synopsis: You and Jaafar worked together on Michael and now you're reunited at the Met Gala. During this time you developed a crush on him, which you try to suppress at all costs so as not to ruin everything. But the tension between the two of you reaches its peak at the most important fashion event of the year.
warnings: coworkers to lovers, a lot of tension, yearning, unresolved feelings.
author's note: Yes, I did it! I'm completely obsessed with Jaafar and needed to write something about him. I hope you enjoy it!
There is a specific kind of torture that only people who have worked on a film set truly understand.
It's not the hours. It's not the twelve hours on your feet, the repeated takes until your smile stops looking real, the artificial cold of the studio that seeps into your bones. It's none of that.
It's when the camera points at you and asks you to look at someone as if you loved them, and the problem isn't the pretending. The problem is that somewhere across six months of filming, you stopped needing to pretend.
You played one of Michael's girlfriends, a character created specifically for the film. A woman who loved Michael Jackson in the most complicated way possible: with admiration, with desire, with the awareness that some loves are born too large to fit inside a single life. The script demanded intimacy. It demanded that you and Jaafar share a space that had no room for professional distance.
And Jaafar had been a problem since the very first rehearsal.
You remember the exact day you realized it.
Scene 34. The Motown party, 1964. You had been in position for forty minutes while the crew adjusted the lighting, and his hand was on your waist because the script said so, and you were talking about nothing, about the catering, about a song he'd heard that morning, and then he said: "You laugh differently when you actually find something funny."
You had looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
"You close your eyes a little." He had said it with a disarming naturalness, as if watching you were simply something he did, with no intention of hiding it. "It's different from your scene laugh. That one's the real one."
The camera wasn't rolling yet. No one else had heard.
You had looked away and said it was time to get back into position.
But something had shifted that day, and you never managed to put it back.
The film had premiered six weeks ago.
Since then, you and Jaafar had shared red carpets, interviews, press panels, and a number of moments you had stopped counting, moments when the cameras were on and you needed to be professional while every memory from the set pulsed beneath the surface like something alive.
The internet had noticed.
Of course it had.
"the chemistry between them in the film doesn't look like acting, sorry"
"can someone explain why he smiles differently when she talks?"
"not saying anything, just observing"
Your publicist had sent a message last week: keep it professional, okay? Press tour runs through July.
You had responded with a thumbs-up emoji and stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes.
The 2026 Met Gala is, in theory, just another press obligation.
In theory.
You arrive with your stylist and your publicist and a dress that took three months to build, hand-embroidered, a direct reference to 1960s Harlem, a tribute to the era you spent months inhabiting. You know you look good. You know because your stylist went silent for ten seconds when you put it on, and his silence always means exactly that.
What you don't know, what no one warned you about, is that Jaafar will be right behind you in the entrance line.
You hear him before you see him. His voice has a specific frequency that your nervous system learned to recognize before your brain catches up.
When you turn, he's already looking at you.
He's in a black suit, impeccable cut, something subtle and gold on the lapel that suits the night's theme without looking like he tried. He always had that irritating gift of seeming like he hadn't tried. You know, from six months on set, that he tried very hard.
His eyes travel down your dress once, not quickly enough to be discreet, slowly enough to be intencional, and return to your face.
He doesn't smile right away. He just looks, for a moment that lasts longer than it should, and then the left corner of his mouth lifts.
"You look" He starts, and stops. Starts again. "Hi".
"Hi." Your voice comes out steady. Small victory.
"I didn't know you were going to be here."
"The guest list has been on the website for three weeks, Jaafar."
"I know." He says it with a calm that unsettles you. "I just prefer it when it's a surprise."
The night unfolds in layers.
You are photographed separately, then together, for press purposes, obviously, it makes sense, and there is a moment in front of the cameras when the photographer asks you both to move closer, and Jaafar places his hand on the small of your back with the faintest pressure, almost nothing, and you hold your smile in place on pure professional muscle memory.
Inside, he finds you near the bar.
It isn't an accident. You know it isn't an accident because he crossed a room full of people to get to where you were standing.
"Water or champagne?" He asks, already signaling to the bartender.
"Champagne. I need it."
He laughs. Orders two.
You stand side by side, shoulders nearly touching, and watch the room for a while. It's a skill you developed on set, the ability to be silent together without it becoming strange. You always thought that meant something. You tried not to think too hard about what.
"Your Vogue interview was really good." You start, because talking about work is safe.
"Yeah, it went well." He agrees, but there's something in his tone that says he knows exactly what you're doing. "Did you see what fans are saying about it?"
"I never read the comments."
"Liar"
You drink your champagne.
He smiles at his glass.
"They think we have chemistry." He says it like a neutral observation about the weather.
"We had six intense months on set. It makes sense that it shows on screen."
"Is that all it is?"
You look at him.
He's looking back, and there is nothing neutral in that expression. There's something direct, patient, like someone who has waited long enough and decided to stop pretending they're waiting for any other reason.
"Jaafar…" Your voice comes out as a warning that you both know you're not sure you want to give.
"I'm just asking."
"You're not just asking."
"No." He agrees, without looking away. "I'm not."
Later, after another hour of the event, after more conversations with people whose names you'll forget by morning, after three more moments where you found each other on opposite sides of the room and felt his gaze before you went looking for it, he appears at your side again.
This time, he tilts his head slightly toward a discreet exit near the staircase.
"There's a terrace."
"I know there's a terrace."
"Come with me."
It isn't a question. It isn't an order, either. It's an invitation that carries the weight of everything left unsaid across six months of filming and six weeks of press, and you stand there looking at him for a moment while your publicist networks on the other side of the room and every camera is pointed somewhere else.
You go.
The terrace is nearly empty. New York below is loud and indifferent, and the May air has that ambiguous temperature that can't decide between warm and cool.
You lean against the railing. He stands beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth of his arm without him touching you.
"Press runs through July." You speak first, because if you don't put it out there now, you'll forget to. "We have four more red carpets confirmed. Two major interviews. If we-"
"I know." He interrupts, quietly.
"So you understand why this is-"
"I understand everything you're thinking." He turns his body slightly toward you. Not much. Enough. "I know you're calculating. What the press will say, how it'll play in interviews, whether anyone will use it to pull focus from the film. I know how your mind works."
You open your mouth. Close it.
He knows how your mind works. Six months on set. Of course he does.
"And yet you brought me out here."
"Because I'm tired." He says it with a simplicity that knocks the ground out from under you. "I'm tired of being careful. Of calculating the right angle for every camera so it wouldn't be too obvious. Of standing on the other side of every red carpet because that was the sensible thing." A pause. "Aren't you tired?"
Your throat tightens.
Yes. The answer exists before you can build any argument against it. Yes, I'm tired, I've been tired for months, tired since scene 34 when you said my laugh was different and I realized you'd been paying close enough attention to notice.
But you say:
"This isn't simple."
"I know it isn't simple." He doesn't back down. "I'm not asking for simple."
"What are you asking for, then?"
He's quiet for a second. You watch him think, that specific habit of his, which you learned to tell apart from the silence of when he has nothing to say.
"One night." He says at last. Voice low, almost private, built only for you. "We forget the film, the press tour, July, what the fans are saying, what your publicist thinks. We forget all of it for one night." His eyes find yours and stay there. "And tomorrow we decide what to do with the rest."
The warmth rises up your neck and down your arms and you hate how your body simply responds to him like that, without asking permission, as if six months on set had wired something directly between his presence and every nerve in your skin.
Your publicist is in the ballroom.
There are photographers in every corner of this event.
You have an interview on Tuesday.
You look at his mouth for one second, just one, and feel everything you built out of practical reason begin to unravel at the edges.
"What if one night isn't enough?" You hear your own voice come out, and it betrays you completely, because it doesn't sound like an objection. It sounds like the opposite.
Something shifts in his expression. It goes quieter, warmer.
"Then we figure that out tomorrow too." He says.
He doesn't move. He leaves the decision to you, that's another thing you learned about him, that he always leaves the decision to you, and you never knew whether it was consideration or cruelty, because either way the result is the same: you with no external reason to say no. Only your own.
And your own are losing.
When you close the distance between you, inches, only inches, he meets you halfway.
The city stays loud below.
You stop calculating.
His lips find yours with an urgency months in the making, like someone who has finally stopped holding something heavy, and you respond before you're conscious of having made that decision, your hands rising along the lapel of his suit jacket because your body has its own memory and that memory knows the texture of the fabric over his shoulders, knows the exact height you need to be to reach him, and all of this is information you stored without realizing it.
He presses you gently back against the nearby wall, behind the heavy white curtains that frame the terrace entrance, the thick fabric creating a world of two, and one of his hands grips your waist with a firmness that has nothing technical about it, nothing contained, nothing the set ever allowed.
You gasp against his mouth.
He makes a low sound in his throat that travels directly down your spine.
There's something almost absurd about realizing, in this specific moment, that you spent six months convincing yourself the chemistry was purely professional. That it was training, context, the pressure of a set. That any other actress in your position would have felt the same thing.
His hand shifts slightly up your waist, fingers pressing through the embroidered fabric of your dress, and you think: no. she wouldn't have.
And then you hear footsteps.
You separate in a simultaneous reflex, two actors who spent months learning to read the room on a set, and that instinct doesn't disappear when the cameras go away. You step back once, then twice. You raise one hand and run your thumb discreetly beneath your lower lip, checking. Jaafar looks out at the city skyline with the expression of someone simply enjoying the view, and you would have found it convincing if you didn't know exactly what his real expression looks like when he's doing that.
"Oh my god, I have been looking for you two everywhere!"
Your publicist appears through the gap in the curtain like a small, determined force of nature, already with her hand on your arm, already pulling you away, already muttering about scheduling and windows of opportunity and how Anna isn't staying for the after-party, so it's now or never.
You go because there's no reasonable choice not to.
But you turn.
It's automatic, that impulse to look back that you should have learned to control months ago and clearly haven't. Jaafar is where you left him, leaning slightly against the railing, the white curtains still moving behind him.
He smiles.
That specific smile. The one that starts on the left side first, slow enough to be deliberate, the one you spent six months on set cataloguing as not professional, not professional, not professional and filing somewhere that clearly wasn't safe enough.
He bites his lower lip, light, deliberate, and says:
"See you around."
You turn back before your face gives you away completely.
Not quite in time to stop the smile from spreading.
At 2:17 in the morning, during the after-party, you receive a message.
"tomorrow still exists."
You stare at your phone for a long moment.
Then you reply:
"i know."
That's all. It's enough. It's the beginning of a conversation that will last much longer than one night.
you and jaafar get into a huge argument but there’s only one bed—and it’s storming. (est relationship)
It was a stupid argument, miscommunication at that—and what makes it all ten times worse than it could’ve gotten is, it’s your two’s one year anniversary. He took you to an event with him because you’re his support. “That guy was practically fucking eyeing you—and you just ate it up, all that attention you had on you.” You look at him, eyebrows furrowed.
“What? Jaafar, what the hell are you talking about?” His jaw clenches as he stands up now, “why are you playing coy? you were matching his energy, all up on him as well. I brought you here because I wanted you with me, not for some random guy to have you the whole night—“ You let out an annoyed exhale,
“You’re over exaggerating what you saw, you always do that. And he was telling me about his wife and kids, and god, I don’t know why you didn’t just come get me. I seen you smiling and having a good time I thought that maybe you didn’t need me as much as you thought jaafar.”
That ticks him off, he slips his shoes on, “I always need you.” he quietly murmurs to himself as he storms out of the hotel room.
You’re now sat at the mini table in the hotel room, it’s currently 12 am, and it’s storming. He hadn’t came home yet and you honestly were starting to get concerned, 911 was on speed dial. You ringed him many times and shot him more than five text messages. Your throat tightens up, your mind traveling back to the last time you two spoke—that argument.
As you were about to crawl into bed and hope for the best the door unlocks, revealing Jaafar and an umbrella. You were almost about to shout, about to scold him, but you simply couldn’t find the energy. But now, your demeanor was more relaxed, he’s home in one piece.
“Jaaf.” You call out to him, he clears his throat before turning to you. “hm.” He hated storms, so you were wondering why he stayed out so late, but you just kept it to yourself. “I’ll take the couch tonight.” He murmurs before disappearing into the bathroom to change.
You scoff, crawling into the bed and turning around the face the view of the busy night city. “stubborn.” you quietly whisper, but in all honesty the both of you were, hated apologizing.
The storm had increased, rain falling fast. You could hear jaafar shifting uncomfortably on the couch and you tried to ignore it, but you weren’t getting any sleep tonight, neither was he. It was all just an awkward silence—and the storm.
You turn around as the sudden movement had came to a stop—maybe he was asleep now. But, he’s sitting up on the couch, face in his hands, wide awake. Your heart aches. “jaafar.” you softly call out, and he looks up at you, and the tiny night light glistens across his face revealing his tear stricken eyes. “oh, come, come here.” you say, holding your arms out wide.
Without a thought he crosses the room in a hurry and into your widened arms, you two fall onto the bed, his head on your chest as he clutches your waist. You drape the blanket over the two of you. He stifles his tears into your shirt, which will soon be drenched. Your nails go across his back comforting him. “shh,” you say, pressing a kiss to his head.
“I’m sorry,” he expresses. “I’ve also had some drinks.” He admits, which he reeks of it. “I always need you, all the time—even if I don’t show it.” A smile spreads across your face, “I want you to express and tell me those things jaaf, cause you know I’d be there for you in a heartbeat.” His eyes find yours, and then they look at your mouth which he pecks. “I’m sorry as well.” You say. And he snorts, “you waited until I said it.”
“Yeah.” you stifle a laugh. “Try to get some sleep, you’ve got a day full of errands tomorrow.” You remind him, and he lets out a sigh. “mmmh.” he grumbles, “why don’t we just stay home tomorrow?” You snort, “I’d love that but—these are important things for you, for your career.”
His hands find yours mouth, closing it. “shh, hush—let me fantasize.” Your eyebrows furrow before bursting into laughter. “You’re so annoying,” you joking nudge him.
“And I love you, I love that you think I’m annoying.”
“you’re so sappy.”
“for you only.”
“I love you too jaafar.”
Omg I was making myself cheese with my own words…😭 anyways feel free to leave more requests, some of your guys requests are done and sitting in my drafts!! Don’t fret!!
okay ngl im rlly high and this idea just came to me
but could you write about jaafar breaking off his situationship with the reader and a few months later she’s on love island ?? and the reader and whoever she’s paired up with basically become the world’s power couple (and that makes him extremely jealous)
but eventually she comes back and he’s YEARNING for her
combining my two current obsessions? i think yes.
it started out exactly how you both wanted it to. no strings attached. a simple, clean arrangement. a situationship if you will. jaafar was drowning in the deep end of rehearsals and press tours. you were buried under the relentless stress of your own career. it was a win-win. his apartment became this sacred, quiet bubble where the outside world couldn't reach you. you’d lay tangled in his sheets after long, breathless nights, whispering about everything and nothing at all.
until the lines blurred. until the quiet moments started feeling less like an escape and more like a home.
the shift happened slowly, then all at once. it was the way he’d pull you into his chest in his sleep, the way he started remembering exactly how you took your coffee in the mornings, the way his eyes lingered on your face just a second too long when you were getting dressed to leave. one night, you looked at him as your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, and you let the infamous question slip: “what are we?”
jaafar had gone completely still. you saw the instant conflict break across his face, the dark eyes clouding over with a heavy, aching sadness. as much as he wanted to be yours, he told himself he couldn't. not fully. his life was a runaway train of obligations, and you—with your brilliant mind, your beautiful soul—deserved to be treated like a priority. you deserved someone who could give you the world, not someone who could only offer you spare hours in the middle of the night.
so, he broke it off. the very next day.
initially, you were utterly devastated. the rejection tasted like ash in your mouth. you spent nights crying into your pillow, bitterly wishing you’d just kept your mouth shut. you told yourself that having a piece of him, a fraction of his time, was infinitely better than having none at all. you missed his laugh, his low voice, the safety of his arms.
but life had a strange way of shifting gears. amid your heartbreak, a love island casting recruiter began to relentlessly dm you. at first, you ignored it. but the notifications kept popping up, and eventually, the idea of completely reinventing your summer and escaping the ghost of jaafar became too enticing to pass up. you responded, breezed through the interview process, and made the final cut as part of the original cast.
from day one in the villa, you were gold. the media, the viewers, the internet—everyone absolutely fell in love with you. you were logical, fun, and effortlessly sexy. you were officially deemed the people’s princess.
and the men in the villa? they were just as infatuated. you had boys stumbling over their words just trying to breathe the same air as you.
back in la, jaafar was living out his own personal version of hell.
he watched every single episode from his couch, his heart hammering against his ribs in a sickening rhythm. every challenge where you had to kiss another man made his stomach turn. every time he saw a guy trace his fingers along your waist or whisper in your ear on the daybeds, an pain flared in his chest. he gripped his phone so tight his knuckles went white. he wanted to tear the screen down. he missed you so much, the realization hitting him like a physical blow: he hadn't saved you from a mess; he had just given the rest of the world the chance to see the queen he was stupid enough to let go.
six weeks flew by. you didn't win the show, but you did find a genuine connection with a guy you really liked, landing a spot in the final four. the public loved you as a couple.
the moment you got your phone back at the holding villa before flying back to the states, thousands of texts, tags, and dms flooded in. but one text stood out sharply, cutting right through the noise. it was from, jermajesty.
“im proud of you for doing what’s best for you and all, but going on love island for the world to see knowing jaafar’s still hung up on you is crazy.”
your jaw tightened. you didn't even hesitate, your thumbs flying across the keyboard.
“i don’t know if you remember correctly, but your brother broke up with ME.”
you hit send and refused to give it another second of your energy. you had no time to feed into the negativity or the past. you were a star now.
except, the real world had a brutal way of crashing down. over the next couple of weeks, the man you had coupled up with on the show was hit with a tidal wave of drama waiting for him back home. exes coming out of the woodwork, secret texts, messy internet exposure. you wanted absolutely no dealings with it. your dignity was worth more than a reality tv romance, so you broke it off immediately.
it wasn't a life-or-death heartbreak. you’d only known the guy for a few months but it still left a stinging bruise on your soul. sitting alone in your apartment, you couldn't help but let the dark thoughts creep in.
why could you only find emotionally unavailable men?
was this all life had to offer you?
what did it say about your character that you kept choosing people who couldn't hold space for you?
right then and there, you made a vow to yourself. you were keeping your personal life entirely private from now on. no more public romances, no more performing for the cameras. not everyone was rooting for you, and that was fine, because there were still millions of people who were.
and jaafar was one of them.
the moment he heard about the breakup through the grapevine, something shifted in him. the passive yearning wasn't enough anymore. he couldn't just sit back and watch you slip into the shadows.
just before your birthday, a massive delivery arrived at your door. three overflowing, breathtaking bouquets of pristine white roses. your breath caught in your throat as you took them inside. you found the small, elegant card tucked into the stems. opening it, your eyes traced the familiar, elegant handwriting:
“wishing you happiest of birthdays, i’m so proud of you my love. xo, j”
he’d sent them a few days early, knowing you love to go out of the country for your birthday. it was your tradition.
you sat the card down, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs. you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about him over the past few months. you thought about him while you were in that villa, during the quiet mornings by the pool before the cameras started rolling. you thought about him more than you’d ever admit to anyone.
you missed him. god, you missed him so much. and looking at those roses, you knew with absolute certainty that he was drowning in the exact same feeling.
during a michael press tour interview, you find yourself captivated by jaafar jackson’s quiet charm, while jaafar becomes equally drawn to your warmth and brilliance.
the studio lights were warm, the cameras rolling, and your producer was already counting down in your ear.
“and we’re live in three… two…”
your smile came easy.
it always did.
after years of interviewing everyone from actors to politicians to musicians, being on camera felt as natural as breathing. people trusted you. viewers adored you. your podcast segment consistently pulled some of the highest engagement numbers in the industry because people knew one thing:
you actually cared.
you didn’t come looking for viral moments or “gotcha” questions. instead, you listened attentively. you made your guests laugh while ensuring they felt comfortable. and somehow, by the end of every interview, it felt less like journalism and more like a conversation between friends.
“welcome back, everybody,” you beamed, leaning forward slightly to connect with the lens. “today i’m joined by the incredible cast of michael.”
the cast waved and smiled, the energy in the room instantly lifting.
nia long, coleman domingo, juliano valdi. and finally… jaafar jackson.
the moment you’d seen him walk into the studio earlier your brain had completely malfunctioned. because what the hell? nobody had warned you. not a single soul had informed you that this man looked like that in person.
the pictures online did him absolutely no justice.
his smile alone should’ve come with a warning label. he wore a simple, tailored shirt that fit him perfectly, and his curls fell just right over his forehead. thankfully, years of professionalism kept your face neutral. mostly.
across from you, nia was already grinning. you and nia had known each other for years. she was one of the bigger names that you’d interviewed back when you were first starting out and you’d interviewed her countless times since. you loved her dearly and so did she.
which was exactly why you should’ve known she was up to something.
while you adjusted your notes and checked your earpiece, she leaned slightly toward jaafar. just enough for you not to notice.
“see?” she whispered, nudging his elbow. “i told you she was gorgeous.”
jaafar looked over at you while you were laughing with one of your producers, gesturing with a pen in your hand. his stomach immediately flipped.
“yeah,” he muttered quietly, clearing his throat. “she is.”
nia’s smile widened. she had him exactly where she wanted him. completely.
the interview began smoothly. you asked thoughtful questions. questions about responsibility, legacy, grief, art. the emotional weight of portraying real people.
“there’s a lot of pressure attached to this project,” you said, your voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. “how did each of you navigate stepping into shoes that meant so much to millions of people? coleman, let’s start with you.”
coleman shifted in his seat, nodding thoughtfully. “you know, you have to approach it with reverence, but also find the humanity. we aren't just playing icons; we're playing real family dynamics. it requires a lot of vulnerability.”
“and it shows in the footage,” you responded, nodding before turning your gaze. “jaafar, what about you? especially with the familial connection, how did you balance that pressure?”
the answers were heartfelt and honest. exactly what you loved. and throughout the entire interview—
you couldn’t stop noticing jaafar. not because he was attractive.
well.
partially because he was attractive. but mostly because of the little things. he rubbed his knee whenever he got nervous. every single time. the way he took in his bottom lip. the way he twirled the ring on his finger.
whenever he was about to answer a particularly personal question, his hand would move to his knee and start rubbing absentmindedly, his fingers smoothing over the fabric of his pants. it was adorable.
and his smile.
lord.
every time he talked, every time someone made a joke, that smile appeared. soft, genuine, slightly shy. it transformed his entire face. you found yourself looking away more than once because you were determined to remain a professional. he quite literally gave you butterflies every time he spoke, his voice low and incredibly gentle.
meanwhile, jaafar was having the exact same problem. because every time you laughed, his attention snapped toward you. every single time. it was becoming embarrassing. especially since the rest of the cast had started noticing. nia was shooting him knowing looks, and coleman had a slight smirk playing on his lips. jaafar knew he would be getting an earful later.
after nearly an hour of conversation, you clapped your hands together, the papers in your lap rustling.
“okay, before i let you guys go, we’re playing a game.”
collective cheers went around the room. juliano pumped his fist in the air, while coleman leaned back with an amused groan. you laughed at their excitement.
“it’s simple. michael song versus michael song. you pick the better one.”
“oh no,” coleman sighed, rubbing his temples playfully. “this is how friendships end. you’re trying to tear this cast apart.”
“oh yes.” you smiled deviously. “absolute chaos is the goal here.”
the game started out simple.
billie jean versus smooth criminal. the cast chose smooth criminal.
“the choreography tilts the scale, it just does,” nia argued, and you nodded in agreement.
rock with you versus remember the time. rock with you was the victor.
human nature versus dirty diana. human nature obviously.
the cast surprisingly agreed on most choices. until disaster struck. you looked down at your card. then back up, biting your lower lip to hide a smirk.
“hmm.”
immediately suspicious, nia pointed a manicured finger at you.
“what’s that face? look at her face, y'all.”
“oh this is about to reveal character.” you said dramatically.
juliano laughed, shaking his head. “just ask the question!”
you took a deep breath, building the suspense.
“man in the mirror…”
everyone nodded, already prepared to shout it out.
“…versus the lady in my life.”
silence.
then one by one.
“man in the mirror,” coleman said firmly.
“man in the mirror,” nia echoed.
“man in the mirror,” juliano piped up.
your jaw dropped.
“WHAT?”
the entire cast burst out laughing at your genuine distress.
“y’all cannot be serious.”
“it’s man in the mirror,” juliano said, leaning forward with a massive grin. “it's a classic!”
“absolutely not.” you argued with the child, pointing your pen at him. “you are too young to understand the romance of it all.”
“absolutely yes.” juliano fired back, laughing.
you sat forward dramatically, resting your elbows on your knees.
“you people don’t understand.”
more laughter echoed through the studio as the producers joined in on the debate.
“no seriously. the intimacy. the yearning. the longing.”
you placed a hand over your chest, closing your eyes for effect. nia was crying laughing, wiping the corner of her eye.
“here she goes,” nia chuckled.
“i’m serious!” you pointed around the room. “maybe i’m just a hopeless romantic but the lady in my life is superior. the vocals at the end? the breakdown? come on!”
across from you, jaafar couldn’t stop smiling.
he loved watching passionate people talk about things they loved. and you? you lit up. your hands moved when you spoke. your eyes sparkled. your entire face became animated, your smile blinding. you were absolutely gorgeous.
it was impossible for him to look away.
“i actually agree,” jaafar spoke up, his voice cutting through the laughter. “it’s one of michael’s most slept-on songs and the vocal performance on it is incredible.”
“exactly!” you shouted, your eyes locking onto his.
“see?” you said triumphantly as you pointed in jaafar’s direction, looking at nia and coleman. “finally, someone with taste! thank you, jaafar.”
“but it’s still not beating man in the mirror,” juliano interrupted, completely ruining the moment.
everyone exploded with laughter again.
“juliano!” you gasped, putting your head in your hands.
“i’m right!” the boy insisted.
“you’re wrong!”
“i’m literally correct!”
the debate continued for several minutes, filled with playful banter and overlapping voices. and despite your best efforts—
man in the mirror ultimately won. a tragedy. a crime. an injustice. you were robbed and you informed the audience of this fact repeatedly, looking directly into the camera with a heartbroken expression.
finally, you smoothed down your outfit and smiled warmly at the cast.
“seriously, thank you all for being here. this movie means so much to so many people, and honestly, spending time with you all today, i can tell why this project worked.”
their expressions softened, the comedic energy shifting back to mutual respect.
“you guys have incredible chemistry. but more importantly, you’re all genuinely beautiful people.” you smiled.
for a second, jaafar forgot how to breathe. because the way you said it felt sincere. not media-trained. not rehearsed. sincere. he swore your eyes lingered on him for just a fraction of a second longer than the others, or maybe it was just his imagination.
his cheeks immediately warmed. thankfully the cameras stopped rolling before anyone could notice.
“and we’re clear.” one of your producers said from the back.
everyone began removing microphones. stretching and chatting. the technical crew started moving around the set, and the energy immediately relaxed into casual hums of conversation.
nia pointed at you as she stood up.
“i told y’all.”
you laughed, unclipping your own mic pack.
“told them what?”
“that you’re the best in the game.”
your hand flew to your chest.
“ms. nia, stop it.”
“oh don’t start. you know you’re the best.”
“thank you. i love you longtime, hunny.”
“i love you more. let’s meet for lunch soon! i mean it, text me!” nia said as she wrapped her arms around you tightly, inhaling your perfume.
coleman then walked up to you, extending a hand before pulling you into a warm hug, expressing his gratitude and appreciation for you. “you’re an amazing interviewer and an even better soul. keep doing what you're doing.”
“thank you so much for coming, send my love to the hubby,” you told him, beaming.
across the set, juliano leaned toward jaafar, watching you interact with the crew.
“she’s so pretty.”
jaafar looked over. once again, you were wrapped up talking to someone else—fixing a loose script page, laughing about something with a production assistant. completely unaware of the eyes on you. his smile appeared again, soft and helpless.
“she definitely is.”
juliano immediately grinned, a mischievous spark in his eyes.
“do you think i can get her number?”
“absolutely not, buddy.” jaafar laughed, a genuine, deep sound as he patted him on the back. “you're a little too young for her, don't you think?”
a few minutes later the cast started heading toward the exit saying their final goodbyes, their voices fading into the hallway.
you were gathering your notes for your next interview, stacking the papers neatly into a folder, when a familiar voice stopped beside you.
“hey.”
you looked up. and there he was. he had stayed behind while the others walked off. close enough now that those stupidly pretty eyes were somehow even more distracting, catching the remaining studio light.
“hi!” your voice bounced a little higher than usual.
jaafar smiled. the smile. there it was again. lord help you.
“i just wanted to say thank you for having us once again.”
“of course. it was an absolute pleasure.”
“we’ve done so many interviews for this press tour, but nothing topped this one. i can see why nia loves working with you so much. you make it easy.”
and there it was. that nervous habit again but this time, it was him and that darn lip. adorable.
you laughed and your expression softened, your heart doing a strange little dance.
“that’s very kind of you to say. thank you, jaafar.”
finally, he glanced toward the door where the rest of the cast waited, the muffled sound of juliano's laughter drifting back in. then he looked back at you, holding your gaze.
“i hope i run into you again soon. maybe outside of a studio.”
your heart did a tiny little flip. the dangerous kind. the kind you ignored. because you were a professional. mostly.
you smiled, your cheeks tingling.
“i hope the same. i'm sure our paths will cross.”
his grin widened, clearly pleased with the answer. for a second, neither one of you moved. the space between you felt suddenly charged, the ambient noise of the studio fading into the background. then nia’s voice echoed loudly from down the hallway.
“jaafar! the car is waiting! let’s go!”
he sighed dramatically, but laughing anyway.
you laughed, shaking your head.
“you should probably go before she comes back in here to drag you out.”
“probably,” he agreed reluctantly. he took a few steps backward toward the exit, still smiling, still looking at you. “see you around.”
“bye, jaafar.” you waved your fingers at him and sent him on his way with a warm smile.
and as he disappeared down the hallway, juliano immediately appeared beside him, slinging an arm over his shoulder. already talking. already playing around. the two got along like brothers which you really admired.
while back inside the studio, you looked down at your notes, trying to focus on the next set of questions. then you looked toward the door he’d just walked through, the silence of the room suddenly feeling a bit more noticeable. and despite being the professional you are—
you couldn’t stop smiling either.
a couple weeks after the interview. your good friend quen called you for an interview of your own. she invited you to be on her youtube series, feeding starving celebrities to which you accepted of course.
“welcome to the fsc kitchen!” quen yelled, tossing her hair back and gesturing wildly toward the entrance. “introducing the queen of interviews, the baddest thing walking, my favorite vixen. ITS MY GIRL.”
you walk out, matching her chaotic energy immediately. you two jump around the kitchen excitedly, screaming and hugging each other like you haven't seen each other in years, even though you just texted this morning.
“welcome to my show hunny,” quen says, catching her breath and smoothing down her top.
“thank you! i’m so excited to be here.”
“it was a longtime coming.”
“yes yes yesss,” you agree, clapping your hands.
out of nowhere, edm began blasting from her speakers to which you both broke out into model poses, doing your best white girl club dances—complete with the fist pumping and the awkward hip sways. the camera crew was cracking up behind the lenses.
“okay okay,” quen said once the music subsided, wiping a fake tear from her eye. “would you like to know what’s on the menu today?”
“well of course my queen.”
“we’re doing lemon drops for the bev because i heard those are your favorite! then we’re doing salmon rice and potatoes. and lastly for dessert, we cheated and just bought a cheesecake girl.”
“amazing.”
first up was the drinks segment. while you prepped the ingredients—slicing lemons and grabbing the shaker—quen started asking her first set of questions, leaning against the counter with a look of pure mischief.
“you’re known for being super confident, while also being very sweet and caring,” quen began, watching you measure the lemon juice. “did you have an experience in your life that made you this way or have you always been this way?”
you answered while you started making your lemon drops, pouring the liquid into the shaker. “truthfully speaking, i didn’t always have this confidence but when i got to college? i just knew i was that girl.”
you both started laughing, quen nodding along.
“like walking across campus, you literally couldn’t tell me nothing,” you continued, shaking your head at the memory. “not a damn thing.”
you both continued to laugh and joke around until you grabbed the tequila bottle. you quickly covered the label of the tequila bottle with your palm, looking directly at the main camera. “no free promo, not sponsored.” you joked.
“not until they cut the check!” quen shouted.
the camera crew lost it.
“you’re terrible.” she told you.
“i’m professional.” you shot back.
“you’re ridiculous.”
“same thing.”
the next question came naturally.
“for your age, i feel like you’re doing so many big things in your life. wait- how old are you now?”
“i’m twenty six,” you said, before stopping and pointing a lemon knife at her. “wait- how old are YOU?”
“twenty five.”
“ayeee,” you cheered, clinking your fresh lemon drop glasses together. you both began to mumble the lyrics to sza’s 20 something’s song at the same exact time which caused you to burst into a fit of laughter.
the segment continued on and while you prepped the salmon, seasoning it generously on the cutting board, she asked more questions that got deeper and deeper, moving from your career goals to your personal life.
“okay, i gotta ask,” quen said, lowering her voice like she was letting the audience in on a secret. “have you ever had a crush on any of your guests?”
you paused, a piece of salmon in your hand. “like on my show?”
“no, on my show,” she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes so hard it looked painful. “yes, your show, girl!”
you both shared a loud laugh before you actually thought about her answer. your brain instantly took a trip back to a couple weeks ago. the shirt. the open buttons. the nervous knee-rubbing. the smile that should've come with a warning label. jaafar was the first person you thought about.
“can i plead the fifth?” you laughed, your cheeks beginning to hurt.
“absolutely not. this is feeding starving celebrities, not a court of law. spill it.”
you sighed, leaning your weight against the counter before telling the truth. “jaafar jackson.”
quen let out a piercing scream that probably blew out the audio levels in the control room. she jumped up and down, hitting the counter. “no way!”
“yes way, quenlin,” you muttered, covering your face with your hands from pure embarrassment, wishing the kitchen counter would just swallow you whole.
“well, jaafar jackson if you’re watching this… hit my girl up!” quen screamed directly into the camera, winking dramatically. “she is single, she is successful, and she likes your uncle's music! call her! and if you’re worried about the teeny tiny age gap, she’s the most mature person i know!”
you busted out laughing, throwing a dish towel at her to make her stop.
the show continued to move on, the salmon smelling incredible as it cooked, and finally it came to a close as you both stuffed your faces with the store-bought cheesecake after you edit farmed for social media.
“i loved having you, please come on more often. my soul sister,” quen said, giving you a massive hug as the closing music started to play.
“i love you, quenlin. thank you for inviting me.”
the next few days for you were insane. the moment the episode dropped on youtube, the internet took it and ran. the interview was being clipped and posted everywhere on all platforms—tiktok, twitter, instagram reels. shade room reposted it. people were making edits of you and jaafar from your original interview, putting them side-by-side with your confession on quen's show.
one very specific clip.
“have you ever had a crush on any of your guests?”
“…jaafar jackson.”
you wanted to die. your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. your friends wouldn’t stop texting. your coworkers wouldn’t stop laughing.
your bosses? absolutely unbearable. you walked into the office three days later and immediately knew something was wrong. everyone looked excited. too excited.
your personal assistant practically sprinted toward you.
“good morning.”
you narrowed your eyes. “what happened?”
“nothing.”
“you’re smiling too hard.”
“am i?”
“yes.”
he slid his phone across the desk. you looked down and nearly choked.
“oh my god.”
there it was. a notification. one very simple notification. normal people wouldn’t have reacted like that. but you were far from normal.
jaafarjackson started following you.
the entire office erupted.
“HE FOLLOWED HER.”
you covered your face wanting the floor to swallow you whole.
“this is humiliating.”
“this is incredible.”
your boss immediately clapped his hands.
“okay.”
you pointed.
“don’t.”
“we need to capitalize on this.”
“oh my god.”
“we need jaafar back on the show.”
“we do not.”
“immediately.”
you dropped your head onto the desk.
hard.
everyone laughed.
“i’m going home.”
“you’re not.”
“i’m quitting.”
“you’re not.”
“i’m changing my name.”
“you’re definitely not.”
somewhere across the city— jaafar was experiencing his own version of embarrassment. because after watching the clip approximately seventeen times and smiling every single time, he’d finally worked up the courage to hit follow. the interview with quen showed an entirely different side of you. he was so intrigued. a mentally sane person would say he was obsessed.
good thing he wasn’t mentally sane.
and now? he’d somehow agreed to come back on your show. which meant in just a few days— the two of you would be sitting across from each other again.
the next few days leading up to the interview, nervousness fell upon you like a heavy blanket. you couldn't pace around your apartment without staring at your phone, replaying the clip from quen's show in your head and cringing into your pillows.
“what if he thinks i’m a weirdo?” you groaned to your reflection in the mirror while getting ready. “oh my gosh, i can’t handle this.”
you had to remind yourself that you were a professional journalist. you worked in the craziest of circumstances. a little awkwardness never hurt anybody. at least, that’s what you told yourself to get through this interview.
the day finally came, and unbeknownst to you, jaafar was just as nervous as you. he had been shifting around in his dressing room for an hour, adjusting his collar and asking his team if his hair looked alright.
when he finally walked out onto the studio floor, every piece of self-control you had left the window. he looked entirely too good. he was wearing a gold silk shirt that made him look incredibly warm and approachable, and the studio lights caught the exact same warmth in his eyes.
you had about thirty seconds to pull yourself together before he approached you. you took a deep breath, smoothing down your dress, trying to force your heart to stop hammering against your ribs.
“hey,” he said softly, his voice a little lower than usual.
“hi!” you replied, maybe a little too quickly.
the two of you hugged—a brief, slightly tense embrace where you could swear you felt his heartbeat too—and barely exchanged words before your stage manager was clapping her hands, ushering you both onto the set.
“we’re rolling in three… two…”
your media training kicked in just in time. the familiar warmth of the lights helped ground you.
“welcome back, everybody,” you said, looking into the main lens before turning to your guest. “welcome back, jaafar. although it hasn’t been long since we had you the first time, how have you been?”
jaafar adjusted himself in his chair, his fingers immediately finding his knee to give it a quick, nervous rub before he caught himself and smiled. “i’ve been good, thank you. and yourself?”
“i’ve been great,” you said, a mischievous tilt finding its way back into your voice. “busy doing my own interviews and whatnot.”
jaafar’s eyes sparked with instant amusement. “so i’ve heard.”
the two of you shared a genuine, lingering laugh, and just like that, all the awkward tension went out the window. the comfort you had established during your first meeting came rushing back, making the studio feel small and private again.
you began to ask him more personal questions, moving away from his role as michael and focusing on him as an individual. you asked him about his family dynamic, what it was really like growing up as a jackson in the midst of such a massive legacy. you asked him what he initially wanted to do growing up before the artistry caught up with him.
“there's a moment for everyone,” you murmured, leaning in attentively. “when did you realize that your family was as prominent as they are? not just in the music industry, but their deep influence on the world, and on black culture specifically?”
jaafar listened intensely, his gaze locked onto yours. he answered beautifully, speaking with a humility and depth that made your heart do that dangerous little flip again. he spoke about watching his father and uncles, about the responsibility he felt to honor that history, and how much he valued the love the community showed his family.
towards the end of the interview, the control room chimed in your ear, reminding you of the segment your producers had cooked up. you cleared your throat, looking down at the fresh set of cue cards.
“okay, my team has put together some questions for us to answer,” you said, immediately turning your head to look directly into your specific camera with a warning glare. “these ARE NOT my questions, by the way! i would like that noted for future purposes.”
jaafar let out a soft chuckle, shifting in his seat to face you fully. “ask away.”
you looked down at the first card. “alright. are you dating anyone?”
jaafar didn't even hesitate. he happily responded, “no, i am not.”
you nodded slowly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear while giving a slow, knowing, look directly into the camera lens. the silence in the studio broke instantly as everyone on set started laughing uncontrollably at your expression.
“i too, am also single,” you responded smoothly, turning back to him.
jaafar reached over, playfully pulling the next card from your hand to read it himself. “alright, my turn. who was your celebrity crush growing up?”
you closed your eyes, bracing yourself. “barack obama, and i will not be explaining further.”
jaafar burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking. “that’s insane.”
“he has aura, jaafar! next question!” you argued, laughing with him.
you hesitated before reading the final card in your hand. your eyes scanned the text, and for a second, you considered throwing it across the room. but professional duty called, so you read it anyway, your voice dropping a little. “when seeing my recent interview with quen… hearing that i have a crush on you… how did you react?”
the studio went dead silent, everyone waiting for the response.
jaafar instantly got nervous, but he didn't look away from you. his expression softened completely. “i was taken by surprise,” he answered honestly, his voice quiet and sincere. “you’re a very beautiful woman. very intelligent. i have to admit… i watched the clip for days.”
your jaw slacked slightly, a intense wave of heat rushing to your face. “oh please, you flatter me, jaafar,” you said, blushing profusely and trying to use the cue card to fan your face.
“i’m serious,” he said, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before he flashed that million-dollar, panty dropping smile.
the sheer charm of it was lethal. you had to cross your legs immediately, the physical tension between the two of you suddenly becoming unbearable. you could hear a producer in the back whispering a faint “oh my god.”
right then, one of your executive producers walked onto the set, holding just one more single cue card. she had a massive smirk on her face.
you cannot be serious, you thought to yourself, your eyes narrowing into a fierce glare as she handed it to you. she just gave you a silent thumbs-up from behind the camera and scurried back into the dark.
you cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure. “before we close, we have a quick game to play.”
the producers had thrown together some random, convoluted party game—something involving rolling dice or picking matching cards—but the rules were clearly rigged from the start. no matter what choices were made, the penalty or the reward ultimately resulted in you two sharing a kiss either way.
jaafar looked at the card, then looked at you, an incredibly nervous but thrilled smile taking over his face.
“well,” jaafar murmured, leaning forward over the small table separating your chairs. “rules are rules.”
your heart was beating so loud you were certain the microphones were picking it up. “yeah. rules are rules.”
you both stood, talking small steps toward one another. when his hand gently reached up to rest against the side of your neck, his thumb brushing your jawline, your eyes fluttered shut.
the moment his lips pressed against yours, the entire studio seemed to vanish. it wasn't a quick, awkward cheek-peck for the cameras. it was soft, lingering, and incredibly deep. for a second, it felt like you were entirely melting into the warmth of him, your hand instinctively rising to touch his forearm.
then, a sharp beep from a camera battery brought you crashing back to reality.
you quickly remembered that you were on camera, surrounded by your entire production crew. you pulled away, your breath catching in your throat, your lips tingling.
jaafar’s eyes slowly opened, looking completely dazed, his hand lingering in the air for a second before he dropped it to his side.
you forced your voice to work, looking toward the main camera with everything you had left. “and… that is all the time we have for today. thank you for watching. don’t forget to buy your tickets to michael and follow us on all socials!”
“and we’re clear!” the director called out.
the lights didn't even dim before the set fell into a strange, buzzing quiet. you closed the interview, stacking your cards with trembling hands. across from you, jaafar still stood, completely speechless from what had just happened, his eyes fixed on you like he was trying to figure out if he was still dreaming.
finally he mustered up the courage to ask, “are you busy tonight? i would love to take you out.”
you couldn’t help but feel that nia long was somewhere, rubbing her hands together and laughing wickedly, knowing that this had been her plan all along.
including : Draco Malfoy , Mattheo Riddle , Theodore nott, Blaise zabini, Lorenzo Berkshire , Tom riddle , Adrian pucey
DRACO MALFOY
masquerade ball @lqveharrington
The Malfoys hold a masquerade ball in hopes of finding Draco a wife
prince!draco malfoy x lady!potter!reader
library meeting @comfortcharacterwrites
after Lucius Malfoy finds out that his son had been failing Charms, he assigns a tutor to Draco, whom he inherently dreads meeting — that is, until he falls in love with you
word count : 3.3k
the space between reality and you @honeyedprongs
A girl who lives her life in her head.
A boy who refuses to let her disappear into it.
Longing, self-destruction, and the terrifying reality of being loved back.
word count : 1.9k
unanswered questions in closed spaces @noncakeanywhere
As it turns out, proximity breeds fondness. A month of detention with you in a small space; rat tails and rotten weeds for company. What better witnesses for a disastrous fall into...what exactly?
Draco Malfoy x Slytherin!Reader
gone in a flash @ros3mari3
You don’t hear it all at once. It comes in fragments, in passing whispers that you almost ignore until one name pulls everything into focus.
Draco x Reader (amnesia/angst)
fever dreams and devotion @honeyedprongs
One sleepless winter night.
One clingy, feverish husband.
And several increasingly pathetic requests for “just one more kiss.”
word count : 1.5k
hopelessly devoted to you @irisjustlikeheaven
draco's parents are against your relation ship. he does what they say, you have to accept his decision.
draco malfoy × fem!reader
________
MATTHEO RIDDLE
why’d you only call me when you’re high @faestria
you're sick of mattheo's affection being limited to when he's high.
word count : 986
words are futile devices @l8vrgrll
It has been a long time since mattheo left hogwarts. All he could think about now, was you, and it was killing him.
you were supposed to stay @simplyastra
In a world falling apart, you were the only thing that ever made sense to Mattheo Riddle. So when he almost loses you— he breaks in a way no one has ever seen before.
absolutely not @riddlemelater
beater!Mattheo helps you pick a dress for a night out in hogsmeade with the quidditch team. The only problem is he's not much help, especially not when your dress is that short.
word count : 1.2k
what hurts you hurts me @simplyastra
Soulmates shared everything. Including scars. When Umbridge's detentions begin exposing soulmate pairs throughout Hogwarts, one bloody sentence on the back of your hand changes everything.
personal fav
obedience @my-hearts-kickdrum-type-beat
Your boyfriend loves you. His friends think he worships you. You're alright with both interpretations.
word count : 0.6k
who is who ? @edilzzi
You have an enormous crush on Mattheo Riddle. Although, you're way too busy pushing your nose into books and being an angel for such a popular guy to look your way. That never stopped you though, your little 'harmless' ways to stalk him around hogwarts has gotten way more ridiculous than ever, as if your eyes lingering on him for way too long wasn't enough. But as time passes by, you slowly notice his figure disappearing within your sight. That's when you realize.. With how frequent you observe his presence in front of you, you never acknowledged watching behind you.
Word count : 4.4k
SMUT / MDNI
________
THEODORE NOTT
library of secrets @harringtonsb1tch
when you decide to surprise your boyfriend by learning Italian behind his back but losing the track of time leads to him finding out earlier than you wanted.
her favorite slytherin @simplyastra
A black cat starts spending every evening in the Slytherin common room. The entire school assumes she's Theodore's. Theodore assumes she's his. The cat disagrees.
personal fav
sweet like cinnamon @ldrfanatic
is it possible that the entire time you've been dating theo, you've somehow not noticed that he's only this sweet with you?
theodore nott x hufflepuff!reader
word count : 3.1k
the nott so fake relationship @cipheress-to-k-pop
After your boyfriend cheats with your best friend, you enlist Theodore Nott in a fake relationship to get revenge
word count : 10.1k
quidditch captain rivalry headcanons @padmespetal
theodore nott x ravenclaw!reader
puppy love @eviesnotebook
Theo is completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with you but you think he's just a friend. A really nice one.
theodore nott x fem!reader
word count : 1.7k
divination for dummies @obsessedwithceleste
When the tarot cards tell you you’re going to fall in love, sometimes it’s best to just listen to them
Theodore Nott x Ravenclaw! reader
word count : 6k
________
BLAISE ZABINI
too long together @simplyastra
Three hours trapped in a dusty storage room with Blaise Zabini wasn't how you planned to spend your evening. Surprisingly, it wasn't how you wanted it to end either.
beautiful chaos @simplyastra
Blaise Zabini liked things neat, orderly, and predictable. Unfortunately for him, you collected flowers, carried emergency glitter, and had approximately seventeen hobbies at any given time.
Blaise x chaotic!reader
No more tears @lexamiele
after you catch your boyfriend cheating, his worst enemy finds you crying in an empty classroom.
word count : 4.7k
don’t get it twisted @obsessedwithceleste
4 times you prove you’re a true Slytherin + the 1 time Blaise finally accepts it.
Word count : 3.4k
Eternity @ravenclaws-stuff
Blaise Zabini x muggleborn!reader
on the first day of christmas @rarebambi
tooth rotting fluff
word count : 397
________
LORENZO BERKSHIRE
irresistible @cipheress-to-k-pop
Lorenzo doesn't like it when people other than him receive pretty privilege. Hypocrite.
Word count : 14.4k
Berkshire blue @redeemingvillains
you and lorenzo are...exclusive... or so you thought... but as the days before the berkshire winter ball dwindle and he deftly avoids asking you to be his date, you're left wondering what you really mean to each other.
Word count : 3k
untitled @lxve-fool
the quiet girl seems to only despise enzo and he’s determined to figure out why
lorenzo berkshire x shy!reader
in touch, but out of reach @obsessedwithceleste
When a secret admirer sends you a mysterious parcel at breakfast, you figure you shouldn’t let the pretty locket enclosed inside go to waste.
Lorenzo Berkshire x Ravenclaw! reader
word count : 5.4k
you said it didn’t mean anything @speaknowgirl3184
secret kiss in the library turns into weeks of stolen moments. Except you overhear him telling Blaise it was “nothing.”
word count : 4k
finding sunshine @obsessedwithceleste
soulmate! au in which the writing on your skin will appear identically on your soulmate.
word count : 4.5k
game of deception @ellas-enchantments
After finding out you were just a bet, an unexpected hero comes to your rescue. But why would this near stranger be so kind to you? What secret is he hiding? And when it comes to love, can you roll the dice without falling for his charm?
word count : 4.7k
strictly casual @kinzis-writing
It was common knowledge to everyone that Lorenzo Berkshire, or any of the Slytherin boys really, didn’t commit to one girl for long. They were womanizers and refused to try to commit to an actual relationship. You two didn’t get along at all; yet you still ended up in his bed. Only one condition, no feelings, no-strings-attached, and never call it a relationship. Everything was going smoothly… until it wasn’t.
word count : 11.4k
Lorenzo Berkshire x Fem! Hufflepuff! Reader
________
TOM RIDDLE
You’ve gone soft @anawritez-posts
A teenage Tom Riddle time-travels into his future and immediately insults his older self..
cinnamon afternoon @yourstarryswan
Hitting a brick wall in potions class is tough for y/n who tries her hardest to keep her grades up. Lucky she got assigned a tutor..
what he notices @tomriddlehyper
Tom Riddle notices many things, but recently, all he can notice is the Hufflepuff girl that has wormed her way into his life.
mdni
obsessively adored @tomriddlehyperfixataion
The knights of Walpurgis were a secret group within the halls of hogwarts, made up of pureblood heirs and 2nd born sons, all dreaming of a 'brighter' future for their kind. their leader? Tom Riddle, refined cruelty in a human body. nothing mattered more than his goals. except for one, his beloved (y/n). who had the ability to make Tom Riddle stop in his tracks and abandon everything for her.
________
ADRIAN PUCEY
in a league of your own @obsessedwithceleste
When it comes out that Saint Potter is cheating on you with none other than Ginerva Weasley, your brother is pissed, and Adrian is there to pick up all the pieces.
Adrian Pucey x Slytherin! Wood! reader
word count : 3.8k
wish you were sober @my-hearts-kickdrum-type-beat
After the swiftest and smuggest victory in Hogwarts quidditch history, the Slytherins held their usual party. Blared music, flowing drinks, the works. The sweetest words come out when alcohol goes in; but are they ever true?
Adrian Pucey x Malfoy! Reader
word count : 3.2k
Before and after @limerenze
adrian comforts y/n during + after a panic attack while they both deal with the aftermath of the second wizarding war
can we get situationship reese where reader gets jealous of seeing him talking to another girl and ignores him cus of it so reese goes crazy trying to figure out why and when he does he teases reader intensely 😁 love your writing sm <3
you're the only voice i wanna hear in my head (reese wilkerson)
summary: you and reese had always walked that line between friendship and something more. seeing him with another girl, however, made you realize you couldn't remain "just friends" any longer.
pairing: reese wilkerson x fem!reader
wc: 1.4k
cw: none! unless u count making out on a countertop
author's note: this is almost like a friends to lovers im sorry </3 i hope you still enjoy !!
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
everyone knew you and reese wilkerson were close. everyone knew you two had been friends for years. hell, you were each others' best friend.
however, what you two had was clearly deeper.
reese would always pay for your meals. when walking through a crowd, his hand always rested on the small of your back. half of his closet was inside yours. when he talked about his future, all his plans involved you.
just friends, though, right?
you two had never talked about your relationship. you were always just best friends, conjoined at the hip, and nothing more.
to everyone else, they could tell something deeper was there.
lois and hal talked about it before bed, saying how good you were for their son. malcolm and stevie theorized how far reese has gotten with you. dewey even called you his sister-in-law to the buseys.
you always buried your feelings deep down. you didn't even realize you harbored those kinds of feelings towards reese. he never put a label on it, so why should you?
the day you realized your feelings was the day that your life came crashing down in front of you.
you don't know when or how it happened. all you could remember was the burning feeling of jealousy in your stomach when you saw reese talking to that pretty girl after school one day.
after that, you ignored him.
you no longer walked with him to class, and you didn't wait for him to drive you home after school. of course, reese noticed. he was confused. especially because you had never been this frosty with him before, not since the fourth grade when he stole your fruit snacks.
that weekend, you were at his house for dinner. while you may be mad at reese, you were not mad at the rest of his family, and you wouldn't miss your saturday dinner with them for the world.
when reese heard the doorbell ring, he jumped out of his bed to answer it. he pushed malcolm, who was closer to the door, just to let you in. you pushed past him, however.
you greeted malcolm and dewey, cooed at jamie who was preoccupied with his toys, and made your way into the kitchen.
you didn't even spare reese a glance.
"trouble in paradise?" malcolm teased, earning a swift punch to his shoulder from reese.
you talked to lois while she prepared dinner, and even helped her with chopping some of the vegetables. she loved your company, you were like the daughter she never had.
"so," she said, taking a break from tenderizing the meat reese had brought home from the butcher's. "how has school been?"
"fine," you sighed. "tedious, but fine."
"i hear prom is coming up," she approached the topic casually. her and hal were determined to find out the true nature of your relationship with reese.
"any boys ask you to be their date yet?"
you scoffed.
"as if," you continued chopping vegetables, not looking up once. "none of the boys at school like me."
lois gave you a knowing glance, one that you didn't see due to your hyperfocus on the vegetables in front of you.
"why not, you're a pretty girl," she said. "any boy would be lucky to have you."
a loud crashing noise interrupted your conversation.
"mom," the sound of reese's voice called into the kitchen. she sighed, giving you an apologetic look before leaving to find the source of the noise.
once dinner was ready, you were all sat around the table. unfortunately, your spot was always next to reese. when he pulled out his chair to sit next to you, all you could think about was the way that girl was laughing, and how interested he looked.
while malcolm was arguing with lois over something mundane, you felt reese's leg against yours. you ignored it, thinking it was an accident. the table was small for the amount of people sitting around it.
however, when he purposefully tried nudging your knee with his, you turned your body the other way.
you heard him sigh in response, and while the argument between malcolm and lois ramped up, he whispered to you.
"why are you ignoring me?"
you didn't answer, and you acted like you didn't even hear him. you didn't know why you were ignoring him. maybe, you were mad that another girl was getting his attention.
or maybe, deep down, you were ignoring the feelings you had for your best friend.
dewey noticed the tension between you two. while hal was getting involved in whatever argument was happening, dewey picked up on the way you blushed while you turned away from his older brother. he noticed the confused and somewhat pained expression that overcame reese's face.
after dinner concluded, you helped lois with cleaning up. reese lingered, picking up plates and trying to be as close to you as possible.
of course, lois noticed.
"it looks like you two have this under control," she said, dropping the towel she was using to dry the dishes. she gave you a soft smile before leaving the kitchen.
you and reese cleaned the kitchen in silence.
"are you mad at me?" he asked. he sounded so genuine and hurt, you couldn't ignore him anymore.
"no," you answered quietly. "i'm not mad at you."
silence again. reese thought about your words. he thought about everything he did that week, trying to pick out a moment that you could've possibly been upset about.
then, it hit him.
"is it about that girl?"
you nearly dropped the plate you were currently washing. your face turned beet red, and reese immediately noticed. a grin spread across his face.
"it is!" he exclaimed. he placed down the dishes that he was holding. "you're jealous."
"i am not," you averred. your face told another story. your cheeks were red, and you avoiding his gaze. reese poked at your side as you started to clean the plate faster.
"yes, you are," he laughed. you moved onto the next plate, scrubbing it impossibly fast. "you were upset that i was talking to that girl."
then, he realized what that meant.
"somebody likes me," he teased. your face was on fire and the butterflies in your stomach were going crazy. you wanted the earth to swallow you whole.
he took a step closer to you.
"it's okay, i like you too."
you finally turned to face him. reese was sporting a blush similar to yours, despite his teasing. he reached out to grab your hands, and you let him.
"she's a friend," he explained.
"we're friends," you retorted.
"well, yeah," he said. "but i'm in love with you, not her."
reese immediately dropped your hands, his hands flying to cover his mouth once he realized what he said.
"i didn't mean that. i mean i did, but—"
you cut him off with a kiss. you were cautious at first, but his hands moved to your hips and pulled you closer. he deepened the kiss, like he had been waiting for the moment for years.
to be honest, reese had been waiting for this moment for years.
his hands traveled to your ass as he hoisted you onto the counter. your hands snaked into his hair, and he groaned into the kiss.
"ew, get a room."
you broke apart as fast as you could to see dewey with a disgusted look on his face.
"get outta here or else," reese threatened, moving away from you to chase dewey out. dewey looked at reese, and then his lips, before laughing.
"or else what? you're not so tough when you got lip gloss all over your face," he responded.
"i should go," you said, sliding off the counter. reese turned around, panic in his eyes.
"wait, i'll walk you out," he said. you smiled at him, nodding softly as a sign of confirmation.
you bid your goodbyes to the rest of the family, making sure to thank lois for the lovely dinner.
once outside, reese awkwardly played with the zipper on his hoodie.
"so," he started. you looked at him expectedly, but he was focused on his zipper.
"i really do like you, if you couldn't tell," he admitted, cheeks turning a light shade of pink.
"i like you too," you said quietly. he put his arm around you, pulling you close.
reese kissed the top of your head, and although no words were said, no labels were given, you knew you were his.
summary: everyone knows you and reese wilkerson hate each other. it's not subtle—he goes out of his way to pick fights, push your buttons, and make your life miserable. so when people start whispering that you've been seen together—alone, late, too close—no one believes it. a passing comment. a "no way". a laugh. you and reese don't make sense. yet, rumor has it you’ve been having sex with reese wilkerson.
words: 7.6k
series warnings: explicit content/smut (*), tbd
Summary: Reese knew you weren't such a fan of violence—who even does? He still kicked people's asses that pissed him off or annoyed you, but still, that was behind closed doors. As he rubbed the left side of his cheek and ran after you, he knew that he fucked up that night.
Warning: teeny tiny bit of curse words, slight mention of blood, reader and him are friends (yeah, sure). Reese is basically being pathetic 🥀🥀
Probably around season 5-7. There's no scene of Jamie though.
Divider from: @saradika-graphics
The fic's vibes were inspired by this song:
Reese has never been an asshole to you. At least, not when you're already close with him. The most annoying thing he did was only when he wanted to approach you in 10th grade, laughing at a joke that wasn't even funny after he spurt his drink onto your face. His giggles and shits didn't last long as you kicked his stomach afterwards.
However, that's the problem. He’s not being a dick anymore, yet, the sting from whatever the hell he thought was reasonable still hurts you like a bitch. And, here you are, stomping down the damn hallway while Reese was shouting your name over and over again, drawing everyone's attention but you.
“Hey, can you at least listen to me?” He fell in step with you, a hint of pleading spread across his expression. The fact that you were so stubbornly looking to the front without cutting him some slack highkey frustrated him. “Please, I promise—”
“Promise what?” You finally turned around, arms crossed and one foot tapping repeatedly on the floor, demanding for an answer. Reese stopped beside you. Fingers fiddled the strings of his brown hoodie.
“I didn't mean to do that. You know, last week’s party…” his words trailed off, hinted at the event that is still burning in the back of your mind. He darted his gaze down to the floor. You had to bite the insides of your cheeks to not give him some mercy.
On that night, you were absolutely having the time of your life. Radiohead's blared down on the floors, people crowded Cynthia's house and you blended with them. For the first time in your life, you don't feel so out of space.
A few of them bumped their shoulders on yours, danced to the music together with you. Drank on something God-knows-what from those red solo cups. That until a guy tried to hit you up. At first you were hesitant to talk with him, but then, your guards went down gradually, letting him take the lead as the guy's hands wrapped around your waist—leaning in to kiss.
Reese wasn't anywhere until that moment. It's like the universe sent him in the best possible timing in your life, then turned it upside down. People were staring at the three of you when a few punches were thrown to the guy's face, and then a loud smack came afterwards—and landed perfectly on Reese's. Red, not bruising, but the aftermath of the slap burned on one of his cheeks.
He gave you a wide eyed expression. His chest clenched tight with a mix of guilt and anger on why the hell would you do that. And before he could even speak, you swam through the crowds and left the two of them.
In his defense, Reese thought he wasn't hurting your feelings, he just wanted to make sure the guy wasn't taking advantage of your hopeless romantic ass. But he could've done something better than beating the hell out of the guy. He didn't really understand how to be subtle. Hell, that shit's ain't even in his dictionary.
Reese's explosive. Chaos followed every one of his steps. His constantly bruised knuckles screamed volumes.
The thing is, though, he never really liked showing that side to you. He knew you weren't such a fan of violence—who even does? He still kicked people's asses that pissed him off or annoyed you, still, that was behind closed doors. As he rubbed the left side of his cheek and ran after you, he knew that he fucked up that night.
“I promise I won't do that again.”
“And how exactly can I trust you?”
“You don't have to—just, just… give me a chance,” Reese's knees were genuinely weak. Any last shred of dignity he ever had just left with that look in his eyes and tone. And you almost spare him some of your forgiveness. Keyword? Almost.
You just sighed at his answer, fingers threaded in your hair. “Reese, how the hell am I supposed to forgive you if I cannot trust you anymore?”
He was left speechless. Nothing could back up your argument. So all you did was leave him like a stray puppy, walking with such show-off certainty—as if every step you took wasn't painful while hearing his dramatic screams from behind. You shook your head, tried to ignore him as best as you can.
Well, congratulations. You failed. Because your crazy ass friend decided to bend down and hug your leg like an idiot. Your eyes widened, “What the hell, Reese! Get off me!”
Some students in the hallway stopped mid track to watch the scene unfold in front of their eyes. Exchanging sneers, mocking giggles and muttering gossips around. Your face burned at the realization, so you shook your leg desperately, as if trying to get rid of a leech off your skin. Which… it's basically almost impossible.
Reese shrieked, clung tighter as he practically dragged on the floor.
“I’m sorry!” He yelled. “I’m so sorry! Please, please don't leave me alone!”
“Alright, alright! Shut up, you embarrassing me!”
You stopped using him like a mop. Helped him to stand up from the ground with both of your hands. Reese grumbled in petulant behaviour, pulled you in a hug so tight you could barely breathe.
Your hands stilled on the sides of his waist, unsure where to put it. “Reese…”
“I know, I know, I shouldn't have punched people, especially the one you like. I understand, trust me… just, don't ditch me in garbage, okay? I can be your friend again, right? Right?”
You pushed him away forcefully, just enough to meet his gaze. And he backed off with a pout formed on his lips.
“No,” you pointed a finger close enough to his face, and he could barely make it to grab your wrist before you turned your heels away from him. And for the third time in a row this week, you had left him alone again. Dumbfounded. Hurt. Hands twitched slightly on his sides as he desperately tried not to be emotional over something stupid like this.
He turned on his back, walking away in the opposite direction from yours.
Reese has tried everything to catch your attention. He was losing his shit so bad. And by bad, it means this:
“Don’t freak out, I just want to say I'm—”
“AHHHHHHH! REESE, GET THE HELL OFF MY WINDOW!”
He struggled with the ladder as he climbed up to the outside of your window. Hearing you scream, he put a finger on his lips to shush you down, but it was too late—because apparently God hates him enough to blow the ladder off the wall near your bedroom.
In a perfectly diabolical timing, your mom rushed upstairs to know what the hell was going on, but heard a loud thud instead. Followed with his pained cry that made both you and your mom open the window, and looked down where Reese was laying flat on his back.
“I’M—OW! I’M OKAY!”
Or this:
“Reese, what is WRONG with you??”
Your jaw was slack, eyes nearly gauged out as you processed the sight of Reese with a bloodied grin—it seeped through his white teeth. It wasn't only just there, it was everywhere; his jaw, his bruised arms. There were furs stuck on his stained-dirt clothes. It took all his willpower to reach you down the street with his wiggly feet.
“Hey,” he greeted with a forced casual demeanor, winced a bit as he nudged your shoulder with his. “I figured I could give you some flowers for my apologies—"
“Flowers?!” Your voice was at least five keys higher, making Reese flinch at the sudden yelling. “WHAT HAVE YOU EVEN GOT YOURSELF INTO??”
“Hey, I don't appreciate getting yelled at after going through hell for this!” He lend the flowers closer to you. Its petals reeked of something smelled like dog piss. You gagged, and you shook your head forcefully. Walking faster. And faster… and then it quickly turned into a whole sprint to school. Accompanied by Reese's screaming on the top of his lungs, going after you.
And there was absolutely more than that.
Reese's legs were hung from the branches ofa tree, head low as he met your gaze upside down. He said, “Wassup,” but all you could hear was how close you were to having a mild heart attack. The other day, his face was found in the empty space between the books from the library's rack with a grin. He pulled your hair from behind in class that earned him a detention.
He spammed you bags of freshly baked cookies, panettone, or sometimes canèles through your mom. She didn't even know you were having a fight with Reese.
He left a note on your desk. He waved his hands outside of your class from behind the window. But it ended horribly with Mr Herkabe chasing him from behind. His messages are cramped all over your MSN space. You never returned his calls. Malcolm tried to help him out by trying to talk to you. And you did everything you could to just go on and ignore him as well.
It was going too far. You and Reese never really fought about something before, so this one was heavy for you both. Restless nights went by with the longing of his presence in your days again. Unbeknownst to you, he also missed you so much.
A little bit too much.
And it made Reese fell sick.
He couldn't get up from bed. Breaths grew a tad heavier and warmer, and sweats rolled off his temples to his jaw. His eyes felt like it's burning somewhere between tears or maybe just from the higher temperature of his body. He forced the pair to shut as he pulled the covers higher. Despite how hot he gets from the fever, he still feels cold even from the slightest blow of wind coming through the curtains of the Wilkerson's bedroom window.
Lois had often checked on him every once in a while, forced him to eat something even as he tried to reject the food entering his stomach, and changed the warm damp washcloth on his forehead whenever it ran dry.
She just went out of his room again for the fourth time that day when she met you downstairs on your way to see him. Lois warned you to not get any closer or you’ll get sick as well. Her advice ended up little to no avail for you, because you were there anyway—carefully entered his room to not startle him and closed the door behind. He still noticed your presence anyway.
“Why are you even here?” The question cut through the thick air between you two with a raspy voice of his. Reese was shivering slightly under the blanket, face flushed with a tinge of redness from fever.
You put your backpack down near the chair of his desk. Walking to him. “Malcolm told me you were sick. Am I not allowed to be worried now?”
“Worry? As if. You hate me,” A weak chuckle escaped from his lips. “You wished for this, aren't you?” One hand tugged on your sleeve to pull you closer despite the whiny grumble, and so you did; sitting on the edge of the bed just beside him. Gave him a few good ‘ol pats on his back when he started coughing, guiding him gently to sit and rest his back against the bed's headboard.
You could already feel the heat radiating off him. Not in a comforting way. More in a ‘holy-shit-it-really-is-that-bad’ way. You rolled your eyes at his attempt to be snarky. Shaking your head lightly. “As much as I want to hang you in a basketball ring, I still want to see you in school,” you reached for his arm, squeezing it gently.
Reese scoffed. “Yeah, right. As if you're not avoiding me in school.”
“Well… I’m here now.”
“And I’m still upset.”
“Awh, so now you're upset?” You chuckled, shifting closer to him.
You moved your touch to his forehead, the back of your hand placed gently to check on the temperature. Reese stayed still. Didn't bite back even though every nerve in him was screaming to just bark or grumble at you.
His chest rose and fell in deep breaths as he spoke, “You want me to die…” He turned his gaze to you. His eyes were droopy. Tired. Weak, half-hearted jabs thrown to your ribs, and you caught his fist with an exasperated sigh. “You want me to die…” he murmured again, then stared into the ceiling as the back of his head hit the frame with a soft thud—and your hand instinctively covered it.
“Reese, shut up. I don't hate you. Stop saying all these things.”
“I’m sorry, okay? I genuinely am.”
“Fine. Now, please focus on your health.”
He leaned his head on your shoulder. Warm puffs of breaths fanning on your skin as he kept sniffing. You wiped his nose with a few sheets of tissues you picked from his desk. As if on cue, he just started to aggressively blow his nose on its fabric while you pinched the tip of his nose.
“Okay,” he breathed out afterwards. Eyes bleary and ears stuffed from the pressure he put in letting out all the mucus. “...Okay. This is embarrassing."
“Yeah, yeah, but that's just how being sick is,” Lois came back with the same basin she brought in before. You shuffled off his bed, making Reese's arms stretched out to have you back to accompany him. You chuckled when it was Lois who reacted first, smacking his arm lightly and telling him to go lay down. He shot her a glare. Obeyed her nonetheless, although reluctant.
“Mom…!”
“Sssh! Stop—moving!”
Once Lois walked out the door, you sat again beside him. A damp, warm cloth now sticking to his forehead. He couldn't even try to be shy about it anymore, he just wanted to feel you near him.
He mumbled something like, “You’ll catch a cold,” when you slid under the covers to cradle him in your arms. He melted anyway, hot as a furnace as his face buried in the crook of your neck, hands snaked around your waist in a loose, exhausted embrace.
Malcolm just got back after picking up Dewey from his school. So when they saw both of you curled up in Reese's bed, the first thing they did was being quiet about it. They knew Reese had been a mess after all those stupid silent wars between you—except he wasn't so silent about it and put himself in a lot of trouble just to catch your attention.
You let out a soft hum, turned your head to Dewey. One hand was fisted on the back of your shirt. “Thanks, y/n.”
“For what?”
“This,” Malcolm added to Dewey's gratitude, "At least you forgive him now. I’m sick of hearing Reese yapping every day about you.”
You quietly laugh at that, careful not to wake Reese from the wonderful La La Land. Malcolm smiled seeing his brother's peaceful expression.
Just days after, he recovered enough to be able to kick people's asses in school, earning some of your scolds just like he usually got if he wasn't playing ‘keeping it lowkey’ from you. Yet, you knew him for years, and especially after the incident. You knew he shoved a lot of things under the mattress just to keep the peace.
He drew on the pages of your book, stole a few of your candy bars and took notes from the homework you had jotted down the night before—and that, if Reese is willing to study it afterwards with you (that's your rule ever since you befriend him). Overall, things got back to normal again.
You seek for him in the midst of kids cramping up the hallway just to take a peek on the school’s announcement board. Chatters and chuckles exchanged between peers and couples. You stood there with your head tilted just enough, eyes squinting to read the announcement. A pair of green iris shone with an amused gleam next to you, shoulders close enough to touch between you two.
You didn't say anything to him. Stomach's already churning with a mix of nervousness, realizing that graduation it's near, and also about the prom night itself.
"Cool,” He stepped closer to the board. Then turned his head to you. “You’re going?”
You blinked. It just dawned on you that you got nobody to come with. Too bitchless to care. And there you were, still contemplating whether to go or not.
"Damn, I don't know,” You shrugged, trying not to give a damn. But you did. And it made him sigh, "Dudes are basically going after you. You can close your eyes and pick one of them."
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not,” Reese draped an arm around you with his usual grin. “Why don't you try it?”
“Try what?”
“You know, going out with someone. Maybe also a little bit of making out—”
“What?”
“Just saying,” He took a step back with an exaggerated scared face. Hands hung up, waving invisible white flags. Then shoved into his jacket. Your elbow strikes him in a playful manner, although it still successfully caused a reaction from him; a fake weeping that drove your feet to walk away from him with a snicker, and he quickly caught up beside you—sharing the same few giggles.
"Hey, don't leave me alone!"
A/N: lowkey's kinda short and i probably got some grammar errors. Tbh, i just want to write something again🥀 and i might gonna make a part two of this, and if not, then... you'll see:" thx for reading!!💕
