꧁bunny꧂

(Tyriq withers x reader)

Inspired by Solange’s song, specifically Khamari’s cover of ‘cranes in the sky’.

synopsis: You and Tyriq broke up, but he shows up at your door one evening wanting to make things right.

wc: 5k+

a/n: i haven’t written in yearrrss since like wattpad days and this took me so long. lmk your thoughts💋💋💋

You had changed your hair, your once naturally dark curls highlighted with streaks of caramel and blonde. In every passing of sunlight it was like molten honey on your skin, and you were wondering why you hadn’t done it sooner. You felt good, looked good—beautiful even, but your heart still ached from the event that led you to making such an impulsive decision. 

The relationship with Tyriq was smooth, easy going. There for each other through thick and thin, like when you graduated from university, or when he landed his first big acting role. Even through the losses that came with life, through grief, you were always by each other's side. No one knew you without knowing Tyriq, and it was the same for him. Your name was constantly brought up in conversation with co-stars and in interviews, but you both knew it was a subtle claim of your relationship. An acknowledgment of your support throughout the years no matter how vague. 

But then, long thought out messages turned into shorter drier responses with hours between each. Daily face times turned into once a week things then bi-weekly. Calls were left unanswered and sent straight to voicemail. No random voice notes rambling about your days and meeting in person was even scarcer despite only living a short distance from each other. At that point both of you knew it was only a matter of time before the four years you had shared ended. 

But neither of you wanted to bring it up first, too stubborn to accept that the relationship had dwindled under the pressure of busy work schedules and adulthood.

It had only been seven months since that day. The one where Tyriq finally bit the bullet— where you had bared your hearts out to each other with more tears than necessary. You begged and pleaded with him to somehow make it work, to not throw everything you had built together for the last few years away. But it was futile. As much as Tyriq wanted to give in, hold you, comfort you, whisper soft words into your hair as you sobbed, he knew it was best to end things. And deep down you knew too, even if it hurt so much your heart felt impossibly heavy and bones shook with every cry. 

You tried to fill the void by throwing yourself into work, taking up more shifts at the hospital until you were completely exhausted by the end of the day. Then you would sleep for long periods at a time, almost comatose, before being jolted awake by yet another knock on your door. 

In the last few months you had developed some sort of a ‘shopping addiction’—according to your friends—but you preferred the term ‘retail therapy’. It was the only thing that made you feel a little better, the joy of having so many packages delivered that when you finally opened them it was like a little surprise. 

You tried to change it with your hair. Ran your credit card bill up, thought some new shoes would make it better. Tried to work it away and keep yourself busy. 

But that just made you even sadder. 

On the other hand, Tyriq’s version of coping was similar in the way he thrusted himself into work, taking on more roles and photoshoots that came with his rising fame. He would frequently find himself trying to drink the raw ache behind his ribs away, dancing with a glass raised in the air; always the life of the after parties. He could barely differentiate whether it was heartache or simply his liver failing on him—but he didn’t mind nor did he care. He had stewed in his emotions for long enough sober, and he just wanted the effects of alcohol to make him feel a little less empty inside. 

It was nights like those; whiskey and too much cologne clinging to him, eyes glazed over as he tucked himself away into the corner of the crowd. Away from cast mates and tabloids, he just wanted to call you. To hear the softness of your voice lull him to a comfort only you could.

He couldn’t count how many times his thumb had lingered over your contact, the picture he had snapped of him smiling and your lips smushed to his cheek, staring back at him. It made his heart tighten and simultaneously beat harder in his chest, the erratic sound a sick reminder that he had lost the one person made of his same rib. Guilt always overwhelmed him in moments like those, wishing he could go back in time and reassure you that he would be better. Do better. That he could make it work, just like you had begged. 

So with a harsh exhale that caused his eyes to water dangerously with unshed tears, he closed your contact and spent the rest of the night drinking his sorrows away. Just like he had been doing for the months since your break up. 

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“I don’t know girl.. he doesn’t even look happy”, Destiny spoke through the phone, her tone hesitant as you continued chopping vegetables for the sauce you were making. The sound of metal slicing was crisp through the kitchen and a subtle, yet welcome distraction from the thoughts plagueing your mind.

She was indulging in another one of your rants about your ex. The man you’re so very clearly still in love with but don’t have the heart or emotional stability to text and reach out to. You’d probably start sobbing before you could even get the words out, or worse, freeze up and completely dismiss him. It was safe to say you struggled with regulating your emotions sometimes. But that’s normal especially after a break up, you told yourself.

Plus what was there to say? He seemed well enough without you; new movies announced, press conferences and on the front cover of magazines every week, not that you were keeping tabs on him or anything. 

You knew she was right though, he didn’t look happy. You could tell because his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and the apples of his cheeks weren’t rounded upwards as the woman in the photo clung to him. She could’ve easily been an actress friend, the photos taken were at the premier of his movie after all, but much like everything else of him on your feed, you scrolled before you could give in and read the article or analyze every one of his facial expressions. 

“..his eyes all hollow and shit? yeahh, that  boy is depressed y/n”, your best friend continues, probably— no, definitely—scrolling through the photos of him at the event. 

Still you mostly stay silent as she speaks, chopping the onions with more force than necessary and mumbling little “yeah”’s and “mmhmm”’s in agreement, your mind miles away. 

“I just—I just don’t get why he hasn’t texted me? Not even a check up or nothing”, you slam down the knife with maybe too much force, the wooden chopping board skidding against the counter. 

“It’s like he doesn’t even care about me anymore,” you shake your head, teeth strumming against your bottom lip. The sauce momentarily forgotten as you lean over the island, hand holding up your phone so you can see Destiny through the screen. “Like, was that four years just nothing to him?”, your voice is cracked, raspy as you fight the sudden wave of tears threatening to fall.

Your best friend pouts sympathetically, “Maybe he’s just scared?” she suggests, a slight wince to the end of her words when your teary eyes snap back to her with a mix of confusion and apparent sadness.

“Scared?” you scoff dryly , “Yeah right, because the Tyriq Withers would be scared of me?” you kiss your teeth, voice mocking, “He was the one that ended things—“

“Not scared of you,” she cuts in, almost exasperated, “Scared of how you’ll react if he says he wants to talk, to work things out. You do that thing sometimes where you just.. shut down, y’know?” she continues. And that leaves you a little speechless, lips pursed in thought before muttering a weak, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense..”. You stay like that for a while in silence, a hand brushing over your face as you wipe away any stray tears that leak from your eyes.

“I don’t know Dee,” you start, a shoulder lifting in a lazy shrug, “He knows me. He knows that I would want to talk to hi-“

“So why haven’t you just texted him?”, she interjects, a brow raised as your mouth opens and closes like a fish, words failing you. 

“It’s complicated..”, you mutter a weak excuse, which only makes Destiny stifle a knowing, gleeful smile. 

Because as much as Tyriq might be scared, You’re scared too. Fucking terrified of talking to him, of seeing him after so long, even though all you’ve wanted to do these past months is be with him.

You try to come up with another more reasonable excuse, mouth parting to speak only to be interrupted by two firm knocks on your door.

“Delivery,” you mumble, grateful that you don’t have to defend yourself from your all too wise best friend. You swore sometimes she could see right through you, even read your mind. 

She makes a tutting sound through the phone, already over your spending habits but demands you take her with you to the door anyway, something about ‘don’t leave me here in the kitchen!’ rushing from her lips as you move to the door. 

“Yeah, yeah, one sec” you huff, phone angled up in front of your stomach as you swing the front door open, a gust of air blowing into the apartment. What’s there isn’t a parcel from one of your late night online shopping escapades though. No, it’s far from it.

As if summoned by his name alone, Tyriq stands before you, a hand raised like he was going to knock again if you didn’t answer. He’s toweringly tall as always, smooth golden skin glistening beneath the evening light, and you can’t help but suck in a sharp breath as you just look at him. Really look at him. His usually vibrant eyes are so dull now, diminished of its usual light and you don’t even need to wonder if the breakup affected him as much as it did you. It’s clear in the way his cheeks have sunken in slightly, visible eye bags marring his under eyes as if he hasn’t had a good night's sleep for the last half of the year.  

You blink rapidly, trying to come to your senses as Destiny’s voice begins to sound muffled in your ears. You’re too entranced by the man in front of you. The one you’ve cried yourself to sleep over almost every day since being without him. When you come to, you actually realise it’s not a dream or just your imagination playing tricks on you—maybe something akin to a twisted nightmare instead? 

“Y/N—“, he breathes out, his raised hand falling down to his side as if almost as awestruck at seeing you too.

“Nope. No, absolutely not,”, You slam the door in his face, backing away from it as if his mere presence alone on the other side would scald you if you came too close. Clearly your fight or flight instinct was flight. 

“Bitch what the FUCK?”, Destiny's shrill voice rings out, suddenly reminding you of her presence—a couple of states away or not. Your fingers grip the phone so tightly your knuckles are practically white as you look down at her bewildered face through the screen. “Is that who I just thought it was?”, she says in awe, brows raised so high it almost grazes her hairline, “and you just slammed the door in his face?? what the hell is wrong wit'chu!”, she continues, clapping her hands to emphasise each word as if trying to get them through your thick skull. All you can do is just shake your head in absolute disbelief. 

“Dee, you fucking summoned him.”, you deadpan, because that’s the only plausible response you can think of.

“Huh?—oh, I summoned him— girl get the fuck on,” she grimaces, a head cocked so violently to the side you were sure her neck was about to snap if she tilted it any harder. “Y’know what, forget it,” she waves a hand dismissively, rolling her eyes at your surprised state, “You said you wanted to talk to him, so now’s your chance,” she drawls, the growing hint of excitement in her tone almost unbearable as you’re struggling to breathe on the other side of the screen. “It’s a sign from the universeeee!!”, she singsongs, undeniably happier than you at this moment in time. 

“Y/N, please—I just wanna talk.”, His voice is low on the other side of the door, and you can hear him shuffling too. You can almost imagine the nervous fidget of his feet, the tapping of his fingers against his thigh as he waits for your response. 

“Dee, what do I do?”, you whisper-hiss, bringing the bottom of the phone to your mouth as you speak. 

“Please don’t be dumb right now. You know exactly what to do,” she chides, an amused scoff trailing her words as you get one last glimpse of the screen—her wiggling her fingers in an exaggerated good bye, paired with a shit eating grin before it goes black. The second the face time disconnects, your mouth parts in a disbelieving groan. 

Now you have no one to lean back on, no excuse. Just you and a door between the man you’ve missed most these past months. 

You take a moment to yourself, pacing the hallway as your hands fly up to scrub down your face, manicured nails gripping at your cheeks and lips as you school yourself into the usual calm and nonchalant demeanour you’re known to have. You shake your limbs out, like a fighter preparing for battle, except you’re just a girl getting ready to face her ex again.

When the door swings open again, he’s still standing there, very much real and in the flesh. His fingers tap at his thigh nervously, just like you expected and he’s rolling on the balls of his feet. A bouquet of lilies is braced in the crook of his arm, and there’s a gift bag clutched tightly in his fist, as if it could anchor him in this moment. 

You eye the gifts suspiciously, looking him up and down too before speaking,  “What are you doing here?”. Your eyes find the bouquet of flowers cradled in his arm again, bright pink leaves ombre’d to white and green bulbs shooting from between the leaves— your favourite. It makes you swallow tightly. “Helloo? Why are you here?”, you shake your head, reiterating your question when he doesn’t reply. He’s just staring at you, looking you up and down shamelessly, curls heaped at the top of your head, house clothes on and all.

“I-I uh, shit,” he stammers, a hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly, a small twitch of his lips. 

You always cut to the chase. Never took shit from anyone, and that’s something he loved about you—loves. Not to mention you look gorgeous right now—to him, always— an oversized shirt slung over your shoulders, giving him a glimpse of your structured collarbones and the edges of your shorts peeking under the hem, hugging your thick thighs snugly. 

He snaps out of his stupor, eyes finding yours with attentiveness.“I came to talk,” he nods, eyes averting to the ground briefly, down your bare legs and socked feet, before back up to your eyes. “I wanted to apologise,” his voice drops, lower, quieter. Heavy with guilt, regret and longing mixed all into one. “I shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t have broken up y/n. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I just— I can’t let you go. I shouldn’t have let you go” he’s practically pleading now, you can see it in the way his brows draw together and eyes widen slightly. 

He looks like a kicked puppy.

You watch him for a moment, eyes trailing over the contours of his face, the chisel of his cheekbones, the plumpness of his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, the glassiness of his eyes, red rimmed.

“You’re drunk.”, you deadpan, a scrutinising narrowness to your eyes as you regard him. The words were bitter on your tongue, feeling untruthful even as you said it. Like you were trying to convince yourself that this whole impromptu meeting was a result of intoxication.

“What? No—no, I’m not drunk,” he quips back immediately, a tone of disbelief in his voice at your accusation. Here he was, standing on your doorstep after seven long months of no contact, bearing gifts and an apology—and you thought he was drunk?

“Then you’re high,” you say flatly, nodding along with your words, again trying to convince yourself that there was a totally normal reason for everything that was happening right now. “Yeah, you’re gone— hungover, or something” you scoff quietly, a hard crease between your brows that was sure to make you consider getting botox before thirty.

“Y/N stop playing—”, he begins to protest, but falls silent at your actions. Your finger was currently lifted to his face, moving from side to side in a poor excuse of a sobriety test. “Oh my God,” he sighs exasperatedly, a hand swatting your pointer away from his face with a quick motion, “I. Am. Sober. S-O-B-E-R”, he continues with a jerk of his head, greeny-blue eyes locked onto yours, “Sober like.. a Wednesday morning..” he trails off breaking eye contact and you cock your head at him, lips rolled tight. 

Both of you knowing whatever the hell he just said did not make sense in the slightest. 

You stare at each other for a long moment. You with calculating eyes almost as if trying to see through him and find any hints of deception. And him with brows raised full of disbelief and something like hope as you stare at him. 

“..So did I pass the inspection, or what?”, he breaks the silence, a slight hint of amusement in his tone. But you could sense the apprehension, see the rigid set of his shoulders as you simply stared at him. You had that look in your eye, the one Tyriq knew all too well. The one you used whenever you were thinking really hard about something or just before you were about to cuss someone out. He was praying and hoping that you were in the midst of the first option, although you spewing insults would’ve been miles better than whatever stand off the two of you were having right now. 

He felt like he was about to get scolded, or worse, the door slammed in his face again, but when you stepped aside to silently gesture him into your home, he let out a small sigh of relief. The sound barely audible over the slow RnB tune that was playing from the speakers.

He shuffles into the space, head dipping slightly to fit under the doorframe as you close the door with a soft thump behind him. He leaves the familiar scent of sandalwood and patchouli in his wake—as well as something distinctly him— his natural musk and citrusy body wash infiltrating your nose. 

You both stand awkwardly in the entry way, eyes averted from each other. His presence practically fills the apartment, all long limbs and jittering nerves under the facade of charm that you can see right through. It makes your heart beat uncharacteristically loud in your chest, having him in your private space again after so long. It’s bitter sweet, and not what you imagined at all to expect half way through cooking dinner. 

He clears his throat, breaking the tense silence and practically thrusts the bouquet and gift bag at you, taking you by surprise. “Brought you your favourites,” he murmurs, voice so low you can barely hear it over the soft lull of the music and humming kitchen. “Lillies, and uh–” he clears his throat, voice coming out more pronounced than before, less meek. “-Chocolates and–there's something else in there, yeah”. You purse your lips, biting the inside of your cheek as you take the gifts slowly with a barely-there appreciative nod. There's something so strange about seeing Tyriq– usually so charming, confident, bold– reduced to such a sheepish and nervous mess. It doesn’t suit him at all, you think, but you can't help but find this new manner a little endearing.

“Thanks..”, you give him a tightlipped smile, brushing past him awkwardly to move into the kitchen, taking an opportunity to busy yourself with finding a vase for the flowers. You can hear him following closely behind you, his shadow overwhelming your frame in its entirety.

“I am sorry y’know. For everything, I mean.”, his words come out hoarse, raspy with emotion. “I should’ve tried harder, fought harder for us, for you. I should've made time for you and not let my work get in the way of us, hell y/n, we were four years deep and  just let you go like an idiot.” You're not facing him, body turned stiffly towards the counter, shoulders sagging slightly upon hearing his rambling and throat tight with every unspoken cry, shout and confession you’ve wanted and want to let free.

Your words leave you before you can really process them,

“Is that what you're doing?”, a whisper of vulnerability in your tone. “Trying harder?”, Your fingers fiddle with the stems of the flowers, brushing over the leaves with faux interest to distract yourself from just how heavy this conversation is–albeit much needed.

His voice is small when he replies, almost as if he’s scared of your reaction to it. “Yeah. If that's what you want.” , You let out a deep sigh, the weight of the world on your shoulders feeling a little more bearable now. At your silence he speaks up again, firmer now, but with a hint of tentativeness. “I want to try again, if that's what you want? I know it's... I know I should've reached out earlier, but I didn't know if you wanted to talk to me.”, he explains, voice wavering on the last sentence.

Your body lurches forward in a silent sob, an almost strangled sound between a whine and a groan escaping you. Of course, the sobbing before you could get the words out option was next to come. You curse under your breath, reprimanding the waver in your attitude as you quickly wipe a tear away from your cheek, grateful Tyriq couldn’t see just how much his words affected you.

But he saw, obviously. He always noticed everything about you and paid attention to all your little tells. In one swift movement he was behind you, hands sidled on either side of your arms as he brought your back to his chest. “Hey, hey, don’t cry, why you cryin’?”, he murmurs quietly, fingers squeezing your shoulders reassuringly, the touch almost enough to make you shiver. Because god, did it feel nice to have him hold you again.

“Don’t ask stupid questions Ty,” you whisper through a watery chuckle, eyes fluttering shut to will away the tears in your eyes. Your body reflexively leans back into him, his brawny arms fully encircling you now and holding you tight, like his words mean everything. Like he really doesn’t want to let you go again.

Silence is prolonged between you, just the sound of his heartbeat vibrating through your back as your own pumps in rhythm. Your hands grasp at his forearms resting across your chest and you squeeze gently. The touch is familiar, comfortable, almost as if you’ve fallen quickly back into step with each other like nothing ever happened. Your voice comes out as a gravelly murmur when you next speak, “I think I’d like that,”.

“Yeah?”, his voice is quiet but hopeful, and he has that small upwards tilt to his lips when you turn around to face him again. Like you’ve just said the magic words he’d been hoping for all along.

“Yeah,” you nod, “I hate to admit it, but I kinda missed you,” you say through a coy smile, hands splayed on his chest now as your thumbs rub small circles against the material of his hoodie. It’s a blatant distraction to how nervous you feel under his knowing gaze.

“Only ‘kinda’?”, his lips are pulled into a stupid lopsided grin now, his dimple a deep indent in his cheek, practically begging you to just run your fingers over it.

“Shut up,” your head goes with the movement of you rolling your eyes, a trail of a chuckle following after your words.

“Mhmm,” he hums unoffended, looking down at you with something upwards of affection in his eyes, mixed with another emotion you can tell is pure, unadulterated love. You never had to second guess when he looked at you like that, pupils blown a little wide leaving only thin ringlets of blue. The way they move across every inch of your face, not judging, but appreciating, like he’s tracing every slope of your features and committing it to memory.

“I missed you too, baby,” he finally murmurs, voice thick with emotion but holding a hint of relief. His arms slide down to your waist, fully embracing you against his chest as he nuzzles his face into your hair. “Missed you so damn much,” he whispers breathily, lips brushing your forehead in a chaste kiss and squeezing your body to his like he wants to fuse together. And knowing him, he probably does. He wants to be with you in every way. Physically and emotionally, in your head. Your soul mingled with his.

And even after time apart, you know you’d never let anyone except him have you in that way.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, but not enough to let go of your waist completely, “Open the bag.”, he says, nodding towards the gift bag sitting on the counter behind you. The change in direction of the conversation leaves you a little confused, almost whiplashed, and he just prompts again with an encouraging “Go on,”, perfect teeth sinking into his bottom lip tenderly. Your eyes are narrowed slightly as you shoot him a look over your shoulder, already pulling out the contents of the bag along with the decorative tissue paper stacked on top. A box of expensive chocolates, a new bottle of the perfume you always wore, an envelope, and lastly, a small velvet box with metallic lettering on it.

Your brows furrow slightly, taken aback by the thoughtfulness of it all. It wasn't out of the norm for him to buy you gifts, no–not at all. If anything he absolutely spoiled you when you were together despite knowing you could easily take care of yourself. But still, there was something different about this. Maybe because it was another of his apologies only this time expressed through materialism. Maybe it was because the perfume bottle brought up fond memories–of how Tyriq made it clear it was his favourite scent by nestling his face into your neck and attacking you with kisses, misting the sweet aroma on his pillow cases every night when you weren't there to stay with him, or how he would often spray it on himself before stepping onto red carpets to let it calm him. But mostly you think it was because of the way your name was scrawled in his messy handwriting on top of the envelope.

You let your fingers run across it, throat bobbing as you carefully slip the paper out of the casing and unfold it. His familiar and boyish handwriting is scribbled across the lined page, some words crossed out, and splotches of ink covering some sentences. It looks like he was just as emotional when writing it, as you are now reading it. You can barely make out the sweet phrases and promises all throughout, the regret and agony present in his heartfelt apology towards the end, because tears are blurring your vision and clumping your lashes together. His hands rub soothing circles on your hips before sliding under your shirt and basking in the warmth of your stomach, chin atop your shoulder as he peers over at his tear jerker letter and your pouty face.

“Ty, you're killing me,” you mutter, voice wrecked and cheeks wet as you brace your palms over your face with a soft chuckle. It’s like you can't stop crying around this man and it's almost laughable. He only huffs a small breath through his nose, leaning closer to you to kiss away the tears rolling down the sides of your face. His hands are a constant on your body, fingertips brushing up against your sternum then back down to your navel, leaving tingles in its path. “Open the box, baby”, he hums in your ear and you oblige with a shaky exhale. You can practically feel the warmth seeping from him into your back, paired with his strong arms around you, it makes you feel safe and comforted like no other. He’s an immovable force and your protector. 

“What's in the boxx!?”, he mutters under his breath, and you can hear the smile and stifled laughter in his voice as he quotes Brad Pitt in Se7en. You mutter a “ohmygod” back, but the amused smile on your lips betrays the feigned exasperation. Because only Tyriq would ruin a perfectly intimate moment with a traumatic movie line.

When you open the velvet box a beat later, you can’t help but be winded, all the air leaving your lungs as you let out a soft gasp. Two jewels sit on a pristine gold band, one pear shaped and the other emerald, the diamonds glistening in the light. Toi et Moi, you and me. The symbolism leaves you choked up, at a loss for words–especially because the ring looks eerily like.. An engagement ring? Your eyes go impossibly wide, lips parting at what this could mean.

“A ring before the ring,” Tyriq pipes up from over your shoulder, halting your thoughts from getting out of hand as if he could sense your panic. Although you’ve always wanted to get married–eventually to him– you were both still young-ish and that wasn't even a prominent thought in your mind.

You breathe out a very audible sigh of relief, a hand over your heart as if to calm the organ in your chest from bursting out of it. All he does is laugh into your shoulder, a hearty rumbling sound from deep within his chest, before he spins you back slowly to face him. “It’s beautiful, Ty”, you say softly after he slips it onto your finger, head tilting to admire how the diamonds dance in the light.

“You like it?”, he murmurs, eyes flickering down to your ringed hand on his chest briefly before back up to your face. He can't even bear to look away from you for more than a second, with your flushed cheeks, messy hair and curves completely pliant beneath his fingers, you look down right alluring. He doesn't care to look at the ring, only at you.

“I love it”, you say a little breathlessly, an awed smile on your face as you wiggle your fingers, feeling the weight of the jewellery against your skin. 

He doesn't miss a beat, replying with a reverent, “I love you,”. His knuckles graze your cheekbones as he cradles your face between two large palms. The delicacy of his touch elicits a small pleasant sigh from you as you melt into him. When your eyes lock, the energy becomes more charged, brown flickering between blue like you don’t know where to look.

"I love you more,” is your response, fists tightening in his hoodie before you pull him down to you.

The plushness of his lips pressing into yours is slow and sensual, like he’s taking his time and making a silent promise to you all the way through. His cupping hands slide to the nape of your neck holding you against him as he memorises every crevice and curve of your mouth, the taste of your tongue. It’s a promise to never leave, not again.

🝮Courtside

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“Put me down, idiot, before tmz starts another dating rumour.”

He bellows a laugh, shoulders shaking with amusement as he gently sets you back on your feet—still close enough for his large palms to linger on your sides.

Slender fingers practically engulf the dip of your waist as he speaks. “Let ‘em. I like the world thinking you mine.” He towers over you, stooping slightly until his face is so close to yours. Too close.

Then he’s pulling back with a playful squeeze to your hips, a knowing smirk thrown over his shoulder as he retreats to the locker room.

🝮Hot tub

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You leaned back against the edge of the hot tub, eyes fluttering shut as you listened to the sounds of the night; crickets chirping melodically, the chatter of nightlife in the distance. The water sloshed up to your chest as someone joined you in your solace, and you didn’t even need to open your eyes to know it was him.

His voice came out smooth and deep a second later, cutting through the silence. “Thought i’d find you here.” he said, the edges of his voice carrying that familiar half-smile you didn’t need to see to picture.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed closed, head tipped back against the smooth edge of the hot tub, letting the warmth soak into your skin. The night wrapped around you both—soft, distant music, the hum of the island. He settled beside you without another word, close enough that your shoulders brushed when either of you moved. It was familiar. Effortless.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmur, eyes lingering a moment longer on his side profile, watching the way the dim light highlighted the planes of his chiseled face, the water droplets on his skin.

ꨄLDN

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The air was disgustingly humid, that distinct smell of dampness and dust carrying past with each whiz of a train on the tracks. Like clockwork, you weaved through the underground of London with practiced ease. Your boots clacked on the ground as you rushed down escalators and side stepped people who couldn’t look up from their phones. You even managed to dodge a suspicious looking brown puddle on the way to your platform.

What you didn’t account for was the blind spot just round the corner, the sharp turn making you bump into something solid. A wall, you had thought, until two hands landed on your shoulders, strong and steadying.

Swirls of blue and green bore into yours as you stared dumbfounded at the handsome stranger. You were momentarily struck by just how gorgeous he was and from practically running full force into him, that your words couldn’t even come out on time.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” you blurt after a beat, whipping out one of your earbuds in the process of apologising profusely.

His smile never faltered, if anything, it widened a fraction upon seeing your flustered state.

ꨄGrocery store meeting

preview!:

You meandered the aisles with little direction, picking up things that suited you and a fair few items you didn’t really need.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” you squeak when your hand collides with a strangers over a bundle of asparagus.

“No worries.” the handsome stranger chuckles, his blue eyes alight with mirth as he politely ushers the vegetables into your grasp. He looks..oddly familiar. Golden skin, charming smile and a deep, soothing voice that seems to settle into your bones.

You nod in thanks and move through the aisles once again, catching one last glimpse of his broad shoulders as he walks away.

You’re browsing the chips now, contemplating the different flavours when a hand darts out to grab the bag you were just reaching for.

That same voice speaks up from behind you, amusement dancing at the edges, “We have got to stop meeting like this.” he chuckles, all rough and masculine. You spin around to face him, the sharp planes of his face highlighted by the bright overhead lights of the store.

It makes him look even more attractive up close.

“Once was a coincidence, but now i’m starting to think you’re just following me.” you raise your brows in amusement.

ꨄYour eyes have a little green in them..

preview!:

A deep sigh escaped him when you staggered onto the grassy hill, his hands hovering close to your waist like he was afraid to touch you but equally afraid of letting you fall.

Your voice comes out more sluggish than expected, foreign to even your own ears, “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you, you might have a concussion.” He replies. Your scoff in response was enough to let him know you didn’t believe him, voice accusatory “You don’t care if I never wake up.”

“Sure I do,” his voice is velvety and holding a hint of amusement, that stupidly charming lop-sided smirk on his face.

“Why?” you quip, eyes narrowed. His reply is quick fire and sarcastic, “Well, because then I’d have to take out girls who actually like me.” he emphasises his point by tugging a lock of your hair between his fingers playfully.

“Like you could find one,” you roll your eyes, slumping down on the swing set.

“See,” he points at you, “that, there, who needs affection when I have blind hatred?” that infuriatingly adorable smirk is still plastered on his face and you have to avert your eyes to anywhere else but him.

A beat of quiet silence envelopes you both, too quiet, before he realises you’ve dozed off. He’s on his knees in a second, trying to wake you up with gentle pats to the face. Your eyes spring open with awareness, his face right in front of yours and eyes full of concern.

“Hey,” you start with uncharacteristic softness in your voice, forehead finding purchase on the chain of the swing as you trace his face with your eyes—like you’re memorising his features for later,“your eyes have a little green in them.” you whisper with a smile, his own one widening into something almost sheepish.

ꨄOlitz’s baby??

preview!:

“So yeah, I’m baby Olitz” he threw out casually, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his dress shirt.

“Right..right” you blink slowly, trying to make sense of the situation. “uhm, congratulations?” you tilted your head, brows quirked and giving him a lopsided smile—utterly puzzled. That reaction only made him let out a sigh and shake his head. “Look” He practically thrusts his phone into your face, a picture of him smiling widely with Kerry washington and the caption ‘If Olivia and Fitz had a baby…it would be HIM.’ staring back at you.

Realisation dawned on you then, your mouth forming a small ‘o’ as you read and re-read the caption, looking between the phone and his face.

“Yeah I see it,” you hum softly, nodding in agreement, “It’s the cheekbones” you add, eyes dutifully evaluating the picture and then flickering towards him again, “And the eyes” you nod confidently.

“Yeah?” he purred, lips curling into a grin as his cheeks flushed at your agreement.

“Mhm, definitely the cheekbones though” you mutter, more to yourself than anything, knuckles absently grazing the high points of his face with tenderness.

tysm for this request!! ngl i struggled trying to write this because i didn’t know where to start but i hope you guys like it ;)

(Tyriq Withers x reader)

synopsis: tensions had been high throughout the night, causing an argument between you and Tyriq.

wc: 3k+

tags: @osoyums ,this one's for you :)

a/n: a oneshot to one of my bots- enjoy and lmk your thoughts xx

The night was a whirlwind of emotions ranging from excitement and happiness to complete and utter joy.

Until that moment.

The short interaction between a particularly touchy interviewer and the man you’re in love with, the few thirty or so seconds stretching into one gruelling scene you could barely look at.

And that’s when everything shifted, joy was now disdain, happiness doused green with envy.

Of course, you couldn’t do anything except watch from the sidelines as she pawed at him, your eyes straining with the sheer amount of willpower it took you not to roll your eyes at her desperation. As he spoke with her, you tried to distract yourself from the burning in your chest by fulfilling the photographer's requests, ‘Over here!’, ‘Give us a smile!’; all mindless and performative and not helping the pit in your stomach at all.

But you were at an awards show, this was your job, even if you wanted to shrivel up in a hole and die; you still had to smile, still had to wave at the cameras, still had to speak to interviewers about your latest projects.

When Tyriq rejoined your side, flashing his usual charming grin at the cameras and a hand splayed on your lower back like usual, you suppressed a sarcastic comment. You posed for the cameras like the perfect couple you were and looked like, but deep down you were seething.

Absolutely radiating jealousy and resentment, not because of him. No—never him—but at her. The woman who was supposed to be doing her job by holding that stupid little mic and asking surface level questions about recent movies and photo shoots, not fawning over your boyfriend with wandering hands like he was some object.

Ever the observant one, always knowing your tells from the years of being by your side, his hand squeezed the crevice of your waist lightly, head dipping to brush his lips against your temple.

“What’s your problem?”, he whispered lowly into your hair, just enough for you to hear and no one else. To the camera’s it looked like a sweet moment—a loving girlfriend in the embrace of her boyfriend—but deep down you could hear the tension in his voice.

“Nothing,”, you grit out through clenched teeth, a strained smile on your lips as you feigned an air of nonchalance, but you knew by the stiffness of his arm around your waist that he was irritated by your answer. He lets out a soft ‘tch’ in response, his rising frustration evident in the almost imperceptible sound. He squeezes your waist tightly, almost in warning, “Stop being difficult,” he grunts under his breath, smile still in place as he poses for the cameras.

Stop being difficult?, you almost let out a bitter scoff. Maybe now you were irritated with him too, not just with that interviewer.

The night continues on as expected, people accepting awards, fake smiles and rounds of applause all around. But simmering beneath that? Frustration, anger, irritation from both you and Tyriq. Especially now that you were uncharacteristically quiet and giving him the cold shoulder.

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“What, you mad at me or somethin'?”, he wastes no time breaking the long silence as he closes the hotel door behind him, his voice slightly arrogant and husky as he follows you into the room. It makes you huff a humourless breath, frustration evident in the stiffness of your shoulders as you toe off your heels.

“Oh, so you’re just gonna ignore me now?”, he replies incredulously at your silence, “For God’s sake, baby! I didn’t ask that girl to be all over me!”, He snaps, shrugging off his suit jacket with more force than necessary. But still you stay silent at the edge of the bed, too many thoughts jumbled in your head. And to Tyriq, your silence was more than enough to let his irritation boil over. “Oh? you got nothin’ to say now huh?”, his voice is mocking, spat with venom and it’s like a dagger to your heart.

You can understand his frustration and anger but, “Don’t you fucking speak to me like that, Tyriq!”. Your head snaps in his direction, twisted so uncomfortably but you can’t even focus on it, your skin is humming, like all your nerve endings are on fire. “Don’t raise your voice at me like I’m some child having a fucking temper tantrum,” your finger juts in his direction pointedly, “And don’t you dare act like my feelings are invalid right now!”

The whole night was all too much, so many cameras, flashes, rigidity and agonising stillness between you both. It seems like only now the final straw has been pulled and you were going to be in the midst of a full blown screaming match with him soon.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, jaw working over time and clamping down on his molars. A sign he’s completely pissed off—which he doesn’t get often. The silence in the room is unnerving as he just stares at you, practically burning holes into your eyes with low and furrowed brows. “What? Nothing to say now huh?” You fire back pettily, voice taking on a mocking edge as you cross your arms defensively over your chest.

Clearly he doesn’t like that—doesn’t like you shooting back with his own words— because he’s quick to take strides towards you. His long legs eat up the space between you until he’s on the other side, face to face with you and only the queen bed as a barrier. You're nowhere near close enough to feel his body heat or even smell a whiff of his cologne, but you can definitely feel the waves of vexation rolling off of him. It ghosts over your skin as if he was caressing you himself.

“Don’t—don’t,” he can barely string a full sentence together before his hands are thrown up in the air with a loud groan. A deep, gravelly sound rumbling from within his chest, full of pent up chagrin. You can see the vein bulging in his forehead, deep blue traces under the gold of his skin. Seeing him so pissed off, face scrunched and chest heaving with hard breaths should make you feel a little sympathy. But all it does is make you want to press harder, get more under his skin like he has since he uttered those words. Difficult. It’s been a recurring thought in your head all night, bouncing around between the walls of your brain and making that insecurity of feeling inadequate, rear its ugly head.

Maybe you should show him just how difficult you can be.

You just can’t help yourself, the words slipping out of your mouth as if on auto-pilot, “‘Don’t’— ‘Don’t’”, you joggle your head, arms stretched out on either side of you as you mock him patronisingly. “Don’t fucking what?”, you challenge, a bitter edge to your tone as you regard his now pacing form with a scrutinisng stare.

He heard himself say it–the one sentence that would set you off the edge. “Don’t be so goddamn insecure!”. The words land like a slap, the room tightening into a fist. The racing beat of your heart pulses loudly in your ears, making your echoed words barely audible to yourself.

“Insecure?”, you whisper cynically, brows raised so high and lips parting in disbelief. The words hit harder than either of you expected. “I'm insecure because I don't like that another woman was touching you up?” Your voice is eerily calm–too even despite the waves of fury that ricochet through you like another frequency. Your face twists, eyes narrowing– angry at first, then just wounded, a sudden contrast to the abrupt humourless laugh that escapes you. It’s borderline maniacal, sounding foreign even to your ears and Tyriq knows he’s royally fucked up.

The expression on your face is more profound and dangerous than any screaming you could've done. And when the hurt curdles into something more reckless, you grab a pillow and hurl it.

Then another.

One bounces off the wall just beside his head with a thud, leaving his reflexes momentarily skewed as he watches it fly by. Another hits him right in the center of his chest, soft but startling. And when a particularly hard decorative pillow skims past his ear, he huffs out a "Seriously?", but you’ve already thrown the next.

It hits him square in the crotch, a flicker of pain in his grimace as he jumps back a step, hands guarded.

“Stop!”, he says, half laughing, half not as he straightens back up. You throw one more, just for good measure, eyes wet now.

“Stop what?” you rasp out, voice cracked and betraying the multitude of emotions that weigh you down. “Stop being so difficult? Stop being so insecure?”. It’s painful to say it–even worse to know he thinks that little of you. A twisted mixture of shame, disappointment and humiliation settles in your gut.

Another pillow bounces off his head, but he doesn't move, barely even finches at the impact. The storm burns out just as quickly as it came– feathers settling like snowflakes around the room, air thick with everything they didn't say. He wants to apologise and take it all back. You want to scream in his face like a banshee for making you feel this way.

Small. Frail. Like your jealousy was something completely illogical.

Your chin raises defiantly despite the glimmer of tears that sparkle in your eyes, “Fuck you.” you sneer. The words are harsher than intended from carrying so much agony under the guise of pure disgust and resentment. It makes your tone waver just slightly, a crack in your demeanour. Your throat bobs hard as you move towards the conjoining bathroom, spewing insults and jibes at anything you can think of— cursing him, your life, that interviewer, under your breath as you pass him. From the corner of your eye you could just about make out the way his head dips, dark brows low and furrowed as he reels from your words.

“Fuck me?” He breathes out, as if in surprise of your crude words, but he quips back with some of his own anyway, “Fuck you too then!”. His words are like bullets, filled with not only rage, but exasperation too. The way his voice hitches higher towards the end almost makes you feel like he didn’t even want to say it back. He just wanted to get the last word.

He doesn’t miss the way you avoid looking at him, chiseled side profile passing by as you beeline to the next room. A sharp exhale escapes you before the heated argument dissolves into more childish back and forth curses thrown at each other.

“Fuck you, Tyriq!”, you call out just before the bathroom door slams and leaves you alone. The resounding crack of wood and squeaking hinges leaves every one of your muscles coiled tight and your chest aching as you keel over the sink, palms braced on marble to stop the trembling in your hands. You get a glimpse of your reflection as you do, glassy red rimmed eyes, a hard crease between your brows and flushed cheeks. Not to mention your hair is a mess, wild mane framing your face from when you pulled out the hairpin holding it up.

That was definitely one of the worst arguments you and Tyriq have ever had by far, but of course, he wasn’t done.

You can barely get your breath back, chest heaving with every shaky inhale and exhale, your dress like a vice on your body before you hear his muffled words on the other side of the door.

"Just run like you always do, y/n! Real fucking mature."

You’re already swinging the door open upon hearing the last syllable leave his lips. Wood hits plaster sharply, reverberating between you two as you round him.

“Mature?” your eyes are narrowed into slits, his stiff stature filling up your view, “You know what’s real fucking mature, Ty?”, you don’t even give him time to answer, already shoving the words down his throat as you step into his space, chest to chest with him. “It’s that you can’t even reassure your own girlfriend, but instead call her difficult for not wanting to talk about her feelings on the red carpet and that she’s insecure for not liking someone else’s hands on you!”

Chest to chest, face to face, you’re practically shoving at him with your body. If you weren’t so much smaller than him, he would’ve been threatened, maybe. But all he is right now is beyond irritated, perhaps even shocked by your outburst, and despite the seriousness of the situation a little amused. Are you seriously trying to square up to him right now?

The way his jaw flexes, hands folded into fists at his sides, and the slightest upcurl of his top lip in a restrained smile makes you intake a hiss of a breath through gritted teeth. “You think this is funny?”, is your response, more breathy than you expected.

It’s like this man just keeps weasling his way under your skin on purpose—the way he’s finding this humorous, not looking at you, not answering.

“What’s fucking funny about this Ty!” you practically bark, eyes aflame with embers that make the usually warm chestnut colour, morph into a molten honey. You reiterate your question louder, voice coming out hoarse as you tap the side of his temple with your fingers for emphasis. Then in one fluid motion, you’re mushing the side of his face with one vigorous slide of your palm. It makes his head roll back, revealing the smooth expanse of his neck under the collar of his dress shirt.

You see it then, the way his face shifts into a snarl as he finally looks down at you. No traces of humour to be found, only annoyance. Just from the way his baby blues are blazing, like a torrent of raging waves are swirling inside of them, you can tell you’ve overstepped. The hurling of pillows were fine, the screaming, the cussing, but this is where he draws the line.

You’ve barely blinked before he’s on you, a calloused palm wrapping firmly around your wrist, not enough to hurt, but just enough to restrain you, “You lost your damn mind or somethin’?”, he grates out, voice low and unbearably strained. You can feel the tickle of his breath across your skin, the faint smell of alcohol from the night fanning across your cheeks.

“Get the hell off of me”, you refute, wriggling as much as you can to get out of his grip, but it’s to no avail. He just tightens his hold on you even more, crowding you with his body as he leans down to really look at you. His eyes bore into yours, a mixture of frustration and heat that closely resembles desire blooming in his irises. His free hand reaches up to grip your jaw forcefully, squeezing your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger enough to make your lips part.

“You’re not difficult or insecure, okay?”, his grip on your face is a stark difference to his words. Where he holds you immovable and domineering, his voice is softer now, reverent. And with the way he enunciates every word and syllable— like he wants you to truly understand it—it tells you how much he regrets his past accusations. “I shouldn’t have let her touch me like that, and I'm sorry for not being able to have an adult conversation with you about how it made you feel.” he says measuredly, every utter of his apology hitting you deep in the chest, so much so you don’t even want to fight him on it anymore.

Your wrist slackens in his grip, too exhausted to pull away or try and push him off as you listen to him; all wide eyes, squished cheeks and bated breath as you stare up at him. He can feel you swallow tightly under his palm and he squeezes your jaw, a silent plea for you to understand him. Forgive him.

You nod as much as you can with your face still upturned to look at him. One curt dip of your chin as you regard his face with a mix of uncertainty and hesitance. His shoulders visibly slump at the subtle sign of forgiveness, even if you were still mad—it was progress. His thumb traces the pulse point of your wrist, skirting up and down the vein before he brings it to his mouth, pressing a long, sweet kiss there. You can only watch as he flutters his eyes shut in something like relief, lashes fanning across his cheekbones as he reluctantly lets go of your face, only to curl his hand around the nape of your neck.

You let out a subdued sound of surprise when he pulls you closer. Firm lines against soft curves. His forehead presses to yours as he nuzzles the tip of his nose against your own. It’s no doubt an intimate gesture, no matter how quiet—and the gentleness of it makes that angry resolve you’ve been keeping up dwindle a little more.

That’s the thing with you two. You could never stay mad at each other for long before one of you caves and apologises—usually Tyriq. He’s always hated it when you got distant in that way, yelling and spitting insults even though they were all well deserved.

“I’m so sorry y/n.” he whispers against your lips, raspy with a hint of desperation in the undertone. He doesn’t even let you reply, he just wants you to hear him. “I was a dick tonight, acting the way I was, saying the things I did.” his eyes are open now, flicking between yours as if he’s searching them for the deeper meaning to life. Or simply just for your approval. You can see the way his irritation had crumbled long ago, bleeding into something more vulnerable, pleading.

When you finally speak, it’s quiet and croaky from how much you’ve yelled, “I’m sorry too,” you start, “I shouldn’t have screamed at you or threw all those pillow or… put my hands on you.” As you list off your antics of the night, your lips roll tight. Out of regret? No, he deserved it. But out of embarrassment? Absolutely. It was out of character for you to be so...violent. Borderline domestic. “It won’t happen again-” you add, but are cut off and caught off guard by the guttural chuckle he releases.

“Got a good arm on you , princess” he muses, voice breathy but filled with obvious pride. Even if you did hit him in the no no square. “It didn’t hurt?”, you huff disbelieving, a small smile creeping onto your lips.

“Mmm, no it hurt.” he murmurs, feigning pain now, a tiny wince to really sell it, “Real bad actually. Might need you to kiss it better..”

His thinly veiled innuendo hangs heavy in the air. The energy in the room is no longer abundant with frustration or the likes, instead filled with an intensity. A heat you can only describe as charged. Playful and flirty. Especially when you purr an “Oh yeah?”, eyes darting down to see his glaringly obvious grin paired with a deep dimple.

Your hand wanders between you languidly, down his muscled torso, stopping to toy with the buttons of his shirt before settling just above where he wants you most. He lets out a low hum when your fingers trace the metal of his belt, lips hovering and dancing over yours before finally pulling you closer by the nape of your neck and connecting your lips.

It’s everything but gentle, all teeth and tongue as you mewl into each other’s mouths. His fingers tangle in the back of your curls, tugging impatiently when you slip your fingers into the waistband of his slacks, ghosting over the trail of hair there.

And when the back of your knees hit the bed, and your body is strewn across the mattress with feathers and a crumpled duvet beneath you, the look in his eyes is enough to know you’re in for a very long night.

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ꨄUndeniable chemistry

preview!:

Despite how overwhelming the flashing of cameras and the bright lights might be, you had long since adapted to a familiar routine. Shoulders rolled back, chin tilted high and a demure smile on your face. However, equal parts excitement and anticipation washed over you as you joined the rest of your cast mates.

You were here to celebrate the premiere of your movie, ‘I know what you did last summer’. From the late nights on set, inside jokes and after parties, you and the cast had quickly become a close knit group of friends, on screen and off screen. Especially you and one person in particular.

Tyriq stood off to the side, having been called to do a one on one interview as you were beckoned to do another. It was impossible not to steal glances at him from afar; the way his physique filled out his luxurious suit, his slacks pooling fashionably at his ankles over his polished leather shoes, and back up to his face. Greeny-blue eyes vibrant and sparkling with attentiveness as he listened to the questions asked. To say he looked handsome would’ve been an understatement, but to say more— think more? that would’ve been crossing the line of friendship and something else that you weren’t completely ready to acknowledge.

But every time an interviewer would ask about the nature of you and Tyriq’s relationship, it was always, ’Oh, we’re just friends’, or ‘We’re co-stars’; the safest option. The one you say when you’re both in denial of your own feelings. Or even simply not wanting to recognise them.

“So we’ve all seen the press interviews and some behind the scenes clips,” the interviewer drawls, a smile on her lips as she holds the mic between you two, “..and I think it’s safe to say you and Tyriq have undeniable chemistry. There’s an ease between you two that feels very real — is that chemistry just part of the job, or does it spill over when the cameras stop rolling?”, the unmissable journalistic mischief is evident in her perfectly raised brow as she tries to dig deeper.

In other words, what she’s asking is: Are you two dating?

You school your face, keeping up a nonchalant and polite facade as you nod along, lips parting to speak.

But as if he was conjured up from thin air just from his name, two strong hands rest on the sides of your arms and you barely have time to react before Tyriq is puckering his lips and pressing a playful,sloppy kiss to your temple. It catches both the interviewer and yourself by surprise, but he just gives a wide smile, shining all thirty-two’s before scurrying away exaggeratedly.

Huffing an incredulous laugh, a flush creeping up your neck at his boyish antics, “I suppose that answers your question then?”, you muse, lips pursed to fight a smile as you watch the clear bewilderment on the interviewers face. It’s like she’s just had a eureka moment, nodding towards the cameras still recording with a knowing smile.

✪New year’s eve🍇

preview!:

Tonight was your annual new year’s eve party, an event you looked forward to every 365 days. It was meticulously planned, curated and thought out—held at a different venue each year.

It was all so exciting, more than two-hundred people packed into one venue, the nightclub filled to the brim with your guests enjoying themselves. Sweaty bodies moved around all night, dancing to the beat of whatever mix the dj had put on, and you relished in every second of it. This was your element.

The announcement that rang through the nightclub had everyone perking up, excited chatter about there only being 5 minutes before the new year began.

Unlike most people, you didn’t have anyone to the new year with a kiss with, and so you opted for the good old grapes under the table tradition. A few others were doing it too, crouched under the small spaces and eating grapes until midnight hit. As you were people-watching, that’s when you noticed someone had made their way into the space beside you, carrying out the same tradition.

Vinnie smiled softly, his plump lips tilting up as he leant down and mumbled a “Hi” into your ear, popping a grape into his mouth after.

The energy had always been charged between the two of you, festering just beneath the unspoken silence that you always seemed to find lingering when you two were alone. His eye contact was almost unbearable- in a good way of course- as you two chatted and ate grapes, the smell of alcohol on both of your breaths swirling between you both.

2!, 1!, Happy New Year!!, the room had descended into chaos, the noise reverberating off the walls as laughter—including yours and Vinnie’s—and cheers filled the space.

✪Jealous girl

preview!:

The restaurant was dimly lit, warm tones and boisterous conversations from your friends surrounding you, but it did little to ease the irritation that pricked at your skin.

Across from you, Vinnie sat leisurely in his seat, nursing a glass of wine as he chuckled at another joke the waitress had made. Shouldn’t she be doing her job? Not flirting with the bloody customers?

But you were just friends right? So why did it feel like something..more. Why did agitation crawl under your skin and flush your neck when she laid a hand on his bicep, a charming smile on her face?

You stabbed at your carbonara with more force than necessary.

“…so can I get your number?” She shone a bright smile, fluttering her lashes as her fingers stayed splayed against his bicep like it was glued there.

You bit back a scoff at her flirting ,your unexplainable irritation flaming beneath your skin.You grip your fork tighter, waiting for his answer with an irregular heart beat.

“Yeah, sure,” his mellow voice replies,as he reaches for his phone.

And that was it.

“Pass the salt please, Vin,” you interject before he can fully take out his phone and punch in her digits.

He looks up at you with a slight startle at the sharp edge of your tone, the waitress doing the same but her look conveying one of slight irritation.

He begins to speak again when she’s called over by another customer, and she has to forcefully peel herself away from him to get back to her job.

Your tongue pokes the inside of your cheek as she gives you a narrowed stare, huffs then basically storms off to go help the nearby table.

✪Drunk

preview!:

He woke up disgruntled, the sound of clattering and objects dropping to the floor somewhere in the apartment jostling him out of his slumber.

He sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes of sleep as he dragged his hands down his face in exhaustion. His eyes were narrowed as he made his way further into the main area of the apartment, squinting as he flipped on the switch and looked around the room for what could’ve dropped. Instead of finding one of his cat’s at the scene of the crime, he found you.

✧A hogwarts express meet cute

preview!:

As your eyes take in the object—no—person, you had walked into so clumsily, you’re met with a charming smirk, broad shoulders, warm eyes and golden hair the colour of flames. You blink a couple of times and immediately take a step back, muttering an apology as the person just stands there with a small smile on their face, a hand pressed to their chest where you no doubt just head butted them.

“Easy there, darling”, his voice comes out as a teasing lilt, his hand rubbing circular motions on his chest where your head collided with it. His whole body, in all its entirety—tall frame and long limbs blocks the corridor of the train completely, his stance confident and towering over your smaller one.

✰A ghost from her past

preview!:

She already wasn’t in the mood, the weight of the week falling atop her shoulders; work—that bitch of a manager who was always a thorn in her side, family stuff, finances, having to take care of not only herself but her little fur baby too with what little energy she had left.

Thank god it was Friday right?

She could finally rest.

She wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep away the weekend, maybe wake up periodically for food and to indulge in a good book. But of course, her friends wouldn’t let her get away that easily, “It’ll be fun!” one of them had said while jumping on the spot and clapping her hands like an excited little toddler, “Pleassee y/n”, the next had drawled desperately, adding a “Imagine all the hotties you’ll meet”, and the next ,the most relentless of the group, had simply dragged her off the couch with a tug and shoved her into the bathroom, demanding she got ready for the impending night out.

And so that’s how she found herself; hands linked with her friends as they manoeuvred through the sweaty nightclub, dolled up to the tens. Her skirt was short, riding up her thighs as she walked, her top showing just a sliver of midriff, long legs framed in leather boots, hair cascading over her shoulders and makeup applied to enhance her natural beauty. She could admit, even if she did feel like shit, she looked absolutely stunning.

The music felt like it was thumping through her eardrums, rendering her momentarily deaf with every bass drop, the flashing lights of every colour splashed onto the crowd making her squint ever so slightly as she took in her surroundings, shuffling her way through groups of people dancing and drinking. The pre’s she did earlier were starting to settle in, making her more fluid and blood run warm through her veins.

So much so that when her eyes fixed on him, she almost couldn’t believe it, stopping in her tracks completely.

He watched her over the rim of his glass, unblinking, eyes roving up and down her body almost reverently, and she swore she could feel the trail of his gaze lighting her skin on fire. He was surrounded by familiar faces, co stars that he had introduced her to at some point, but lost contact with along the way. Like how they had lost contact. Or simply didn’t want to reach out to each other, not after all this time anyway. How long has it been since their relationship? Two years? Three?

She snaps out of her stupor with bated breath, eyes flickering to her friend whose hand she was gripping, maybe a little too tightly. The same friend who was urging her forward with a confused look and a tug on her wrist. Eventually her feet move almost reluctantly, eyes briefly glancing across the club to where he stands. But he was already gone, as if he vanished into thin air.

Drew.