hi gloomwitch!! i really love ur imagines, they make me smile and laugh and cry everytime!! i’ve recently been seeing this trend on tiktok where wives refer to their husbands as “my current husband”, and i was wondering how would task force 141 react to being called that?? i bet their reactions would be so funny!
I've had multiple requests come in for the current husband / current boyfriend trend. I think together it totalled to ten or eleven asks. I've decided the best thing to do is to combine them all into one request. So, y'all are getting both. Two for current husband and two for current boyfriend. Enjoy!
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
“Have something you want to tell me?”
John’s voice brushes against your ear, the intensity close enough that it completely startles you.
You smack his chest, wincing as your hand connects with solid muscle. “Don’t scare me like that.”
John grasps your wrist, bringing the back of your hand to his mouth. He plants a soft kiss there but doesn’t let go. His gaze scans the crowd before settling on you. “Did I just hear you call me your current husband?”
You freeze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
With a husky chuckle, John slowly spins you around to face him. “You trying to provoke me?”
“Never,” you lie.
He smirks. Drops your hand. Leans in close. “What are you after, cabbage?”
John only ever uses cabbage when he’s looking to stir up a bit of trouble.
“Not here, John,” you chide.
“Yes, here.” His hand descends, sliding under your dress, caressing bare thigh. It ascends. And you shiver. “Does my wife need a lesson or two?”
“John,” you breathe. “Someone will see.”
You groan as he uses one finger followed by another. Your hands grasp his shoulders, as his fingers sinking inside.
“Say current again. Dare you, love.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
“Did I hear you correctly?” Kyle’s eyes are a bit wide, a touch of concern in his brow.
You aim for nonchalance. “What do you mean?”
“You called me your current boyfriend. As in, someone will come after me.” Kyle’s concern deepens. He considers a moment, then continues, tone serious. “Are you going to break up with me?”
“No. No!” you blurt, your arms raising, hands waving in abject shock. “Why would you think that?”
The crease in his brow smooths. “I don’t want to,” he replies, shrugging. “But it had me questioning things.” This time, his features shift to amusement. “Like why you begged me to come inside you last night.”
Your cheeks flame. “Kyle!” You slap your hand over his mouth, gaze darting everywhere. A few people standing nearby briefly glance your way, but return to their conversations, oblivious.
He grasps your wrist and removes your hand, a wicked smile on his lips. “You’re teasing me.”
“Excuse you?”
Kyle laughs, rubbing at his jaw. “I see what you’re doing.” A discreet grab of your ass sends you scurrying, Kyle right behind as you aim for solitude.
“Kyle,” you warn, but you’re laughing as he goes for a kiss.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Johnny’s face lights up. He lunges over the top of the sofa, landing in the spot you don’t occupy, and crawls up to you, getting nearly nose-to-nose.
“I need to call you back,” you murmur, ending the call. “What are you doing?”
“You said current. Your current boyfriend.”
“Yes?”
“Either you’re breaking up with me or dropping me a hint, lass.”
Inwardly, you scream for joy. You didn’t think Johnny would be listening to your conversation. Most of the time, Johnny’s a bit aloof, rarely—if ever—eavesdropping on your phone calls. But this time, he heard.
“What do you think I meant by that?” you counter, turning it back on him.
Johnny leans back, a curious expression on his face. He ponders the question, exaggerating by aggressively tapping on his chin.
“Could be breaking it off.”
“Hm.”
“Or,” he drawls, a mischievous smile forming on his lips, “you’re looking to change your last name.”
You shrug, trying to wiggle out from under him. Johnny, noticing immediately your attempt to escape, pins you to the cushions. You shriek, giggling hysterically as he buries his face against your neck, nipping and biting and showering you with sloppy kisses.
“Current,” he mutters.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
You glimpse Simon’s unamused expression from over the shoulder of the person you’re conversing with. It’s apparent that they didn’t notice your choice of words, but Simon sure did. There is no hesitation in his step. Just a quick stride, and a sharp grip on your upper arm.
“I need to borrow my wife a moment.”
Simon doesn’t wait for an answer. He guides you out of the room, pushing you up against the wall when the two of you are completely alone.
“Current husband? You planning divorce?”
“Never,” you laugh, pouting your lips like you want him to lean him.
Simon’s gaze drops, the crease in the middle of his brow smoothing as understanding dawns.
“If you wanted to play, you could say so.”
Going up on your toes, you present your mouth. “What fun would that be, husband?”
Simon chuckles and grasps the back of your neck. “Listen here, love. We’re going to the car, and I’m going to fuck that current husband nonsense right out of you.”
Your pussy clenches. “Promise?”
With his hold on the back of your neck, Simon steps back, and lightly pushes you in the direction of the exit. “Start walking,” he growls.
summary: despite their best and most ardent efforts, each of the slytherin boys gets rejected by you, and can't figure out why, not knowing that one of them holds a secret that explains it all.
word count: 1.4k
warnings: suggestive content, probably 18+ish, please read responsibly my dears.
The boys watched eagerly across the Great Hall as Enzo leaned over the table to get your attention. You looked up at him, and smiled instantly, a blush rising to your cheeks at whatever he’d said.
“Yes, mate” Blaise whispered in encouragement.
You ducked your head and curled a piece of hair behind your ear, averting your eyes demurely as he continued and Draco realized he’d stopped breathing altogether, the anticipation nearly crushing him as he moved to grasp Theo’s arm in excitement.
Finally, your eyes met Enzo’s and as you started to reply the boys’ gaze was glued to your perfect lips, wishing they could hear what you were saying as they all physically leaned forward, like it would make any difference at this distance.
Enzo rubbed the back of his head abashedly, nodding and smiling before he turned to walk back to the Slytherin table. He took several steps in his swaggering gait but his pout betrayed him as he caught their eye and shook his head subtly and they let out a collective gasp.
“Fuck!” Theo said rather loudly, garnering the attention of a few third years nearby.
“Damn it all” Draco agreed as Blaise threw down the Daily Prophet that he’d held clenched in his fist.
Enzo approached the table and slumped down onto the bench.
“She said… no” he muttered, like he was in a trance, like he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth before he shook his head. “It’s official, then, she’s impenetrable, if she’s not going to go out with me then the rest of the school is fucked.”
“Mate, who the fuck says no to all four of us?” Blaise pondered as he looked between Enzo, Draco and Theo who were all equally gobsmacked.
One of them getting rejected happened occasionally, rarely, but all four of them? It was an impossibility they’d never considered as they looked back at you like you were a unicorn. And gods if that didn’t take them down another notch because just the sight of you quickened their heartbeats; you were the new girl and you were hot, unbelievably hot. The type of girl any of them would have on their arm in an instant.
They had just started to ponder the depths of their failure when Mattheo sauntered into the Great Hall, ambling to their table and picking at the platters of food in front of him nonchalantly, totally unaware of the cataclysmic breakdown that was occurring amongst his friends.
“Well look who decided to show up” Draco sneered, shooting Mattheo a gaze with narrowed eyes. “And where’ve you been?” he asked.
“I slept in” Mattheo snapped back with an annoyed look on his face, “S’that alright with you, mother? Christ.”
“Mate you’ve been totally MIA lately—” Blaise started before he was promptly interrupted by Enzo who was still in the heady fog of rejection as he stared at you.
“—Maybe she swings the other way?” he said. “Doesn’t even fancy a lad. That would make sense” he urged, hope rising in his voice as he glanced to his friends for reassurance.
“No, my cousin heard from his neighbor that she dated Viktor Krum” Draco said, proudly spilling tea that had eyebrows shooting up around the table.
“I heard she’s part Veela” Theo said quietly and Enzo nodded his head in agreement.
“Didn’t she come from Beauxbatons?” Blaise asked.
“Diggory told me that Potter asked her out and she said no to him too, if that’s any consolation” Theo added.
“Barely” Draco muttered darkly.
Mattheo looked around at them, perplexed until he muttered with a mouth full of food “What’reyou onabout?”
Enzo nodded his head in your direction, “YN” he said, like it was obvious. “Literally where have you been? She’s all anyone can talk about.”
Mattheo sat up a little straighter and swallowed his food so quickly he almost choked.
“What about her?” he asked.
“She’s a fucking enigma” Enzo said frustratedly. “She said no to every single one of us” he huffed.
“—What if it’s a test to see who will ask twice?” Theo asked, nearly moving to his feet to try.
“Wait, wait” Mattheo said, stopping him, his voice rising in a way that garnered their attention. “You all fucking asked her out?” his voice was a low growl that was lost in the midst of their frantic banter.
“Have you seen her?” Blaise said, grabbing Mattheo’s arm and pulling him closer to him as he gestured to you. “Fucking look at her! Merlin’s beard. I would take a bludger straight to the head for just a taste of that.”
Mattheo pushed Blaise off of him as his hands curled into fists, but his reaction was ignored as he watched them ogle you, each of them nearly drooling now at the way you were softly biting your bottom lip, twirling a piece of your hair and reading the book in front of you.
“Can we just … not?” Mattheo said, exasperated, in an effort to divert their attention from you.
“Shut up, Mattheo” Enzo snapped, his eyes never leaving you.
“How about you shut the fuck up Berkshire - just because you found one girl in the whole school who won’t suck your dick” Mattheo argued.
“What’s gotten into you?” Draco replied, his face scrunched in annoyance as he finally looked away from you to Mattheo.
“Don’t be a fucking prick just because she said no to you too” Enzo mocked. “Join the fucking party mate.”
Mattheo straightened up at the comment, shifting a bit in his seat, but remained silent.
A moment.
Two.
And the quiet is what finally got their attention. Enzo turned around slowly, his gaze peeling away from you as Draco, Theo and Blaise followed suit.
Enzo’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in.
“Riddle?” he said questioningly, accusingly.
Mattheo fidgeted again. “What?” he spat back, eyes narrowed.
“You did ask her, didn’t you?” Enzo pressed.
Mattheo thought back to the night he bumped into you in the library. It was well past midnight and he was making every effort to learn an entire semester’s worth of astronomy for his exam the next day. You had nearly collided with each other around a bookcase and as he helped you pick up the tomes that had tumbled from your hands he’d been startled by how beautiful you were, how sweet you were to him, how fucking good you smelled, like amber and vanilla, how he immediately wanted to know if your lips tasted the same way.
Within 43 minutes he knew that they didn’t. They tasted like cocoa butter, they were smooth and soft and he knew that he’d probably be thinking about the way you kissed him for the rest of his life. He also knew that you wanted to keep your tryst a secret… for now.
Mattheo came back to the present and bobbed his head from side to side noncommittally. Did I ask her out? he thought.
“Ehh” he replied. He didn’t remember a lot of talking from that night.
“Did she say YES?” Theo asked incredulously, as he leaned in.
Mattheo thought about the heat of your skin on his, the way it burned hot as he pressed you against the wall in the small broom closet this morning, hiking up your skirt. He thought about how utterly fucking perfect you felt and the way you gasped, the way he caught your mouth with his own to keep you quiet, because you wanted to keep things a secret… for now.
But for the life of him he couldn’t keep the shit eating grin off his face at the memory of it all as he shrugged.
The boys erupted.
“NO FUCKING WAY!”
“LEGENNNNNDDD!”
Theo had launched across the table and grabbed Mattheo excitedly by the front of his robes even as Mattheo laughed and swatted him away.
“Fucking Riddle” Draco said, a proud smile on his face as he shook his head.
“Well?” said Enzo as they settled back down and leaned in conspiratorially. “C’mon then, aren’t you going to tell us about it?”
“I’m dying here” Theo agreed.
“Please” said Blaise.
Mattheo smirked. “Yeah, alright, I’ll tell you” he said, motioning for them to get closer.
They leaned in.
“I’ll tell you that if any of you fucking pricks looks at her the way you were this morning, if you try to make another move on her or if you keep spewing worthless fucking rumors about her I will take deep pleasure in fucking you up in ways magic hasn’t figured out how to fix yet. Yeah?”
Each of their gazes flickered to the darkness in Mattheo’s eyes, and then slowly, quietly, they pulled back to their seats, resuming their breakfast.
If you have derealization/depersonalization or if you struggle with any type of identity/essential crisis then I HIGHLY suggest you don't read this post.
You read the title, now I'm going to give you a chance to ponder.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ Time starts now: ⋆✰⩇⩇: ⩇⩇✰⋆
While you do that, I'm going to explain to you some things about this so-called reality.
💭. Think about your body, your heart beats on its own, your digestive system operates on its own. Now sit there in silence for a few seconds, do you notice any thoughts arise? Did you consciously think them or did your brain do it on its own?
💭. If your body is able to operate completely independent of you, then what is YOU? You aren't consciously telling your cells to divide, you aren't consciously telling your mouth to produce saliva or your nose to produce mucus. The body follows its own code, its own set of instructions for life. You aren't telling your body to create DNA, you aren't in control of mitosis or meiosis and yet, it still happens.
💭. If your body doesn't need you, then who is YOU? You must be something else then, the awareness. You're aware of the body, you're aware of its processes however you have no involvement with them that means you are the observer; the witness of life in itself.
💭. Now back to the title, when you fall asleep where do YOU go? The body is asleep, it's unconscious. It no longer perceives this reality. When you're asleep you can't see, you can't hear, you can't smell, you can't touch, nor can you taste. Yet do YOU cease to exist?
💭. Dreams are such a fascinating concept, the body falls asleep and yet you still are aware. You exist in this "dream" world and you're aware of it, if not in a lucid dream you're still aware that you have dreams. In my dreams I sometimes become aware that I'm dreaming, I can tell time, I can see, hear, taste, smell, think, feel but when I wake up I tell myself
"Oh that wasn't real that was just a dream."
💭. But what even is a dream? The same awareness that is typing this post right now is the same awareness of my dream reality. The same awareness that becomes conscious of the dream is the same awareness that's conscious of this Tumblr blog.
💭. So why do we consider dreams to be fake? What if dreams are just as real as the physical reality? Why do we give it a separation?
💭. What's the one thing that remains the same for both the physical and the imagination?
Awareness.
Awareness never ceases to exist, awareness just is.
💭. The dream world and the physical world are both one thing, it all exists through awareness. The body creates a separation but the truth is awareness is all there is. And that's all that will be, and ever was.
💭. Your dreams, your desired reality, your current reality are made possible through your awareness. The body tells you that one is more "real" than the other but in actuality there is no separation between these things. Your dreams is just as real as your current reality which is just as real as your desired reality.
You are the source, everything exists through YOU.
Caine who suddenly turned human keeps accidentally bumping and breaking his nose when he's trying to worship you.
Tw: suggestive to angst, comfort and sillies
There are times where you can tell he just wants to notice you in your entirety. A fire in his eyes that's easy to catch and hard to unsee.
His hands leave sharp electric tingles down your skin, though you're unsure if thats because of his old living predicament or because he's just that electrifying.
He zaps you with pure enthusiasm.
Slow and steady he goes, lips dragging from your neck all the way down. Biting through your clothes down your chest and tummy like a machine estimating its true purpose.
It starts off slow, it always does. His lips catch yours in pure mouthwatering need. His hands wrap around you like a dragon and its hoard, clinging harshly.
The room heats up slightly when he starts to drop to his knees. His hands greedily follow down.
His heterochromic eyes glance up at you. Practically begging when his chin reaches the underside of your belly.
"Go ahead baby", you murmur out, letting him in with an encouraging pat to his soft soft hair.
Theres a dangerous fuel in his body as he tries to dive in almost immediately, erratic and hungry. Then you see and feel him immediately slamming his head against your tummy hard. Pain shoots through as you see blood seeps into your clothes.
"Owwwww", you hear the long groan from the silly man as he squints, hand coming up to cup his bleeding nose protectively.
"Honeyy what is this, why is this happening right now, did you set up a protective barrier of sorts? You could have told me to back away my firefly you know I listen well", he whines out before you have a chance to say anything.
A snort escapes before you have a chance to stop it and he lets out the most betrayed look he's ever given you. From the blood to the tears threatening to leave in his eyes if anyone was here it would look like you were an evil sadist that tried to punch him. You're not evil though.
"Honey you- you hurt yourself", you giggle out as you gently pry his hands open to look at the damage.
"Oh."
Oh.
Bloop dripped faster than you would have expected from a man of his size but considering how high strung he is, it didn't suprise you that he had high blood pressure in his human body.
"This is so embarrassing."
"...you're so darn cute darling," you coo as he shields himself away from your eyes.
"Ȃ̴̲͔͚̯͛́̿a̷̡͓̐̽̋̋a̷̱͛̇͝ tḧ̸̭̉is is so embarassing of me," he glitches out, another adorable side effect of his previous life. You go get tissues while you see him cover his face in pure shame, accidentally squeezing his nose and murmuring out another small ow before folding himself to the side and collapsing on the floor in embarrassment.
Just in time for you to come back with a small damp cloth and some tissues for the blood.
"Come here you baby let me see it", you coo out while slowly prying his hands away with yours. Almost no resistance comes from him, he was always willing to do what you want.
Theres a moment of silence as he watches you work. Eyes focused on yours. A spike of guilt drips from within him. The thought of giving you another burden leaves thoughts burning in his mind.
"Being a human is hard darling", he curses out softly without any real malice, almost a masochistic ecstasy as he smiles up at you.
"...do you still love me," he murmurs out when you start cleaning him up. Your hands wipe away the blood from his hands.
You ponder for a moment whether to respond with a snarky comment. The words die in your throat when his tears drip onto your hands. It doesn't stop him from intertwining with your hands slowly sliding like tree roots.
"I dont think I could stop even if I wanted to Caine," you respond honestly. Caine perks up at that. A small smile graces his crying face. You reach up to hold the tissues against his face. He keeps his grin even through a wince when you accidentally brush against his nose. A noticably happier blush growing across his cheeks.
"Yeah it is but I think that's mostly cause you're not used to it."
"I think it would have been the same if I was born human", theres so many cuts and burns across his skin from the short time he's been human. Sometimes he forgets that he can't do all the tricks he used to do anymore.
"Well we can never find out can we?", that shuts him up quickly. Deep in thoughts that he knows he shouldn't be thinking.
"Do you love me more like this. As a human?"
"I love you, Caine."
"I love you too", he replies without missing a beat, though quieter. You don't answer his question and he doesn't want you to.
"Hm? What was that darling, I couldn't hear you," you try to tease another one out of him. Blush matching his slowly.
He catches your eyes and breathes in through his mouth, "I LOVE YOU TOO MY DARLING HONEY LOVECOOKIE!", booms out through him with a large silly happy grin. Feeling slightly like his old ringmaster self when he yells like that, he's unsure if he enjoys yelling or if he just enjoys entertaining you. It really doesn't matter in the end when your breaths grow into a laugh.
He smiles like an idiot when you lightly smack him. The ringing sound of your laugh healing all of his wounds as his nosebleed comes to a stop. He leans in for a kiss only to get attacked by them. No longer did he have to beg for life. No longer did he have to beg for love.
He could live like this forevermore. Entertaining you just to get covered in kisses when he was done.
Hittin' up girls but you want me // So I entertain them boys, say, "I'm lonely" // But I figured I need real, I hate empty // Want a real thing // Not some dumb fling.
summary: you and your best friend make out at a party, then pretend nothing happened.
a/n: holy shit this fanfic has been rotting in my drafts for days. guys the ending is kinda rushed I'm sorry. this is inspired by an au I read (which is from a different fandom.) + butterflies by denise julia. y'all should listen to the song (it's a banger.)
reminders: english isn't my first language. not proofread. kinda suggestive. this is quite long. kinda a SMAU??
“Are you guys going to that party tonight?” Blaise asked, his baritone voice cutting through the overlapping chatter in the common room.
“The one at Ravenclaw tower? Absolutely not. You will not catch me anywhere near that place,” Draco said with a scowl, his face twisting in that all-too-familiar way. The mere mention of the party clearly annoyed him.
Without even looking his way, you scoffed. “Still as bitter as ever, huh, Malfoy?” The blond bristled, his tone sharp, like the question had somehow insulted his entire bloodline. “Whatever. If you guys want to go and socialize with those nerds, be my guest.”
“Well, I am definitely going,” Mattheo chimed in, grinning up at you. “How about you, babe?” You paused, biting your cheek as you considered. “I mean... yeah, sure. Wouldn’t hurt.” Your eyes scanned the room, half-looking for approval. After all, if the rest weren’t going, you probably wouldn’t either.
“A party’s not a party without me. Of course I’ll be there,” Lorenzo declared smugly. Pansy, who was lounging with her legs draped over Blaise’s lap, tossed a decorative pillow at Lorenzo. “Don’t be so full of yourself,” she laughed.
Then Theodore—quiet until now—spoke up, rubbing his chin dramatically like he was pondering a mystery. “does it ever make you guys question how close these two are?” He gestured toward you and Mattheo, who, as usual, had his head resting in your lap while your fingers idly toyed with his hair.
It was always like this with the both of you. Close. Comfortable. Just friends—friends since first year. “And that means... what, exactly?” you asked, arching a brow. Well this certainly caught Mattheo's attention. He sat up, slinging an arm around your shoulders as he grinned. “Yeah, what are you implying, Theo?”
“I’m just saying,” Theodore chuckled, “you two are a little too close to be just friends.”
The others immediately chimed in. A few: “That is suspicious,” from Blaise, a “It’s revolting, honestly,” muttered by Draco, and “I thought they were dating,” said Pansy—and Enzo. “Oh my god, jinx!”
You rolled your eyes. You and Matt? Seriously? That was ridiculous. He wasn’t even your type. “No offense to you," you said, turning to Mattheo, "but I wouldn’t date you in a million years. You’re like... my bro.”
“Exactly! She’s my bestfriend,” Mattheo added, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “I don’t hear you guys saying this stuff when I hang out with Pansy.”
“That’s because you’re not cuddling up one-on-one or kissing Pansy like that” Enzo shot back. "I did not kiss her!" Mattheo snorted at his friend's accusation. "Correction—you don't kiss her on the lips," Blaise added with a smirk.
“Whatever,” you said quickly, eager to change the subject. “Weren’t we talking about the party?”
Thankfully, the group let it drop, and the teasing died down. For now.
.
.
.
.
.
.
You don’t know how you ended up here—on the rooftop of someone’s dorm, sharing a cigarette and something more.
One moment, you were downstairs, dancing and laughing with your friends beneath the colored string lights strung across the ceiling like makeshift constellations. The music thumped through the house, bass-heavy and alive. N.E.W.T's were over, and the seventh years had exclusive invites to a frat party that turned into a full-blown celebration.
The party was everything you needed—loud, messy, warm with sweat and celebration. Red cups in hand, your friends toasted to freedom while you danced in their orbit, spinning like a satellite.
Then Mattheo pulled you aside.
He didn’t say much. Just leaned in, his breath warm against the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Wanna escape from here?”
It wasn’t even the words—it was how he said them. That voice dipped in mischief, the way his lips ghosted your skin, barely touching, barely not. Then came the kiss—not on the lips—but at the place where your jaw met your neck. A single peck, almost nothing. But it lit something low in your stomach. You giggled, involuntarily.
Maybe it was the liquor—whatever they poured in those red cups felt like rocket fuel—but you followed him anyway.
Now it’s colder up here. The wind carries a bite, teasing the bare skin along your arms, but you barely notice it. Mattheo pulls out a cigarette with one hand, and you, without thinking, fish your lighter from your back pocket and offer it to him. A quiet ritual. Familiar.
You flicked it on and held the flame to his lips.
He leaned for the second time that night, eyes flickering up to meet yours as he took a drag. And for a moment, your faces are close—too close. The fire dances between you, illuminating the lines of his face. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, eyes darker in the night. He lights the cigarette, inhales, exhales slowly, the smoke curling between you.
Then he hands it to you.
You take it wordlessly, bringing it to your lips. The smoke burns a little, but you don’t mind. Silence stretches between you—not awkward, not quite comfortable either. Just… charged.
“I ran into Aidan earlier,” you say, your voice low as you exhale a plume of smoke into the cold night. Mattheo tenses beside you. His jaw flexes as he turns to you. “That asshole?”
You snort softly, elbowing him in the side. Mattheo never liked your ex-boyfriend. At first, he was charming—expected from a hufflepuff—but as the relationship progressed, his true colors began to show. Mattheo had warned you more than once to break up with him. "Yeah. Asked me how I was. Like he cares.”
His mouth twists in a scowl. “Next time you see him, don’t engage. Waste of breath.”
“Will do, boss,” you say with a smirk, your tone teasing. But Mattheo’s not laughing. You reach for the cigarette in his hand again, but he lifts it just out of reach.
“That’s enough for you tonight.”
You blink. “What? Shut up, Matt. Give it.”
He lifts his arm higher, out of your grasp, a small smirk forming on his lips. “Nope.”
“Mattheo, come on,” you whine, half-laughing, half-annoyed.
“It’s bad for you, love.”
You roll your eyes, jumping slightly to snatch it, but he catches your wrists with one hand and pulls them down. You stumble a little, and suddenly, you’re chest-to-chest. That smirk’s still there, but his eyes are serious now. Focused. Right on you. “You do know secondhand smoke is worse, right?” you mutter, your breath shaky.
“Then I’ll put it out,” he replied smoothly. Before you could protest again, he flicked the cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. You groaned, frustrated. “You’re such an ass.”
The movement brought your faces even closer. You could see everything—the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the way his lips twitched at your whining. He thinks you're cute like this.
He released your hands, but you grabbed him by the front of his shirt and tugged him toward you, close. “Pull out another one.” He didn’t. He just stared at you, gaze slipping from your eyes to your lips and back again. Then he smiled—small, almost rueful—and shook his head
He raises one of his hands, only to reach up and brush a strand of hair away from your face. His fingers graze your cheek, slow and deliberate.
You freeze.
You hadn’t realized how close he was until now. His breath is warm, and you can feel it against your lips. Your heart pounds, each beat echoing in your ears. The rooftop, the cold, the party below—it all fades.
He’s looking at your lips, you could feel it. That look, dark and quiet and hungry. “You’re drunk,” he says, softly, but his voice is rough now. Like the words are scraping their way out of him. “So what?” you whisper.
His eyes meet yours, and something cracks.
“Fuck it,” he mutters.
Then he’s kissing you.
It isn’t gentle. None of it is.
His lips crash into yours with the kind of urgency that says I’ve been waiting too damn long. His hand cradles the back of your neck, the other slipping around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss is hot, possessive, filled with something wild and reckless and real.
You freeze momentarily, eyes wider. Then your eyes flutter shut, kissed him back with just as much hunger. Your heart thudded wildly, hand pressed in the fabric of his shirt as you sigh into the kiss.
"snap out of it!" that voice on the back of your mind pleads.
it's no use, your mind goes blank. He's kissing you with confidence, as if practiced, as if he's done it far too much—no surprise there. Fuck, there goes the rational voice screaming you. It dissipates. Gone to hide in the deepest darkest part of your mind. Lost.
All you know is the heat of him, the taste of smoke and cheap liquor on his tongue, the press of his body against yours. You kiss him back like you’re starved for it, like you need him to fill the ache that’s been building all night—maybe longer.
You gasp for air, pulling away just for a second, but he doesn’t let go. "Matthe—" He follows you, chasing your lips again, and this time it’s messier. His tongue parts your lips and explores, greedy and slow, tasting everything you offer. His hand tightens on your waist, and you clutch at his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.
“Matt…” you breathe, lips swollen, head spinning. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, both of you gasping for air.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you, eyes wild, lips red.
Then, like it never happened, he steps back slightly, wiping his thumb across your lower lip. “Let’s go back,” he says, voice calm again. “They’re probably looking for us.”
You blink at him, your whole body still burning, your lips still tingling. You’re not sure your legs will work.
But you follow.
Still tasting him on your mouth, still feeling him in your bones.
Still wondering—what the hell just happened?
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You're certainly not drunk out of your mind now.
Your eyes won’t stop drifting to him. No matter how hard you try to focus on anything else—your drink, the music, the peeling edge of the table—it’s him. It’s always him.
God, why did he have to kiss you?
Why did he have to kiss you like that—like it meant something, only for him to turn around and pretend like it meant absolutely nothing?
“I would never date him.”
“He’s just my best friend.”
“He’s not even my type.”
Bullshit.
He messed you up. Twisted your insides into knots and left your thoughts in disarray. And now he’s over there—laughing. Like nothing happened. Like your lips hadn’t touched, like you didn’t feel the world tilt on its axis for a second. He’s giggling around with Enzo and Theo like he didn’t just rip something sacred out of your chest and toss it aside.
You can't even annoy Pansy about it. She and Blaise are off somewhere, likely snogging in the dark corners of the room, completely lost in each other. Meanwhile, you're stuck here. Sitting stiffly across from him, fingers fussing at the hem of your top like it's going to unravel the answers. Daphne’s rambling in front of you—something about a guy a year below or her daddy buying her another overpriced purse—but none of it sticks. None of it matters. Not when Mattheo's in the same room and refusing to even look at you.
It’s like the space between you is a canyon now. And you're fucking terrified your friends will notice. Will start to ask why you're sitting so far from him. Why you haven’t exchanged a single word since getting back.
The silence is unbearable.
“I’m gonna head back,” you say abruptly, cutting off Daphne mid-sentence as you push your chair back. She blinks and nods. “Be safe,” she says, standing as well, probably to find her sister.
And then—of course—then he speaks.
“Want me to come with you?”
His voice slices through the air like everything was fine. Like he hasn’t been avoiding you for the past hour. You glance at him. He’s finally looking at you, but it’s too little, too late. You shake your head, lips pressed into a tight line. “It’s fine." Just that. No smile. No softness.
You turn and walk out of the tower without another word. Part of you still waits for the sound of footsteps behind you. He always walks you back, even when you’ve pretended to hate it. Even when you insisted he didn’t need to. But now?
Nothing. No footsteps. No Mattheo.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Or worse—what the fuck is wrong with you for caring this much?
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You slammed the dorm door shut with more force than necessary, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. Good. Let it echo. Let it rattle something.
Silence settled like a blanket around you, thick and heavy. You welcomed it. Moments like this made you grateful your dorm mates had boyfriends—off playing house somewhere else, leaving you blessedly, wonderfully alone.
Alone with your thoughts.
Alone with him in your head.
Alone with Mattheo.
You paced at first. Like you could walk off the frustration coiling inside your gut. Like movement would make the memory fade. But it didn’t. It only made it sharper. Brighter.
The kiss. His lips. The look in his eyes right before he leaned in—half-lidded, a little lost, a lot hungry. You kissed him back. You kissed him back.
And fuck, maybe you meant it.
You’d convinced yourself it was just the alcohol. Drunken stupidity. Your body searching for warmth, your brain buzzing with booze. His proximity was convenient. He smelled good, and his shirt was soft, and maybe your body had just... reacted.
That’s all.
That had to be all.
You groaned, dropping face-first onto your bed like gravity had finally won. The scent of laundry detergent clung to your sheets, but it wasn’t strong enough to drown out the phantom of his smell—spice and something clean, maybe citrus. It filled your head like smoke.
You weren’t going to let a stupid kiss ruin everything. No way. Not your friendship. Not the years of knowing each other. You were solid. Rock solid. Untouchable.
Except you weren’t.
The night blurred after that kiss. You vaguely remember scrubbing off your makeup, brushing your teeth like a zombie, crawling into bed. But sleep never came. Hours slipped by and you just lay there—a sweating, throbbing, aching mess of memory and regret and something worse. Something needier.
You could still feel him.
You groaned again, flipping onto your back, your arm flung over your eyes like it might shut the memory off. It didn’t. If anything, it played louder behind your lids.
His lips were soft, but his kiss wasn’t. He kissed like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting. The weight of his hand on your waist. The way his fingers curled around the back of your neck, tugging just enough to make you shiver. His tongue. His goddamn tongue exploring your mouth like he had every right to touch you there. And the way he smiled against your lips—so cocky, so him, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
Each image hit like a wave—hot, relentless, too much. Something in your stomach coiled, tightened. Somewhere lower pulsed in response, sharp and wrong and maddening.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was your best friend. Your best fucking friend. But still, friends don’t kiss. Friends don’t moan into each other’s mouths or grip hips like lifelines.
And most importantly—friends don’t make you ache like this.
“Fuck,” you muttered into your pillow, fisting the sheets. You wanted to scream. You wanted to forget. You wanted to kiss him again until the world went black.
Screw him. Screw his stupid lips. And screw you for wanting more.
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You know what the worst part of going to a boarding school is?
It’s not the shared bathrooms, or the fact that the castle at night was good as a haunted castle. No. It’s that even on weekends, you’re still stuck inhaling the same recycled air as the people you desperately want to avoid.
And by “person,” you mean Mattheo.
Your best friend.
Your stupid, beautiful, infuriating best friend.
Who kissed you.
And then just… didn’t say a single word about it. Like it was a minor plotline in a TV show that got cancelled mid-season. From the outside, sure—things probably looked normal. You still joked. Still hung out. Still bumped shoulders and sprawled next to each other like you were contractually obligated to share the same personal bubble.
But you knew.
He knew.
There was a crack in the foundation.
And he was pretending it didn’t exist.
The soft ray of sunlight hit you in the face like karma with a flashlight. You groaned and sat up, wincing as last night’s alcohol made your head feel like a snare drum. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped like they were mocking you, and you could hear Daphne and Pansy gossiping across the dorm.
You’d forgotten to close your canopy.
Rookie mistake.
You must’ve passed out thinking about Mattheo's lips. And your N.E.W.T scores. In that order. Priorities. “Fuck. What time is it?”
Your phone informed you, with all the subtlety of a slap: 8:27 a.m. Not bad.
Pansy noticed your resurrection and drifted over, half-concerned, half-nosey. “What happened to you last night? Didn’t even see you leave! Did you snog someone outside or something? You don’t usually pull a Houdini that early.”
You blinked at her.
“Did you snog someone outside.”
If only she knew.
You groaned and slapped her hand off your shoulder like it was to blame for everything. Which, to be fair, it kind of was. Pansy knew too much. “You totally did,” she added, now grinning like the devil’s intern.
Unfortunately? She was right.
Daphne gasped like she’d just watched a soap opera finale. “Wait—don’t tell me you got back with Aidan!”
“I did not snog or get back with Aidan,” you snapped, sitting up like the word Aidan physically offended you.
“Oh, by the way,” Daphne said like she was casually tossing a grenade, “we’re meeting at the Three Broomsticks later this afternoon, wanna come?”
You paused. Blinked. You knew what “we’re” meant.
It meant him. Matt. Your newest, shiniest crisis.
Daphne wasn’t finished. “Come on! You can’t bail on this one—Blaise's paying for everyone. His mom dumped his allowance on him and he’s gone full sugar daddy.”
You sighed. Hard.
Okay. Fine. Nothing happened. It was just a kiss. Just a really good, possibly life-altering kiss—no, it wasn't even a kiss. It was a fully-fledged makeout session. But, sure, you can survive a group hangout.
You nodded. They cheered like you’d just agreed to marry royalty. A few seconds later they were off to “find the boys.” You stayed behind, claiming you needed to get ready.
What you actually did was open your phone and go straight to his texts.
And there it was:
+1 photo sent by asshole (do not reply)
+1 message sent by asshole (do not reply)
Your heart did a little traitorous skip. Maybe—just maybe—he finally wanted to talk about it. Maybe this was it. The turning point. The big moment.
You tapped it open.
"us"
Us.
Oh.
Cool.
Great.
Love that.
You didn’t reply. You just passive-aggressively reacted with a “haha” emoji, because if he could pretend like nothing happened, then so could you.
You dropped your phone onto your nightstand with a clunk that echoed your soul.
Is that how he’s gonna play this?
Okay then. Fine.
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"Seriously, is he not coming?" Theo muttered, slumped in his seat, arms crossed. The last seat at the table sat empty—still reserved, still untouched. Reserved for Mattheo. Everyone was waiting on him. He said he’d come. Promised he’d show.
“Text him,” Pansy said with a sigh, nudging Theo toward his phone like this was routine by now.
Theo pulled out his phone and tapped fast.
"Aren’t you coming?"
The reply came a few minutes later, way too casual for the chaos it caused.
"Out. With a girl. I’ll be there next time."
Theo read it out loud, and the table fell into silence.
You let out a sharp scoff before you could stop yourself. Not from the fact that he ditched. Not entirely.
Perhaps it was because he’s out.
With another girl.
After that night.
You swallowed hard, jaw clenched. You didn’t know what pissed you off more—the fact that he bailed, or the fact that he moved on like nothing happened. Like that kiss didn’t mean a damn thing. You muttered under your breath, eyes glued to the empty seat that should’ve been his, "unbelievable."
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He strutted into the common room like he hadn’t just caused chaos at the Three Broomsticks—and in your head. Like he hadn't messed everything up and walked away from the wreckage with that same effortless smile.
Except this smile wasn’t the one he gave you.
Not the soft one that said more than words ever could.
This was the smug kind—the one he wore when his stupid plans actually worked.
It made your stomach twist.
He dropped into the armchair to your left. Not beside you. Not even a glance your way. You were seated on the sofa, Pansy tucked on the far end. It was just the two of you on the couch.
And he chose not to sit with you.
From across the room, Blaise raised a brow. Of course he noticed. He always did. Too observant for his own good. The others? Not so much.
Enzo slung an arm around Mattheo’s shoulders, grinning like a fool. “Did you snog the girl or something?” he teased, waggling his brows. Mattheo scoffed. “I don’t kiss girls on the first date,” he shot back with a smirk.
Your attention snapped away from your phone, lips curling into a bitter snort. Not because it was funny—because it was pathetic. Because you knew how ironic it was. Because he had kissed you. And didn’t even have the guts to talk about it after.
His head turned sharply at the sound. The room shifted. Eyes fell on you. “Someone’s in a mood,” he said, tone light, teasing. You didn’t even look up. “It wasn’t directed at you,” you muttered flatly, thumbing your screen just to give your eyes something else to do.
The topic had shifted, the conversation moved on, yet for some reason, Blaise found himself glancing between the two of you—eyes flicking back and forth, over and over. He knew. He’s known something’s been off between the two of you since the party. The space. The tension. The silence. Mattheo hadn’t sat next to you since that night. And now he was suddenly going on dates again—for the first time in three weeks.
Something was different. He's sure everyone could feel it. But Blaise was the only one who seemed to care. He didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Just… watched.
You lasted ten more minutes in the common room before slipping away. You timed it perfectly—waited until the conversation was too loud, too distracted. No one even looked up when you left. Just how you wanted it.
Back in your dorm, you collapsed onto your bed, eyes fixed on the carved dark wood of your canopy. Your thoughts felt heavier in the silence.
Then your phone lit up.
A message from Mattheo.
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Blaise finally pieced it together over dinner that night.
Something had clearly shifted between you and Mattheo. It was undeniable now. He’d been watching—subtle at first, but steadily growing more obvious. From the moment you chose to sit two seats away from him, squeezed between the girls, to the way the two of you barely acknowledged each other all evening.
"—I'm choosing the movie tonight," Pansy announced as-a-matter-of-factly. Your group had a tradition: every other week, you'd gather for a muggle film night. Unfortunately, this month’s pick landed right in the middle of whatever silent crisis had erupted between you and Mattheo. "I’ll pass this time. Busy," you said casually, but the words hung in the air too heavily to be brushed off. Eyebrows lifted around the table.
"Yeah, right," Mattheo muttered under his breath—just loud enough to be heard. Enzo raised an eyebrow, turning his gaze to the boy. "Did you two get into a fight or something?"
"Yeah, you're both acting kinda off," Theodore chimed in.
You forced a shrug, leaning slightly to catch Mattheo’s eyes across the table. "Nah, we’re cool. Right, bro?" You extended your fist toward him, a challenge masked as playfulness. His lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a scowl. With a mock-cheerful tone, he replied, "Yeah, we're good," and bumped his fist against yours.
No one looked convinced. There was some awkward laughter, a bit more prodding—but eventually, the conversation moved on.
Still, Blaise kept watching.
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"He's an idiot. He keeps getting back together with that girl," Draco scoffed, arms crossed, head rested on the tree. He was talking about Theo—yet again—who was apparently stuck in an eternal loop with the girl from Ravenclaw. It was exhausting to watch.
You and your friends were lounging under a tree by the Black lake. Book in hand, you were only half-listening—until Theo decided to throw you under the bus. "Okay, why am I the only one getting roasted? y/n saw Aidan the other day when we were supposed to be hanging out," he said, all defensive.
Mattheo’s head snapped to you instantly. Pansy nearly dropped her drink. "Excuse me?" she asked, offended on your behalf—or maybe her own.
"Fuck you, Theo," you muttered, eyes still fixed on your book.
"You got back together?" Mattheo asked, voice cut through the air like a knife—low, sharp, and not nearly as neutral as he wanted it to be.
"Maybe," you said plainly.
That did it. Mattheo stiffened. His expression didn’t change much, but something in him pulled tight. "Maybe?" he repeated with a scoff, folding his arms, jaw clenched. He told himself it was just because he hated Aidan—but even he knew that was a lie. Something twisted in his gut. Your words left a bitter taste in his mouth.
All eyes were on you now. The group had gone completely silent, as if they’d collectively stopped breathing. Bingo. Blaise thought. Lorenzo paused mid-sip. Theo whispered, "Oh shit"
"What's it to you?" You looked up at him at last, your gaze blank and cold.
"He's an asshole," he said simply, like it was a fact.
"And you aren’t?" you replied just as simply. Mattheo blinked, thrown. His heart did a weird little lurch. Just before your lips curled ever so slightly. "Kidding."
But there was no humor. Just that unnerving calm.
You went back to your book.
Nobody said anything for a long, long moment. The breeze rustled the leaves above you. Somewhere, a bird chirped.
It wasn’t every day you two fought. But when you did, it was a mess—for everyone else. Everyone knew Mattheo had a temper. His anger was loud, fiery, impossible to ignore. He was explosive, the kind of angry you didn’t want to provoke. But you? When you were mad—it was something else entirely.
Not loud. Not violent. No slamming fists or raised voices.
Yours was quiet. Sarcastic. Cutting. Calculated. Like venom hidden in honey. It came out in sharp looks, clipped words, and that deadly calm tone that dripped with condescension. They’d never admit it, but between his temper and your silence—
They feared yours more.
The group stayed frozen in place. A breeze rustled the leaves.
Enzo gulped, then finally cleared his throat and said, “Sooo... Honeydukes later?”
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You were walking down the empty hallway. The sun was setting, casting slanted gold across the tiled floor through the tall windows. Most students were off to Hogsmeade, killing time before curfew, and for a second, it felt like the whole building was yours. Quiet. Still.
Until a hand gripped your wrist and yanked you into a dark corridor. You stumbled back against the cool brick wall, heart in your throat.
Mattheo.
His eyes were sharp, stormy under the low lighting, his hand falling away as quickly as it had taken hold. His chest rose and fell once—controlled, restrained. But his jaw was clenched. His whole frame coiled with something he wasn’t saying yet. "What the hell was that?" he demanded, voice low but urgent, roughened by something like disbelief.
You stared at him, narrowing your eyes. “What was what?” you asked, folding your arms, trying to steady your breath. You tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, acting calmer than you felt. He took a step closer. Not aggressive. Just enough that his presence filled your space, surrounded you.
“You met up with Aidan?” he said finally, like the name itself was acid on his tongue. You blinked, caught off-guard by the directness. Then scoffed, shaking your head as a bitter smile formed. “Why do you care, Mattheo?” you shot back, the words sharp, slicing. “Do you hate him that much? Or do you just hate the thought of me with someone who isn’t you?”
His expression faltered—just for a moment—but then stiffened again.
And when you called him Mattheo instead of Matt, something in him visibly twitched. It was subtle, but unmistakable. He hated that. You used to call him that when things were easy. Intimate. Before he made it complicated. His voice came harder now. “What’s going on with you, huh?” he asked, almost accusing. “Are you really getting back with him?"
You blinked. A breath caught. “Me?” you echoed, your voice cracking into something darker. You laughed, low and cold, and took a half step back like the words physically repelled you. “Fuck you, Mattheo.”
His eyes widened slightly. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw flexing. “I asked you a question,” he said finally, quieter now, but there was steel beneath it.
You swallowed hard. “And I don’t owe you shit,” you said tightly. “Not after everything. Besides, don’t you have a date to get to?”
That made him stop.
His brows drew together. “What?”
You tilted your head, mocking him with your own disbelief. “Yeah. Why don’t you go snog her while you’re at it, Riddle? Then ghost her. Act like nothing fucking happened.”
And there it was.
The snap in his eyes.
The way his expression dropped, like you’d just punched him. He barely reacted to your hands hitting his chest, the push more about emotion than strength. He stood there and took it. He hated that you used his last name. Hated it in a way he couldn’t explain. It was cold. Distant. A punishment. “Is that what this is about?” he asked, voice tighter now, eyebrows drawn together like he was piecing something together too late. “The kiss?”
You froze. Your lips parted. Then closed. You didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to give it that power. But it was too late. You shoved him again, this time harder, hands trembling. “Yes, the kiss!” you hissed. “Because ever since you made out with me that night, you haven’t said a damn thing. Not even a sorry. Nothing. Not even a look, Mattheo!”
He swallowed. But you weren’t done.
“You kissed me,” you said, your voice growing louder, heart beating fast, the emotion seeping through your cracks. “You kissed me like it meant something. Like you meant it. And then the next day—poof. Gone. Just jokes. Silence. Acting like it didn’t happen.”
“Well neither did you! You didn’t say anything either!” he snapped suddenly, a flare of defensiveness lighting in his chest. “What the hell was I supposed to do? What if you regretted it?”
“I didn’t! I don’t! That’s the problem!” You were yelling now, not caring if anyone heard. The whole corridor could burn for all you cared. “I waited. I waited for you to say anything! And you didn’t. So I thought—fuck. Maybe it really was nothing to you.” You were shaking now. Not out of rage—but out of the hurt beneath it. The kind of hurt you couldn’t shove down anymore.
Mattheo looked at you like he’d just stepped into the aftermath of a wreck he caused. He reached for you—hesitant, gentle—but you pulled away again. And it hit him. This time, fully. Not in pieces. But in one solid, brutal wave. He had broken something. Something real.
He remembered the way you leaned into him that night. The way your fingers curled into his shirt like you never wanted to let go. He remembered the pause right before your lips touched—how perfect that silence had been. How warm you were.
And then the way he ruined it. By pretending it never happened. He didn’t kiss you like it was a joke. He kissed you like it was a promise. And then he acted like it was a mistake. “I’m sorry,” he said. The words escaped before he even thought them through. “Y/N. I’m—fuck—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it”
"Yeah, you sure made it very clear, Matt." You turned your head, jaw trembling, trying not to cry—but he could see it. He could feel it radiating off you.
You tried to walk past him. Again. And again, he reached out. This time, slower. This time, begging.
You flailed him off. He caught you again, caged you with more space and hesitation this time. "y/n, please, that's not what I meant." his voice was hoarse, filled with something you couldn't place. "Let me explain, please."
“Please,” he pleaded once more, and his voice cracked.
You stopped protesting.
Barely.
He stepped closer, cautiously, like you were something he might lose if he moved too fast. You were.
“I was scared,” he admitted. “I was so fucking scared, y/n. Of what it would mean. Of how real it felt. Because it wasn’t supposed to. We were just… friends. And I crossed a line.”
You didn’t speak. Just listened to him, your gaze fixated below as you did. "We were just friends." Your tears began to escape before you could help it. Fuck, why were you crying right now?
“But the kiss?” His voice dropped. “I don’t regret it. Not even a little. I think about it constantly. I dream about it. I replay it in my head and wonder what would’ve happened if I’d just… said something. Instead of hiding like a coward.”
“I should’ve talked to you,” he whispered. “I should’ve done everything differently. But I didn’t. And I hate myself for it.”
"Please, baby, look at me. Please?" he said softly, leaning his head trying to meet your gaze. This son a bitch just knew how to get you, because the second he pleaded, your eyes found his before you could breathe in. His heart broke a little faster upon seeing your tear-stricken cheeks, he cupped your face, and this time, you didn’t pull away. He leaned closer, just enough for you to feel the sincerity of his words. “I’m sorry,” he murmured again. “So, so sorry, baby. Please don’t cry.” Mattheo whined, peppering kisses to your face.
You closed your eyes. Your hands came up to grab the sides of his button-up, holding on like you didn’t trust your legs. “I wanna try with you, y/n,” he whispered. “I love you. And I know that doesn’t erase what I did. But it’s the truth.” You froze for a second. Your voice was hoarse before you sniffled, “I love you too."
"But that doesn’t mean I’m fine.”
“I know.” He kissed your shoulder. Mattheo whispered, "I’m not asking for fine. I’m just asking for a chance to make things right.”
You let out a breath. Shaky. Real.
“Were you really going to kiss that girl?” you asked. He shook his head, grumbled, before falling to bury his face into your shoulder. “No. I couldn’t even look at her without thinking about you.” You nodded faintly, eyes glued on the corridor.
“She was just a distraction. Draco set us up.”
“Figures,” you muttered.
He gave a weak chuckle, face still buried in your neck. “You weren’t really getting back with Aidan, were you?” You shook your head, arms wrapping around him. “I gave him back everything he ever gave me.”
His eyes softened. “You kept them?”
“I forgot I even had them.”
A beat. The wind gushed through the darkened corridor. "So what now?" you started, tone unsure.
He breathed in, pressing another kiss to your temple, "we figure it out."
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Later that night in the common room, you were curled up next to each other on the couch. Your fingers were tangled with his, your head leaning against his shoulder like it had always belonged there. You weren’t pretending nothing happened. You were just breathing again.
Everyone was fixated on the two of you in disbelief. Like you hadn't had a full-blown, under-the-radar, cool off earlier beside the lake.
Draco scowled from the other end of the room, mouth slightly open. “What the fuck is wrong with them?” he muttered.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about single dad!noah with pre school teacher!reader, where Noah slowly starts to fall for his child’s teacher purely through his son and the things he comes home and tells Noah about them. So here is me screaming into the void about three specific occasions I continuously come back to thinking over:
The first time Noah hears about you is when his son is recounting his day. It’s approaching Valentine’s Day, and while all the kids have been making Valentine’s cards for their parents, his son mentions that he asked his teacher if they’d be his Valentine, to which his teacher replied that they were too old for him, before Noah’s son confidently countered, “You’re not too old for my daddy.”
It’s a response that takes Noah by surprise, but it later makes him ponder the question; are you single? Despite the numerous reasons why he shouldn’t linger on the idea, he can’t help it as he recalls the first time he met you during orientation week. You were incredibly sweet and kind, not only to the parents but also to the kids, attentive to each child as they struggled with the idea of being separated from their parents for the first time, including his own son, who hid behind his legs, dwarfed by his height. You approached him gently, both in nature and voice, crouching to his level, introduced yourself and then guided him to the rest of the class. Before that, Noah had been worried about sending his child to the right school, hoping for a teacher who cared about the children and their job, not someone who easily held grudges against them.
The next time Noah crosses paths with you is at a parent teacher night, where he’s informed by you that his son has signed him up for the upcoming bake sale, despite Noah not having any idea how to bake. “You can just buy some at the local supermarket bakery. I won’t tell,” you assure him, winking in the process, and there’s a flutter of warmth settling in his stomach that he attempts to brush off quickly.
“A teacher encouraging lying, that’s not a good look,” Noah teases, eyes fixated on the coy yet innocent expression crossing your features as you shuffle your papers, shrugging off his comment.
“I have no idea what you mean. I’m merely suggesting you use your initiative, Mr. Sebastian.”
Another flutter, and he wants to press his hand to his stomach as if that could somehow suppress the storm of butterflies attempting to rise. ‘Mr. Sebastian’, your attempt to sound professional fails, because he catches the smile tugging at your lips and the soft look in your eye, but he doesn’t press.
Come the day of the school’s bake sale, Noah arrives with a failed attempt at cupcakes and three trays of two dozen he bought from the local Costco. Although it’s considered ‘cheating’, very few parents seem to mind, and the kids, especially don’t. They eagerly return with sticky fingers, requesting another, until he’s completely out of anything to sell. Except for one he managed to tuck away and save as an offering for you, which you suggest splitting it in two and sharing it as a reward for his good deed, an offer he simply can’t refuse.
twst second years and their favorite part of your body ft. riddle rosehearts, ruggie bucchi, azul ashengrotto, jade leech, floyd leech, jamil viper
notes: fluff, gn reader, little suggestive in jade and jamil's, floyd being floyd, title from the cutest song ever <3
༄ riddle rosehearts: brain
✣ ridiculous as it might seem, riddle is being honest when he confesses this to you. that’s not to say he only values your intellect but rather he’s heavily interested in your mindset and approach to various situations. he always looks forward to the moment you two can sit in peace, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. he loves to ask you a variety of hypothetical questions and ponder what the answers mean, what they say about you as a person. he’d never admit it, but the residents of heartslabyul have seen him on more than one occasion brainstorming topics to discuss just because he loves to see your viewpoint on things. maybe it’s odd to some, but the sheer amount that he invests into your opinions is an act of love itself.
༄ ruggie bucchi: stomach
✣ unconventional to the average person for sure. when it comes to ruggie, he values keeping you well-fed and satisfied since it was a luxury going to bed full when he was a child. he also has a penchant for plopping his head down on your tummy for a quick mid-day nap before rushing out to run more errands. his ears twitch and tickle your skin which makes you unable to hold back a few giggles in response, making him smile without realizing it. something unusual he also likes to do is grab a sharpie when the two of you are in bed and draw all sorts of nonsense on your stomach as if it’s his own personal canvas. you have pictures of every “ruggie original work” and you both get a kick out of the half-coherent drawing he does when he’s on the verge of passing out.
༄ azul ashengrotto: voice
✣ maybe a little too on the nose, but he doesn’t plan on stealing something that he benefits from being in your possession. you’re often seen in azul’s office, walking around the lounge by his side, blabbing to him at lunch, to the point where some people assume you’re some sort of shady accomplice like tweels. in reality, azul just always needs to hear you talk. he essentially uses you like youtube video background noise. if you sing for him, even better. it doesn’t matter exactly what you’re talking about just as long as he can hear your voice. he might seem distracted and disinterested, but the moment you trail off and grow quiet he’ll look up at you and ask you to continue. his favorite time of day is when you softly talk him to sleep, because hearing you means his dreams are filled with thoughts and fantasies of you as well.
༄ jade leech: hands
✣ considering this is someone who has his hands covered more often than not, it seems a bit ironic that he’s always found holding and toying with yours. technically jade enjoys every part of your body that’s different to his merform, but he particularly enjoys those cute non-webbed fingers of yours. you’ll be in casual conversation when he picks up your hand and starts poking and bending to his desire. alongside that, he likes putting your fingers in his mouth and pretending like he’s going to chomp them off, amused by the way you stiffen in concern. jade is quite shameless as well, which you unfortunately realize when he asks you out loud to wrap your pretty hands around his neck and squeeze as hard as you can. for scientific purposes, of course.
༄ floyd leech: legs
✣ the biggest freak on this side of twisted wonderland, floyd outright says he likes your legs the most because he loves to watch you run away from him while he chases you down. he was a fan of this long before the two of you were dating so you just shudder at the memory while he laughs at how adorable you are. legs are the most novel thing humans have to the merfolk so it’s pretty obvious that’s the subconscious reason behind his fascination. floyd’s favorite game is taking you to a lake or something similar and watching you kick your legs in the water while he lurks beneath the surface. it’s a 50/50 chance between him nuzzling them like a dog or tugging you in with him. he also likes to bite the soft skin of your thighs (he names the bite marks he gives you), or he’ll push your legs into odd positions so he can see how they move. he’ll ignore your complaints that he has legs too and he can look at it himself, because it’s so much more fun to see your expressions when he’s playing with you.
༄ jamil viper: lips
✣ an entire existence defined by subservience, jamil finds it hard to actively voice his desires. his relationship with kalim is still recovering and he feels as if he has no genuine outlets to express his feelings even though you’ve told him otherwise multiple times. instead, he opts to kiss you in the quiet moments between his hectic lifestyle. secluded corners become your favorite meeting place as his lips touch yours and he can feel the built up resentment leave him from that one action. your lips are what connect him to you in the most intimate way possible, they’re what praise him for his wits or talents, what come to his defense when kalim is being just a bit too unreasonable with his asks. there’s a chance he’ll clam up if you comment on how he seems to grow insatiable the moment you two are alone ; but sometimes when his social etiquette tank has run dry, he clicks his teeth and says “so?” before showing you exactly how needy he can get.
"( – ⌓ – ) ⎯⎯ he lets you draw on his skin, yeah thats pretty much it.
ft. malleus, vil
malleus
it was... a breach of your patience.
the lesson, was awfully boring. the more you listened to the apparent 'heroic' doings of certain individuals. the more it strips away your attentiveness to the words spilling out of professor trein's mouth. no matter how many times you will your ears to make out the incoherent lecturing of the man... it remains deaf.
so you decide to sate said boredom.
how? of course you need to bother your seatmate!
your intentions remained within the circle of yourself of course. your eyes stuck to the stray marker over your paper so you silently twisted the cap off and scribbled on your paper—then it was your palm—and now, malleus' arm.
"child of...?" man. malleus finishes in his mind, his attention suddenly snapped away at the sudden tug of his arm. definitely not his own decision to even make it move in the first place. usually it would remain stiffly beside his body like usual and even if someone tried to pry it to them it would remain still. but without his attention, his body lets you.
without another word. you peel open his fingers, palm open to you and it's a notion he allows. and he stays silent when you tug his gloves off. perhaps with a curious huff, malleus drifts closer to you. to accommodate your actions that he's yet to get an explanation for.
... and suddenly there's very bright flowers drawn on his palm.
said owner of the palm might just be toe darkest person in the room so it's quite out of place.
but it's from you so he likes it.
he peeks at it, with a fond smile on his face. I should enchant it to remain there forever. he thinks to himself, the curve of his lips growing wider at his thoughts, like he'd proud of the idea. the idea of being able to carry around something made exclusively by you might as well shove him into a cannonball and send him to cloud nine.
it's adorable. you're adorable.
his world grows a little more blue the more he stares at you. and if it weren't for the searing glances the professor sends your way malleus would just let his eyes engrave you into his memory forever, so he laments over it and reluctantly peels his gaze off you. mind speaking a thousand memories, the very same reason he somehow can't hear anything trein says.
you draw a strange looking lizard beneath his ring finger, one that looks a little like him and he thinks that you're asking him for marriage.
that can be arranged... he ponders, oblivious.
vil
drawings, doodles, painting— art. a reflection of the soul.
vil is great at makeup.
every brush on your face, a step to beauty. that is his reflection. you are his soul. he wants to make you look—no, make you feel like you're beautiful cause the canvas he's standing in front of is his greatest piece of art, he'd want to put you on the tallest pedestal there is. the grandest one just so the rest knows your beauty is parallel to none, something they can see and admire but not reach.
but he also wants to keep you in his own room, because only he knows what he felt when he painted you. only he should be the one given the grace.
this... he doesn't know what to consider.
perhaps vil should be bothered, if not then a little peeved at the several colors across his skin. a myriad of doodles, some words, and some simple drawings. a poor portrait of him is drawn next to one he assumes yours, the 'fairest' word on the right side of his hand, and flowers.
he's sure though. you're definitely no artist.
the thought cracks a smile at him, and you steal a glance midst the cool tip of the pen dancing along his skin. "I'd thought you wouldn't even let me do this," you admit, chair having been moved over closer to him so you wouldn't have any leaning problems. a suggestion by vil you gratefully took up, though you doubt it was just another excuse to have you closer.
"why?"
"dunno," you shrug. "it looks unseemly compared to you."
he huffs, flashing you a light smirk. "so my face is, hmmm..." vil ponders for a moment, and your face twists to the realization that you possibly just exposed what you think. but you suppose it isn't really a problem since it was basically common sense that vil is...
"gorgeous." you finish for him.
his aura brightens. (probably will be for the rest of the week.)
your hand retracts from him, the marker gripped between your fingers. and he takes a look at your 'art.' he doesn't know if he should consider it as one since there are a heap of sloppy lines, and the color bleeds into his skin. some smudges that you accidentally brushed against that makes it seem like a messy picture of chaos.
vil strives for perfection, but it's only natural there are flaws. to love oneself, you must love all parts. and to love you, he loves whatever the ink on his skin is.
well, what the heck.
"pass it to me," he stretches his hand, and you quirk a brow. questioning but curious so he indulges you. "I'll show you how it's done."
note. ngl idk what I wrote for vil it's currently 12 AM rn ☠ <- newer note, this has been rotting in my drafts for weeks and I couldn't decide whether to post it cause I wasn't sure about vil's but here hehehe
