze curls through the open arches, rustling the edges of my notes.

We’ve been studying here for over two hours now, notes and textbooks spread between us like a quiet fortress against the night. Kai lies halfway on his stomach, chin resting in his palm, eyebrows furrowed in quiet frustration.

I glance up from my notes, trying not to smile. “It means you didn’t do the reading I assigned last week.”

He shrugs, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I skimmed it.”

“You skimmed the title page.”

“Still counts,” he mumbles, eyes flickering up to meet mine for a moment.

I snort, leaning over to tap my quill against his notes. “Try again. Where’s the observer located?”

He groans softly, dragging his quill across the parchment like it’s a punishment. “Hopefully somewhere with a better tutor.”

I gasp in mock offense. “Rude.”

Kai lifts his head just enough to flash me a lopsided smile. “Kidding. You’re brilliant. The best in the tower.”

I arch an eyebrow. “There’s no one else in the tower.”

“Exactly,” he deadpans, then grins wider.

I snort again, tapping my quill against his notes. “Try again. Where’s the observer located?”

He groans, slouching just a little, but his smile stays soft. “Somewhere with snacks would be nice.”

“Kai.”

“Fine, fine,” he mumbles, squinting at the diagram. “Northern Hemisphere. Mars looks like it’s going backward… because of perspective. Retrograde.”

I blink. “That’s… actually right.”

He sits up a little straighter, eyes widening. “Seriously?”

“See? Not so bad having me as your tutor after all,” I say with a playful smile.

“Okay, okay, you’re actually pretty good at this.” He taps his quill on the parchment, smiling softly like he’s teasing but totally sincere.

Kai shifts beside me, fingers brushing lightly over the edge of my notes. After a moment, his voice drops a little. “Hey… how’s Beomgyu doing, by the way?”

I glance up. “He’s fine.”

“Yeah?” His voice is casual, but his brows pull together just a little. “That scratch looked really bad when I saw it happen. It was all pretty terrifying.”

“Yeah, I thought I was gonna get my head bitten off. But I'm really grateful he was there.”

Kai nods, gaze dropping for a beat. “Yeah… lucky you had him.”

He doesn’t say anything more, but there’s something thoughtful in his expression.

“But he’s alright now,” I add, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I mean, earlier in the common room, he was acting like he wrestled Buckbeak bare-handed and lived to tell the tale. So, I guess the guy’s alright.”

He laughs softly, before shifting a little closer to me, voice gentle. “How about you? How are you holding up after all that?”

“I’m alright. Honestly, it was a lot in the moment, but now it just feels like one of those crazy stories. " I smile a little, glancing at Kai. “Having Beomgyu around made it easier too, I guess.”

Kai’s smile softens, eyes warm. “Yeah, he really does look out for you, even when things get a bit crazy.”

I chuckle softly. “Brave or foolish—I’m still not sure.”

Kai shifts slightly again, voice quieter. “What about the Chaewon thing? Are you two working on that yet?”

I shake my head, a small smile playing on my lips. “Oh. It hasn’t started yet.”

“No?”

He raises an eyebrow, curious. “Something more important than his own plan with Chaewon?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. Me, apparently.”

His expression falters, just slightly.

“You?”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “He’s now on some kind of matchmaking mission. Says people need a proper introduction.”

Kai leans back a little, eyebrows raised. “Matchmaking?”

“Beomgyu made a list. Like with actual plans for interviews and everything.” I give him a playful look. “But I made it clear—it has to be after exam season. That’s the only way I’d fully agree to it.”

He chuckles, then sighs like he’s bracing himself for something. “Sounds like he’s got it all figured out.”

“Right?” I smile, though there's a subtle hesitation there. “He calls it a campaign. Like, it's a whole operation.”

Kai is quiet for a moment, then says gently, “And you’re okay with it?”

I shrug. “He’s pretty determined… and maybe a little emotionally persuasive.”

His smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Still… whoever he picks is going to be lucky.”

I blink at him. “You really think so?”

He meets my eyes, not flinching. “Yeah. I mean it.”

Around us, everything quiets down—the soft breeze, the flicker of candlelight, and something unspoken hanging between us. The silence stretches on as the night deepens around the Astronomy Tower.

Kai glances down at the worn clock carved into the stone floor beneath us, his eyes narrowing.

“Wait…” he mutters, sitting up straighter.

...

“Oh SHIT!—” Kai blurts, a grin spreading. “What time is it?!”

I follow his gaze—and immediately feel my stomach drop. “Oh hell.”

We both stare at the clock for a beat in stunned silence before launching into motion, gathering books and parchment like two first years during a surprise dorm inspection.

“Yep.” He snatches a stack of notes, eyes wide. “We’re past curfew. Like… way past.”

“Why didn’t we check the time?” I whisper, half-shouting as I scramble for the papers.

“You were so focused on tutoring, I don’t think either of us noticed the time,” he says, a little panicked but smiling. “And I was still messing up the planets.”

A small warmth flickers inside me at how earnest he sounds—unexpectedly sweet. Then the reality hits.

“We’re going to get caught,” I groan. “Filch is probably out there breathing down a suit of armor right now.”

Kai winces. “With Mrs. Norris. Lurking. Like she always does. Like she knows.”

“Fuck. I forgot about her.”

We’re already at the top of the steps when he suddenly pauses. “Wait—your common room’s farther, right?”

I nod. “Gryffindor Tower.”

He shifts his books to one arm and tilts his head toward the hallway. “Alright. Let’s go.”

I blink. “Wait, what? Your common room's like ten feet that way.”

“Exactly. Which means I’ve got time to make sure you don’t get eaten by a cat-demon.”

“You don’t have to walk me—”

“I know,” he smiles softly, already heading in my direction.

I hesitate, then fall into step beside him.

We make our way down the spiral steps, moving as fast as we dare without tripping over our own feet or dropping anything. The castle feels twice as silent now, like even the portraits are asleep—or pretending not to notice us.

Kai holds the stairwell door for me, peeking his head out before motioning me through with an exaggerated “All clear” whisper.

The tower door groans loudly as we slip out, the sound echoing down the corridor. We both freeze.

“Shhh—” I whisper.

“That wasn’t me,” Kai whisper-hisses. “That was the building.”

The castle is dark and quiet in that eerie after-hours way. Our footsteps feel way too loud, so we start tiptoeing in exaggerated slow motion.

“This feels like a heist,” he mutters. “A very nerdy one. Like we’re smuggling notes instead of treasure.”

“Shut up, you’re gonna jinx us—”

Patter-patter.

We both stop dead.

Then—a soft meow.

Kai’s eyes snap wide. “Oh my God.”

Before I can react, he reaches out and grabs my hand, tugging me gently behind a suit of armor nearby. The sudden contact makes my heart skip, but I don’t pull away.

I whisper, “It’s her.”

He crouches low, voice barely audible. “Mrs. Norris.”

We press ourselves flat against the cold metal, barely daring to breathe. My fingers instinctively reach out, curling around his, and he gives a gentle squeeze—quiet, but steady, like a lifeline.

I catch the faint pressure, and for a moment, heat blooms in my chest. I internally shake my head at the thought, trying to focus on the situation at hand.

This isn’t the fucking time to get distracted, Y/N. He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. I think to myself.

After what feels like forever, Kai peeks out cautiously and gives me a small thumbs-up.

“Looks like we’re safe for now,” he whispers, a relieved grin tugging at his lips.

I can’t help but snort quietly. “I almost lost it holding in that sneeze.”

He squeezes my hand again, eyes warm. My heart stutters a little.

Together, we slip back into the corridor, tension easing just a bit, like the night’s weight has lightened between us. We stop in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait.

I turn to thank him, but he’s already looking at me, like he wants to make sure I get inside before he leaves.

“Thanks,” I say, quieter now.

He tilts his head, that soft smile back on his face. “Anytime.”

“You head in first,” he adds, “I’ll keep an eye out for anyone lurking around.”

I give him a small, grateful smile and step forward, pushing the portrait just enough to slip inside.

With a final glance over my shoulder, I whisper, “Goodnight, Kai.”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replies, his voice just as quiet.

Then the hallway falls silent—except for the steady flutter of my still-racing heart.

The morning after.

The Great Hall’s buzzing like usual—cutlery clinking, low chatter everywhere, and somewhere an owl screeches as it flies overhead. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, making warm patches across the tables.

I slide into my usual spot at the Gryffindor table, arms heavy, eyes burning from not enough sleep. Nari’s already halfway through her porridge, flipping through her notes with this half-focused frown. Jungwon’s across from her, poking at a piece of toast.

He looks up the second I sit down across him, eyebrows raised.

“What hole did you crawl out of?” he says, grinning. “You look like you got hit by a bus.”

I groan, dropping my head onto my folded arms. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Jungwon keeps watching, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“We didn’t see you in the common room last night. You vanish into the walls or something?”

“Stayed out later than I meant to,” I mumble.

Nari glances up briefly, but doesn’t comment—just keeps flipping pages, her focus split.

Then Beomgyu drops into the seat beside Jungwon, hair still damp, somehow looking way too awake for this hour. He takes one look at me and snickers.

“Yikes,” he says cheerfully. “You look like a Bludger hit you on the way to breakfast.”

I blink at him, too tired for comebacks.

Jungwon leans in, his grin widening. “Or maybe,” he says dramatically, “someone just had a very productive study session.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. I just pick up a baby carrot and chuck it at his head.

Thwack! Direct hit.

“Oi!” he yelps, ducking a second too late. “Uncalled for!”

“Totally called for,” I say, already reaching for another.

I toss it at Jungwon again, who throws his hands up in mock surrender, laughing. Nari finally looks up from her notes, the corners of her mouth twitching.

“You two never change,” she says, shaking her head. “How do you even function like this at breakfast?”

“Hey, some of us thrive on chaos!"

Beomgyu chuckles and leans back slightly, then shifts a little closer to Jungwon, his eyes narrowing with playful curiosity.

“Seriously though,” he says, “where were you last night? I didn’t see you anywhere in the common room.”

Jungwon makes a show of nodding. “Exactly. It’s suspicious.”

I sigh.

"Did you sleep in the library again?” Nari asks.

I wave a hand vaguely. “Something like that.”

“Sketchy,” Beomgyu says, narrowing his eyes in mock suspicion. “You’re being very cryptic this morning.”

“She’s definitely hiding something,” Jungwon says, eyes twinkling as he leans in dramatically. “Secret Hogsmeade rendezvous? Late-night broomstick joyride? Did you get eloped?”

I grab another baby carrot and fling it at him without hesitation.

Thwack. Right between the eyes.

“OW—again?!” he cries. “Why is food your weapon of choice?”

“Because it’s handy,” I mutter, reaching for another just in case.

Then it happens. Silence.

They’re all watching me now—waiting. The teasing’s stopped, but the curiosity’s still there, sharp and lingering.

Jungwon’s eyebrows are halfway to his hairline like he’s piecing things together. Nari’s notes are officially forgotten. Even Beomgyu, frozen mid-reach for a muffin, doesn’t look away.

I rub my face. “Okay. Fine.”

The table leans in just a bit.

“I was tutoring Kai,” I say, trying to keep it casual. “In the Astronomy Tower.”

Jungwon immediately lets out a long, exaggerated, “OoOooh,” and beams. “Scandalous.”

He points at me triumphantly. “Told you! Study session turned into a little more—Astronomy Tower edition.”

I give him a flat look. “It was just literally tutoring.”

“Sure,” Jungwon says with a sly smile, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds like the stars weren’t the only things you were aligning last night.”

“You’re disgusting,” I mutter.

Nari snorts into her porridge. “That’d explain why you disappeared before curfew.”

I nudge her lightly, hiding a smile. “We lost track of time. We were just going over charts and—next thing I knew, it was nearly midnight.”

My gaze flicks across the hall for a second.

The Hufflepuff table is its usual happy chaos, busy with laughter and loud chatter. And there, in the middle of it, Kai's laughing at something one of his friends said, hand half-covering his mouth, bright-eyed and cheerful. He doesn’t notice me looking.

But someone else does.

Beomgyu doesn’t turn—doesn’t need to. I can feel it. He knows exactly where I’m looking. His smile doesn’t falter, but something in his posture tightens—just slightly.

“That must’ve been a trek,” Nari says, glancing at me over her spoon. “Getting all the way back to Gryffindor Tower from there?”

I shrug. “Kai walked me back.”

A short pause.

Then Jungwon pipes up, brow quirking in faux puzzlement. "Isn’t the Astronomy Tower like... way closer to the Hufflepuff dorms, though?”

I hesitate for half a second, then answer, “Yeah. But he insisted.”

Nari blinks. “He walked you all the way back?”

“Mhm.”

There’s a longer silence this time. Jungwon’s practically glowing with mischief, while Nari watches me more carefully now. But it’s Beomgyu I feel the most—quiet, still, unreadable.

Then, finally, he clears his throat.

“Well,” he says, voice light, even. “That was… gentlemanly of him.”

His smile is there, but dimmer than usual. Still warm, but not quite lit from within.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, brushing a crumb off the table. “We didn’t want another Filch encounter.”

“Wise,” Jungwon says with a laugh. “Old man’s got bat ears. I sneezed once—two corridors away—and he still found me.”

That gets a laugh out of Nari, and the conversation shifts—something about the ridiculous new Divination seating chart and how Jungwon always ends up next to the kid who smells like dungbombs.

Beomgyu laughs too, tossing in a few jokes of his own. But I notice the way his fingers keep fidgeting with the frayed cuff of his sleeve, how he avoids looking directly at me. How he lets the noise carry him instead of steering it like he usually does.

Maybe the others don’t catch it.

But I do.

Eventually, Nari shuts her notebook with a sigh. “Alright, I need to grab my Herbology notes before class,” she says, pushing back from the table.

Jungwon stretches, groaning. “If I get stuck with dungbomb guy again, I’m dropping Divination. Mark my words.”

We all rise, some grabbing last-minute bites or straightening their robes, the morning pulling us apart into different halls.

“See you guys later,” Nari says over her shoulder.

Jungwon shoots me a look as he heads off. “Try not to hurl more carrots today, yeah?”

I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

Just like that, we’re moving—blending into the morning stream of students filing out. That’s when I feel someone fall into step beside me.

“Hey,” Beomgyu says, appearing at my side like he’s been there the whole time. “Didn’t think I’d have to jog to catch you.”

I glance over. Books in one hand, a half-eaten muffin in the other—he looks normal. Almost. Still joking, still easygoing, but there’s something quieter underneath.

“Sorry,” I say. “Thought you were still busy inhaling your second muffin.”

He holds up the muffin in mock offense. “I was. But then I looked up and you were halfway to the dungeons.”

“Figured I’d beat the hallway traffic for once. Character development and all.”

We walk. The corridor is thick with chatter, footsteps echoing against the stone, laughter bouncing down the halls. For a second, I think we’ll slip back into our usual rhythm.

Then he says, voice softer, “I, uh… waited up for you last night.”

I blink, glancing at him. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “In the common room. Thought we could go over stuff for the interviews, maybe over some awful hot chocolate or something.”

Something in my chest tugs.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, gently.

“I know,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “Still figured I might.”

A beat.

“Guess I got a bit worried when you didn’t come back,” he adds, even quieter.

That lands heavier than I expect. Not dramatic—just real. Simple and honest.

“I lost track of time,” I admit. “I'm sorry.”

“No need to be,” he says quickly. “Just glad you’re not, I don’t know, trapped in a secret passage somewhere.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “No trolls or secret dungeons, promise.”

His smile softens, and this one feels like him again.

“So,” he says, glancing sideways. “The plan—still on? Since it’s still after exams, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to back out or—”

I shake my head. “I’m still in.”

His grin returns, this time with a flicker of mischief. “Good. Because I’ve got some questions ready that might scare a few people off.”

I grin. “Perfect. That’s exactly what we need.”

“Exactly what we need,” he echoes.

We keep walking—side by side. And for the first time all morning, the air between us feels steady again.

The final stretch before O.W.L.s doesn’t feel like a countdown anymore—it’s more like a slow descent into collective madness.

The whole school is tense and restless, fueled by too much caffeine and too little sleep, like everyone’s bracing for impact. The Yule Ball, once the center of every whispered conversation, has quietly faded into the background, replaced by something far more terrifying:

Academic reality.

Suddenly, distractions aren’t even an option anymore. Every corner of the castle is now packed with students, heads down and books open.

The library’s standing room only, its usual hush replaced by frantic page flipping and the occasional quiet breakdown. The Great Hall has turned into a shared study battlefield—ink-stained hands, scattered parchment, and half-empty cups of tea abandoned for diagrams and spell lists.

Hell, even the common rooms, once filled with laughter and half-hearted homework attempts, have gone quiet. Now they flicker under dim candle lights, filled with the sound of scribbling quills and muttered incantations whispered like prayers.

Everyone’s after the same thing now: a few more hours of sleep, a little more time to cram, one more chance to make it all stick.

My schedule’s a mess too. I’m bouncing between my own revisions, tutoring Kai, and squeezing in the occasional study session with Nari.

She and I work well together—quiet, focused, no theatrics. We don’t need much talk to get things done. Normally, she studies alone or with her other Slytherin friends, but we make time when we can. It helps having someone just as determined to survive this.

Studying with Jungwon and Beomgyu, however? A total lost cause.

I’ve tried—honestly, I have—but within minutes, Jungwon’s doodling dragons in the margins of my notes while Beomgyu constructs a miniature fortress out of textbooks and christens it “Castle Beom.”

Seriously?

Still, there’ve been moments. Quiet ones. Just me and Beomgyu, side by side as I walk him through Arithmancy theory. He listens, surprisingly focused—brow furrowed, mouth set, like he’s trying to soak it all in at once. Sometimes he grumbles, sometimes he jokes, but he always listens.

“You don’t have to help me, you know,” he said once, fidgeting with the edge of his parchment. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”

I just nudged the notes back to him and said, “You’d do the same.”

And he would. I know he would.

Lately, though, I haven’t seen much of him—or Jungwon, for that matter. My world’s narrowed into a tighter loop: books, parchment, Nari… and Kai.

Kai’s become a constant. We don’t schedule sessions anymore—we just find each other. In quiet corners between classes, at small tables before curfew, on stairwells between floors. He’s improved—not just at Astronomy, but at keeping the panic at bay.

Sometimes we study in silence, sometimes we laugh through the trickier bits, and sometimes—especially when he’s half-asleep over his Transfiguration notes—he’ll ask me something quietly, like it’s just occurred to him that I might disappear when exams are over.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Finally, the morning of our first exam arrives.

We fall into step on the way to the Great Hall—books clutched tight, nerves humming just beneath the surface.

“You remember the difference between lunar and solar conjunctions, right?” I ask, eyes flicking over my notes one last time.

Kai bumps my shoulder lightly. “Only because you explained it with biscuits.”

“Hey, that was a brilliant analogy.”

“It really was,” he agrees, then looks at me softer now. “Thanks for sticking with me through all this.”

I glance up and catch something gentle in his gaze—like he’s still figuring out how we ended up here, together.

I smile and nudge his elbow. “You’ve come a long way.”

We slow as we reach the doors, sharing a quiet breath—an unspoken promise not to throw up.

“Good luck,” I say, quieter than I intend.

Kai meets my eyes. “You too, tutor girl.”

“To surviving exams!” Beomgyu declares, raising his mug with a triumphant grin—loud enough to turn a few curious heads nearby.

The cozy warmth of the Three Broomsticks wraps around us like a soft blanket. Firelight flickers across worn wooden beams and stained glass, while the murmur of other students’ laughter and chatter fills the inn. The end-of-exam tension finally beginning to melt away.

We all clink our mugs against his.

“To surviving,” Nari echoes, grinning like she’s just escaped a dungeon. “I’m so glad it’s over, I might actually remember what fresh air feels like.”

Beomgyu takes a long sip of his butterbeer, eyes glinting with relief.

“I swear my quill was doing the writing by itself by the end,” he says, slumping back in his chair. “I was just there for moral support.”

Jungwon leans back with a stretch. “I’m just glad I can stop pretending I understood anything in Arithmancy.”

I smile, glancing around at the group. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been this ready for anything to be over. No more late nights pretending to be productive.”

Nari nudges me with a knowing look. “And yet here you are, about to jump into a whole new kind of chaos. Willingly, too.”

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, smirking.

“Right, Beomgyu—wasn’t there some little project you and Y/N were supposed to kick off now that exams are done?”

I groan. “Oh, fuck off.”

Beomgyu’s grin spreads like wildfire.

“Wow, thanks for the reminder, Jungwon.” He turns to me, eyes gleaming. “I was starting to think you’d try to run.”

“I was really hoping you’d forget,” I mumble, taking a sip.

Nari shakes her head, smiling. “Honestly, I still can’t believe he talked you into this.”

“Barely,” I say. “At this point, I’d rather have Buckbeak add me to his collection than go through with it"

Beomgyu just grins, raising his mug again.

“Too bad. Operation: Find Y/N a Date officially begins.”

「 ✦ Operation: Find Y/N a Date ✦ 」

A Choi Beomgyu Production - complete with a comedic montage series of date interviews. (Y/N: You're an idiot.)

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Interview #1 | Library

“Seriously? The library?” I whisper, shooting Beomgyu a pointed look. “We couldn’t meet literally anywhere else?”

He just leans back in his chair, completely relaxed, like this isn’t about to turn into a magical disaster. “He wanted to meet here. I didn’t have a choice.”

Before I can respond, the date arrives—a Ravenclaw boy with glasses nestled on the bridge of his nose, clutching a stack of scrolls and parchment tied neatly with a blue ribbon.

And barely two minutes in, and the guy—Namjoon? Namshin? Something with an ‘N’—is already unraveling.

“If I’m honest,” he says, adjusting his glasses, “I think emotional compatibility only comes from shared trauma or, like, a serious understanding of magical theory. You know about love languages, right? Mine’s spellcraft.”

I blink. “Your… what?”

He grins and pulls out a wrinkled parchment covered in stars and scribbles. “I brought a compatibility chart. Don’t worry, it’s color-coded.”

I glance sideways at Beomgyu, who’s visibly struggling to keep a straight face.

I rest my hand on the table and subtly flick him the middle finger without breaking eye contact.

I mouth, I hate you.

His only response is two emphatic thumbs up.

Then Madam Pince rounds the corner and gives us a sharp, hissing “Shhh!” like the sound itself might turn us to stone.

Of course. The library.

Interview one: FAILED!

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Interview #2 | Courtyard

“Ready for this?” the next guy says, brushing his bangs back as we sit in the courtyard.

I blink. “Wait, ready for what?”

Before I can say more, he just starts singing.

Loudly and painfully off-key.

Right there, in the middle of the courtyard.

“When I saw you across the Great Haaaall—”

He holds that last note a little shaky, but you can tell he’s really putting his heart into it.

I slump back in my seat, trying not to cringe. Beomgyu is already half off his bench, barely holding in his laughter.

When the guy finishes, he winks like he’s just won the whole thing.

I clap, slow and sarcastic. “Bold move.”

Beomgyu’s voice cracks. “That was… something.”

No questions. He just nods and walks off, clearly proud of himself.

I smack Beomgyu on the arm as he starts to laugh.

Interview two: FAILED??

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Interview #3 | Gryffindor Common Room

He sits down across from me at the wooden small table and just blinks. Then he stares at the floor like he’s trying to disappear.

“Hey,” I try, keeping my voice soft.

“…Hi.”

“How are you?” I smile gently.

“I’m good…”

A long pause.

“Um… do you want to maybe tell me about yourself?”

“…”

Another awkward silence.

Then he makes this tiny squeaking noise, his cheeks flush bright red, and before we can even blink, he bolts—straight out of the common room.

Beomgyu and I just watch him disappear.

“…I kind of feel bad,” I say quietly.

Beomgyu snorts. “Why? That was probably the most cardio he’s done all year.”

Interview three: ???

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Interview #4 | Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop

“Right, so,” the Slytherin guy says, spinning a sugar spoon between his fingers like he’s rehearsing a speech, “I don’t really believe in labels… but I do believe in academic synergy.”

I blink. “Academic synergy?”

He leans forward, eyes sparkling. “It means we’re intellectually compatible. Spiritually aligned. And—if you let me copy your Arithmancy notes—I’d say we’re destined.”

Beomgyu lets out a sharp breath without looking up. “Rejected.”

The guy smirks, unfazed. “Oh, I don’t take no for an answer.”

Beomgyu finally meets his gaze. “Oh? What.. are you gonna fight us or something?”

The guy stands suddenly, clutching his chest like he’s been struck by a powerful curse. “No,” he says, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m just going to faint.”

Then, all of a sudden, the guy sinks to the floor of the tea shop with a long, exaggerated sigh, one arm flung over his forehead. His robes pool around him, a little too perfectly, like he’s done this before.

What. The. Actual. Fuck

The room gasps.

A few customers nearby shoot up from their seats, startled, as Madam Puddifoot herself hurries over seconds later with the dessert menu, frantically fanning him like it might help.

I stand up from my seat, blinking, before grabbing the a napkin on the table and join in because I mean... what else do you do?

I glance at Beomgyu.

Beomgyu shrugs, grabbing another menu from our table and starts fanning too, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Then, he leans in by my side, whispering, “Is he breathing too evenly for someone who’s unconscious?”

I whisper back, “I can see his eye twitching.”

From the floor, the guy sighs dramatically. “The agony of unrequited academic love…”

Madam Puddifoot narrows her eyes. “Get up.”

Slowly, he sits up, brushes invisible dust from his robes, and groans theatrically. Then he points at me, winks, and says, “The offer still stands.”

And just like that, he stands up and strolls out of the tea shop—completely fine.

Beomgyu and I watch him leave in disbelief, before slowly following him out of the tea shop.

Outside, the cold air hits us, and the gravel crunches beneath our boots as we make our way up the path.

I stay quiet, still trying to wrap my head around what just happened.

Finally, Beomgyu breaks the silence. “He… fainted.”

“He actually just did that,” I say.

“This is whole thing is worse than I imagined,” I add, pressing my palms into my cheeks.

“I swear that singing guy nearly summoned thunderclouds in the school,” Beomgyu says, muffled by his scarf.

“And the first guy literally brought a scroll titled Why I’m the Best Candidate for Y/N’s Hand in the Yule Ball.”

Beomgyu stops mid-step, turns slowly. “He did not.”

Wordlessly, I reach into my coat pocket, pulling out a piece of parchment and letting the long sheet unravel in the air.

He stares. Then screams.

We both start laughing—loud and breathless—until I have to lean into him to keep from slipping on the uneven path. My sides ache. His laugh goes high-pitched and wheezy.

By the time the castle comes into view, we’re still giggling like we’ve lost it.

Beomgyu wipes his eyes. “We’re not even halfway through.”

“I’m scared.”

“Same.”

Interview four: FAILED!

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Interview #5 | Courtyard Pt. 2

“Wait,” I murmur, squinting toward the courtyard. “Is that—”

“Park Sunghoon,” Beomgyu finishes, eyes wide.

I blink, still trying to wrap my head around it. “You actually owled the Ravenclaw Head Boy?”

“I thought he said yes in a joke-y way! I didn’t think he’d actually—oh damn.” Beomgyu says, disbelief in his voice.

Then it sinks in, and my voice drops. “Oh, fuck.”

I glance at Beomgyu. “Please don’t tell me you got that Durmstrang guy involved in this, too.”

“I didn't. I swear.”

We hadn’t expected him to come—figured he’d be too busy prepping for the next task. But there he is, walking like he owns the place, hands tucked into his coat pockets, scarf wrapped snug around his neck. The breeze catches his hair just right, like it’s all part of the moment.

When he reaches us, he offers a small, calm smile. “Hope I’m not late.”

“No, you’re—” I blink, caught off guard. “Very… punctual.”

I try to play it cool. “Thanks for coming. We didn’t think you’d actually—uh, yeah. Hi.”

“Hi,” he replies softly.

“Yeah, I thought it sounded kind of interesting,” he says, his eyes lingering on mine just a moment longer than usual. “And… well, I was curious...”

“About you,” he adds easily. Then, like he realizes how forward that sounded, he gives a slight, shy smile. “And the whole selection process, of course.”

Beomgyu stifles a cough behind me.

“Right. Well,” I say, nodding toward a nearby bench, “let’s get started?”

He nods and follows me. We sit side by side, a polite distance apart, but there’s a quiet awareness between us. Not obvious, just… there.

“So,” he says, glancing over at me, “do I get actual questions, or is this more of a vibe check?”

“A little of both,” I reply, meeting his gaze. “Depends on how honest you want to be.”

Sunghoon smiles softly. “I’m usually honest. Maybe too honest.”

“You hesitated a little just now.”

“I’m self-aware,” he says with a small grin.

I can’t help but laugh, and his expression softens.

Beside us, Beomgyu taps his quill. “You two want me to leave for a bit?”

I roll my eyes. “Be serious.”

Sunghoon leans back, arms crossed. “Let him stay. I kind of like the challenge.”

I raise a brow. “Challenge?”

“You’re hard to read,” he says quietly, not teasing. “It makes this more interesting.”

Beomgyu scoffs quietly at that.

I don’t answer right away. The moment lingers—his gaze calm, steady but not pushy.

Finally, I clear my throat and glance down at my parchment. “Okay, first question: What’s your favorite winter activity?”

“Staying warm,” he says right away. “With good snacks, and hopefully with someone who won’t mind if I fall asleep halfway through a book.”

“That’s pretty specific.”

“What can I say? I know what I like.”

I smile, and he smiles back—soft, but there’s something there beneath it.

Beomgyu exhales quietly. “Okay, yeah, I’m definitely the third wheel here.”

Neither of us corrects him.

And the interview hasn’t even started.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Interview #6 | Room of Requirement

If Sunghoon is polished and poised, Soobin is something else entirely—something softer.

Quietly endearing in a way that catches me off guard.

The Room of Requirement shifts again to match the moment: warm and softly lit, with low ceilings and enchanted windows casting a dusky sort of glow. Thick rugs muffle our footsteps, though here and there, worn cobblestones peek through.

Soobin nearly trips on one the second he steps inside. Then, he catches himself quickly but still looks horrified.

“I’m so sorry—I swear I saw the stone, but then my foot just… yeah. Anyway—hi.”

I glance, startled, then smile. “Hello.”

He’s gentle, in both voice and presence. He talks quietly about his love for Care of Magical Creatures, how fascinated he is by nifflers and thestrals.

He admits he plays piano, but only when no one else is listening—too nervous to perform for an audience. His words tumble out unevenly, but he laughs at himself when they do, and somehow that makes the whole thing even more endearing.

Halfway through, his elbow knocks into the ink bottle. It tips, dark liquid spreading toward the parchment like a slow disaster.

His eyes go wide, and his face flushes with panic.

I wave my wand quickly and clean it up. “Hey, don’t worry about it. That kind of thing happens to me at least twice a week.”

He lets out a breath, his shoulders relaxing. Then he smiles again, eased.

Beomgyu has been mostly quiet, chin propped in his hand as he watches the whole thing.

When Soobin stands, thanks us, and slips out the door (almost forgetting his scarf on the chair), Beomgyu leans toward me and mutters under his breath,

“...Alright, he’s kind of cute.”

I raise an eyebrow.

Beomgyu just shrugs like it’s nothing. “Whatever.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Interview #7 | Quidditch Pitch

“Now this guy,” Beomgyu mutters as Yeonjun jogs toward us, still in his Slytherin practice gear, “absolutely screams ‘walking red flag.’”

Yeonjun doesn’t hear him—but judging by the smirk on his face, he wouldn’t mind if he did. He’s still a little breathless from flying, broom slung over his shoulder, wind-tossed hair looking unfairly good for someone who just spent an hour chasing a Quaffle.

He climbs up the bleachers two steps at a time and drops onto the seat across from us with the kind of easy confidence that’s probably gotten him into (and out of) trouble more times than anyone could count.

He flashes me a wink. “So, am I the first Slytherin you’ve interviewed, or just the best-looking?”

I raise a brow, amused. “Both. For now.”

Yeonjun smirks. “Good to know I’ve set the bar.”

Beomgyu’s face does not look amused at this.

I hum. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves."

Yeonjun grins wider, and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“So, is this actually an interview, or just a good excuse to talk to me?”

“That depends,” I say, matching his energy. “You got real answers, or just a bag of recycled pickup lines?”

His smile sharpens, impressed. “Ohoho—I like her.”

Beomgyu, flat as stone, clears his throat. “Yeah, speaking of lines—you told Eun Ae from History of Magic the same one last week.”

Yeonjun freezes for half a beat, caught. Then he recovers with a shrug and a flash of teeth.

“I have a repertoire,” he says smoothly.

“Noted,” I reply, smirking.

The moment lingers—playful and just a little electric. Beomgyu mutters something under his breath and jabs his quill a little too hard, nearly tearing the parchment.

Just as Beomgyu finishes scribbling Yeonjun’s name with the words "menace to society", a gust of wind lifts through the stands.

I glance over as a group of students makes their way up the opposite side of the bleachers—Chaewon among them, laughing at something one of her friends says. She’s in Ravenclaw robes, but a couple of the girls with her wear Slytherin green, waving at the players still hovering on their brooms.

Chaewon waves back at them, then finds a seat a few rows above us. She tosses her scarf over her shoulder, still smiling as she settles in.

And that’s when I notice it: Beomgyu’s gone quiet. His quill stills. He doesn’t even finish the sentence he was half-muttering.

Just the smallest shift—shoulders drawn in, lips pressed together. I catch his eyes flick up toward her, linger for a second too long, then drop back to the page like nothing happened.

But Beomgyu isn’t listening.

And neither am I.

We’re making our way back from the Quidditch pitch, the courtyard washed in late-afternoon gold. I drop onto a cold stone bench, still running Yeonjun’s interview back in my head.

Beomgyu sinks down beside me, the usual smirk on his face—but there’s something different about it tonight. It felt sharper, guarded.

I let out a sigh. “Well. That was a bit of a circus.”

He huffs a dry laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

I glance over. “Soo, anyone catch your eye?”

He shrugs, casual. But the slight curl at the corner of his mouth gives him away. “Yeonjun? All show. No substance. He’s charming, sure—but I doubt he’s in it for anything real.”

I smirk, remembering Yeonjun’s grin. “Yeah, I got that vibe.”

“What about Soobin?” I ask.

Beomgyu’s expression softens. “He’s nice. Genuine. But… I don’t think it’d work. I feel like you’d be the one putting in all the effort.”

I nod slowly, letting that sink in.

“And Sunghoon?”

He lets out a quiet sigh. “Too put-together. Like he’s performing instead of just… being himself. Something about it feels off.”

“Put-together?” I tease. "He’s literally swimming in the Black Lake tomorrow. I think he’s allowed to be a little focused."

Beomgyu smirks. “There’s focused, and then there’s ‘trying way too hard.’”

I laugh. “You’re just jealous he didn’t laugh at your terrible joke.”

“Terrible? It was a masterpiece!” Beomgyu protests. “Anyway, if I had a task for a life-threatening tournament tomorrow, I’d be too busy trying not to die to care about Yule Ball interviews.”

I grin. “Sounds like someone’s scared I might actually find someone better than you.”

Beomgyu shoots me a mock glare. “Keep talking, and you’re going alone.”

I glance at him. “You’re not really sold on anyone, are you?”

There’s a pause.

Then he flashes that familiar grin—mischievous, but quieter than usual. “Maybe I just don’t think they’re good enough.”

I raise an eyebrow. “For me?”

He meets my gaze, steady. “Yeah. You deserve nothing less.”

And just like that, whatever comeback I had disappears. Because this time, Beomgyu isn’t joking.

The Great Hall hums with the kind of noisy excitement only winter can bring. Light from the enchanted ceiling glimmers like frost, casting golden reflections on the tables below. Students chatter over half-eaten meals, bursts of laughter erupting as someone unwraps yet another extravagant owl-delivered package.

At the Gryffindor table, I’m halfway through my third spoonful of blueberry tart, seated beside Nari, Jungwon, and Beomgyu, whose expression is unusually wary.

“I’m serious,” Nari is saying, tone overly casual as she peels a clementine with exaggerated care. “A squirrel delivering the note. It's subtle. Charming. Plus: small enough to run if it goes badly.”

Jungwon coughs on his pumpkin juice. “Subtle? You’re about to send a rodent to flirt on your behalf.”

“It’s Taehyun,” Nari argues. “He’s shy, and I need an opening move that screams ‘cute and subtle’ and not ‘quiet desperation.’”

Beomgyu snorts. “You say that like you’ve ever had a soft and subtle approach in your life.”

I grin. “If you do the squirrel, I’m begging you to put it in a little bowtie.”

“I was going to,” Nari says, smugly shrugging her shoulders.

“Still can’t believe people are already getting their dressrobes owled in,” Jungwon says, glancing down the table where a group of third-years are gathered around a box with squeals of excitement. “Some families really go all out.”

“Chaewon’s probably getting owled something straight from Paris,” Beomgyu says, shaking his head.

He leans back with a groan. “Meanwhile, I’m bracing for something completely tragic.”

Nari doesn’t even look up. “You? Tragic? Highly doubt it.”

He points at her, serious. “You don’t know her taste, Nari. One time she made me wear a gold-trimmed cloak to a wedding. I looked like a cursed tapestry.”

That gets a laugh out of Jungwon and a few others nearby.

Nari smirks. “Your family’s loaded. Worst case, it’s tragically expensive.”

“Exactly my fear,” Beomgyu mutters. “How am I supposed to get Chaewon to say yes if I show up looking like I got dressed in the dark at Gringotts?”

Someone down the table chokes on their juice. Nari snorts. “Honestly? That might be your best shot. She’ll say yes out of pity.”

Beomgyu whines, looping his arms around mine like a clingy five-year-old. “Y/N, Nari’s bullying me again!”

I smile softly and reach up to ruffle his hair. “Aww, poor Beomgyu. Need me to rescue you from the evil witch and her wicked spells again?”

Nari laughs, shaking her head. “Of course he always runs to you when he needs a safe spot. You’re basically his personal bodyguard.”

Beomgyu shoots her a playful glare but tightens his hold on my arm. “Yeah, yeah, evil witch. Just you wait—I'll get you back.”

I chuckle, glancing between them. “You two are hopeless.”

Just then, a soft flutter of wings cuts through the chatter. Two owls swoop low—one drops a sleek, green package into the hands of a smirking Slytherin nearby. The wrapping is neat, with silver ribbon catching the light.

The other owl, a grand and glowing creature, lands right by the Gryffindor table, carrying a box so ridiculously fancy it draws some snickers. The velvet wrapping is deep red with gold embroidery, but the faded, frayed floral pattern makes it look like it was wrapped by a very old-fashioned relative.

Beomgyu’s eyes widen. He leans forward, hands pressed together like he’s pleading, whispering, “Please, please don’t be for me…”

The owl drops the heavy box beside him with a soft thud. A few Gryffindors chuckle, others shoot him amused looks.

Beomgyu forces a smile, clearly bracing for whatever’s inside.

“Is that from your mom?” I ask, eyeing the gold wax seal and the expensive-looking wrapping.

Beomgyu stares at it like it’s cursed. “Why does it look like a wedding cake?”

A note is tucked beneath the bow:

Darling, I added extra flair to make you stand out! Can’t wait for pictures. Love, Mom.

“Oh no…” he mutters.

Still, he cracks the seal. Slowly, Beomgyu lifts the lid—and goes utterly still.

It’s hard to even describe it. The dress robe is a maroon velvet suit with a ruffled collar. And lace. So much lace. The sleeves are dramatically puffed, the lining is satin, and there’s a glittery gold crest stitched right over the heart.

For a beat, no one says anything.

Then—

“IS THAT A BIB?” Jungwon wheezes, leaning forward to get a better look.

Nari chokes on her juice.

“Oh my Godric,” Nari says, nearly breathless. “I take everything back.”

I try to hold it in, but once Beomgyu holds the robes up by the shoulders, the entire corner of the Gryffindor table loses it. Jungwon slides down the bench, now belly laughing at the sight. Nari pounds a fist on the table, trying to catch a breath from her endless laughter. I press my face into my sleeve, tears threatening to escape my eyes.

Then, a younger student two seats down blurts, “My grandfather has that exact set!”

“Beomgyu,” I gasp between laughs, “it’s got frills on the frills.”

Beomgyu just grabs the note in one hand and the ruffled cravat in the other. “HOW,” he says, voice hoarse with disbelief, “am I supposed to get Chaewon to say yes to me while looking like a haunted opera singer?”

Laughter bursts from around the Gryffindor table.

“She might appreciate the drama,” I offer gently, trying not to laugh too hard.

“Y/N,” Beomgyu says solemnly, “if I show up looking like this, I’m basically obligated to challenge someone to a duel over her honor.”

“Please do,” Jungwon says. “And make sure it’s near the snack table too.”

While everyone else is still reeling from Beomgyu’s tragedy, I sense someone behind me—a gentle shuffle just past my shoulder. Then a light tap.

I turn. Kai is standing there, looking quietly pleased and a little nervous.

“Hey,” he says. “Mind if I borrow you for a second?”

My expression softens. “Sure.”

We leave the table as Jungwon launches into a theatrical impersonation of Beomgyu as a pompous aristocrat. I follow Kai down one of the quieter corridors just off the Great Hall, where the noise fades into low, musical echoes.

Kai reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, neatly wrapped parcel. “I… meant to give this to you earlier. For helping me with Astronomy.”

I open it carefully. Inside is a tiny handmade charm—a miniature planet that spins slowly on its axis, attached to a slender cord bracelet.

“It’s nothing fancy,” he says quickly. “Just… something I made.”

My heart lifts a little. “Oh Kai, it’s perfect.”

“I know tutoring’s over, and I guess I was just…” he hesitates. “Hoping it wouldn’t mean that we’d stop hanging out.”

I meet his eyes, steady and sincere. “We won’t. I like spending time with you. And not just because you can now identify all the moons of Jupiter.”

He laughs quietly. “Even if I mix up Io and Europa sometimes?”

“I'll forgive it,” I say. “As long as you keep making things like this.”

We smile at each other—warm and simple, the way things always feel with Kai.

When I return to the table, the mood has shifted entirely. Someone's asked Jungwon who he’s taking to the Yule Ball, and he’s suddenly very invested in peeling the label off his pumpkin juice. Beomgyu is slumped across the bench, pretending to write his will on a napkin.

Nari, meanwhile, is eyeing me with a raised brow and a suspicious grin. I just slide back into my seat, the charm bracelet wrapped around my wrist. Beomgyu glances up as I settle in, his eyes flicking briefly to my hand before returning to his dramatic scribbling. He crumples the napkin with a little more force than necessary.

Around me, the table buzzes with jokes and last-minute plans, the air now tingling with nerves and excitement. But in my chest, there’s something quieter—something hopeful, new.

Like something is just about to begin.

a/n: holy fucking shitballz bro this took me so long to write and theres still sm more to this story PLEASEEE I'll post part 2 soon but i rlly hope u guys enjoyed this (pls comment that u did) JSBDHAJSBHSH

p.s. I am completely aware that some of the personalities probs dont match exactly the characters irl, so pls take in mind this is fanfiction

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