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admiringlove · 3 days ago

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➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. a trip to hogsmeade. a hidden passageway. secrets slipping through the cracks like candle wax left too long in the heat. when everything unravels at once—whispers in the dark, truths half-spoken, tensions simmering beneath frostbitten fingertips—what do you do? arguments, stolen glances, and the weight of something inevitable, waiting just beyond the door.

➵ warnings. detailed descriptions of bodily injury; angst; mentions of death; mentions of alcohol; mentions of sex; etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; etc.

➵ word count. 17.2k.

➵ author's note. big thanks to @gojofile for proofreading. have fun reading, and i hope slytherin prefect gojo warms your hearts <3 also also, taglist is no longer open. tysm if you signed up!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

The next few days pass in a strange, muted haze.

You drift through the corridors like a ghost, present but not entirely there. The world moves around you, but you don’t feel yourself moving with it. There are things you know you’ve done—managing the Dueling Club, fulfilling your prefect duties, attending classes without missing a single lesson—but none of it sticks. Your body carries you through the motions, hands turning pages, mouth forming answers when professors call your name, legs taking you from one place to the next without hesitation. You follow a routine, something structured, something predictable, something that keeps you from slipping into the spaces between.

At night, you move through the school’s secret corridors, fulfilling the students’ requests with an efficiency that is almost mechanical. You sneak into offices, slip potions into waiting hands, retrieve lost items from places they shouldn’t have been in the first place. And then, for the first time in what feels like years, you sleep when you’re meant to. Properly. You let the exhaustion pull you under without fighting it. No lingering in the common room, no staring out of windows, no pacing the halls in the quiet hours of the morning.

You don’t know if you’ve been talking to people properly. You don’t even know if you’ve been talking at all. Words feel like an afterthought, like something distant, like a spell that takes too much effort to cast. You float past conversations, answering only when necessary, and even then, your voice sounds different. Detached. Almost unfamiliar.

And you haven’t spoken to Fushiguro or Gojo. Not once.

You aren’t sure what to make of that. You aren’t sure if it’s strange, if you should have sought them out, or if they should have sought you out first. Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it means everything. You tell yourself you don’t care either way, but you know that’s not entirely true.

The library is quiet in the way it always is—hushed murmurs slipping between bookshelves, the faint scratch of quills against parchment, the distant rustle of pages being turned. The lamps flicker low, throwing long, shifting shadows over the wooden tables. Dust floats in the lantern light, suspended, moving in the slow, unhurried way that makes the air itself feel heavier.

You sit with Utahime and Kento across from you, and Shoko next to you. The four of you are buried in stacks of parchment, quills poised over half-written essays, ink smudged at the edges of your fingertips. The air smells like parchment and candle wax, like the faintest trace of something old, something forgotten, something that lingers in the bindings of books that haven’t been touched in years.

The words on the page blur together after a while. You blink down at your parchment, fingers tightening around your quill as you try to focus, try to summon the same ease that had carried you through everything else this week. But the more you try, the more it slips away.

"Gosh, I haven't been to Hogsmeade at all this year. Neither have you, right, [L/N]?" Utahime asks.

You nod absently, yawning, as you trace over the same line in the textbook again. The Elixir of Life—the potion created from Nicolas Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone. The promise of immortality, of endless years stretched out over time, of something that should be unattainable. Your mind latches onto the thought for a moment, wanders through the weight of it. What would it be like to exist outside of time? To live through centuries, untouched, unchanged? To watch everything move forward while you stayed the same?

The quill slips from your fingers, rolling across the table.

"We should all go," Utahime continues, not noticing your distraction. "Even though I loathe your two best friends, Shoko, I think it’ll be more fun with all of us."

"Yeah, I’ll ask," Shoko says, tilting her head, "They’ll probably say yes. Although not for this weekend, remember, we have those tests for DADA and Potions next week. And the Potions paper is to be submitted this week."

Utahime groans, long and dramatic, slumping over her parchment. The corners of Shoko’s mouth twitch, amused.

The words slip past you, distant, muffled. You can feel Kento’s gaze on you—steady, thoughtful, the kind that lingers just long enough to mean something. You glance up, forcing a smile, quick, practiced, something light enough to brush away any concern before it settles. He raises a brow, skeptical, but doesn’t push.

Somehow, that makes it worse.

"I might head in," you mumble, stretching out your fingers before pressing your knuckles into your palm, letting them crack one by one. The sound is small, almost lost under the rustle of parchment and the faint, rhythmic tapping of quills against wood. "I can’t focus anymore."

Kento looks up from his book, studying you the way he always does—like he’s weighing something, like he’s waiting for an answer you haven’t given yet. "Want me to come with?"

You shake your head, already reaching for your things, shoving loose parchment and ink bottles into your satchel without much care. "No, but would you cover my prefect patrol tonight? I’m too tired to even stay for dinner. I’ll be sleeping."

He watches you for a moment longer before nodding. "Alright."

You don’t look at him when you murmur your goodbyes, don’t look at Utahime or Shoko either, even when Utahime says something about overworking yourself again and Shoko mutters a half-hearted agreement, distracted as she scribbles something onto her parchment. The words slip past you, barely registering.

You step out into the corridor, and for a minute, your mind feels heavy, fogged over. Your limbs move as if by instinct, taking you down the familiar stone corridors, but you don’t really feel the weight of your body, don’t feel the movement. Your eyes stay fixed on the floor, on the flickering candlelight stretching shadows against the stone, on the way your own silhouette wavers with every step.

It’s quiet, and you let yourself sink into that quiet, let it settle over you like a thin veil. Everything weighs down.

"Skipping dinner, are you?"

You don’t need to look to know who it is. His voice is easy to recognize—low, lazy, a little rough around the edges, like he’s always amused by something only he understands.

You glance up just as Toji falls into step beside you, hands stuffed into his pockets, moving with that unhurried confidence of someone who knows exactly where he’s going, even if he’s got nowhere to be.

"You creep," you accuse, narrowing your eyes at him. "You were listening to our conversation?"

Toji only laughs, shaking his head, completely unfazed. "I was quite literally sitting at the table behind you," he says, voice light, easy. "Was there before you lot even came in. Not my fault you didn’t notice." He stretches his arms above his head, exhaling, like this whole exchange is nothing more than a casual amusement to him. "Got to send in applications to the Ministry soon, y��know. The Auror program. Entrance exam’s coming up too."

"Ah," you mumble.

Something about it—about the way he says it, about the way he’s so quick to explain—makes your chest go tight for reasons you don’t want to name. Maybe it’s true. Maybe he really has been busy. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t spoken to you at all these past few days.

Or maybe it’s just an excuse.

You glance at him, studying his expression, but there’s nothing there that gives him away. He looks as relaxed as ever, hands still in his pockets, walking beside you like the past few days haven’t been filled with silence.

"Didn’t peg you for the type to want to be an Auror," you say instead, tilting your head slightly.

Toji hums, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh? And what exactly did you peg me for?"

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Dunno. Something a little less... structured. You don’t strike me as someone who follows rules."

"Maybe I like a challenge," he muses. "Besides, who said I’d follow them?"

You roll your eyes, but there’s an undeniable fondness creeping into the edges of your exhaustion. "That sounds about right."

"Don’t worry, princess," he drawls, smirking. "If I make it in, I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for troublemakers like you."

"Yeah, sure," you deadpan. "That’d be a first."

He chuckles, and for a second, just a second, it almost feels normal again.

"You doin’ okay?" His voice is softer now, like he’s treading carefully, like he’s testing the weight of the words before letting them settle between you. "Really. Haven’t seen you at all this week."

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. "U-uh, yeah," you say, nodding a little too quickly. "Just busy, I guess."

It’s not a lie. Not really. You have been busy. You’ve been drowning in schoolwork, in prefect duties, in Dueling Club, in everything else that lets you keep moving without having to stop and think. But that’s not what he’s asking. Not really. He speaks like this whole thing is some game of Quidditch, and he’s the Keeper, knocking the Quaffle away before it ever gets too close to scoring. Keeping it moving. Keeping it out of reach. You watch him for a second longer than you probably should, trying to decide if he’s doing it on purpose or if it’s just muscle memory by now.

You say nothing. Just turn down the corridor, heading for the staircases.

"Let me walk you up?" he asks as you take the first step upward.

"You really don’t have to," you say, pausing, looking back at him. "Your common room is the other way."

"Yeah, but this gives me time with you," he murmurs, licking his lower lip as he steps closer, into your space, head tilted just enough to meet your gaze.

It’s the only time you’re taller than him. The only time you can look down at him like this, with him standing a step below you, chin tilted slightly up. You’re almost tempted to take another step, just to see how much more height you can gain over him, just to see what it feels like to have the upper hand, even for a moment. And maybe it’s that. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. But you exhale, slow, measured, and nod. "Yeah," you say. "Okay."

His smirk is lazy, self-satisfied. "Good choice, princess."

"You just like bothering me," you mutter, turning back to the stairs.

"True," he concedes easily, falling into step beside you. "But you like it."

You scoff. "I really don’t."

"You do," he says, grinning now, the kind of grin that makes it feel like he knows something you don’t. Like he’s already won whatever game you didn’t even realize you were playing. "C’mon. Admit it."

You shake your head, exasperated, and keep walking. But your lips twitch, just slightly, at the corners.

A week passes. Then two days.

The Room of Requirement shifts to accommodate your needs, as it always does—its towering shelves rearrange themselves at your command, its long table is scattered with parchments, and a fire crackles faintly in the hearth, keeping the air comfortably warm against the late autumn chill. You flip through the latest requests, sifting through the scrawled handwriting of students who have come to rely on you and the others for things they cannot obtain on their own.

Nothing particularly interesting this time. Someone needs a book Pince keeps locked in her desk, another has lost their pet, a third wants ingredients they aren’t allowed to have. Last week, you'd stolen a vial of Draught of Living Death from Snape’s stores, nicked Gillyweed from Sprout’s greenhouse, and smuggled out something particularly valuable from Filch’s cabinet. Business as usual.

All is well—until Gojo Satoru bursts into the room.

The door slams open with a force that rattles the hinges. You flinch, snapping your head up, and immediately, you know something is wrong.

Something in the way he moves.

The usual ease in his gait, the careless arrogance that drips from every step—it’s absent. Instead, there’s a stiffness to him, like he’s trying too hard to appear normal, like every shift of his body pulls at something raw and aching. His jaw is clenched, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides. His uniform is disheveled, his tie loosened, the collar of his shirt rumpled.

"Who pissed in your tea this morning?" you ask, eyebrows furrowing.

You haven’t spoken much since the fight. He’s been keeping his distance, and you’ve been letting him. You’ve had the Marauders’ business to handle, while he spent the past weekend away from school, excusing himself under the pretense of family obligations, though you both knew he was secretly working on the genealogy portion of your little escapade.

Now, though, this is different.

"I really don’t want to start right now," he mutters, shaking his head. His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

You catch it again. The unnatural way he moves, the hesitation in his steps, as if every motion costs him something. A deep, instinctual unease settles in your stomach.

"Are you okay?" you ask, your voice sharper now. "Something isn’t right. Why are you walking like that? Are you hurt?"

"It’s not like you care," he scoffs, moving toward the long table. His usual bravado is still there, but it feels forced, like he’s holding it together through sheer stubbornness. "The ancestry part—it’s going to take more time."

"No, wait," your eyes narrow, tracking the way his torso subtly twists as he moves, the almost imperceptible grimace that flickers across his face before he smooths it over. "Let me see what’s wrong."

"Absolutely not," he snaps, voice pitching slightly higher, as if the very thought is offensive. When you reach for him, he swats your hand away with more force than necessary, stepping back. "No. Stop it."

"Gojo," you warn, your patience thinning, "let me see what’s wrong. You might need to go to the Infirmary—"

"Since when do you care?" he demands, louder now, a biting edge creeping into his voice. "You’ve never given a shit, so why now? You were going to foul me in the Quidditch game a week ago. I could’ve fallen and broken my bones or something, but you were fine with that, right? What’s different now?"

You step forward and grab the front of his robes, and whatever words he was about to say after that die in his throat.

His whole body stills under your touch. His eyes, narrowed in irritation just moments ago, go wide, startled, as if it has just occurred to him that you’re close—too close. His breath stutters slightly, and for once, he is completely, utterly dumbfounded. He doesn’t even resist when you guide him away from the table, doesn’t have a quip ready, doesn’t pull away like you expect him to.

When the backs of his knees hit the couch, he sinks into it without argument, blinking up at you in stunned silence, his mouth slightly open like he can’t quite process what just happened. The moment stretches between you, heavy and uncertain, before he exhales sharply, wincing as he shifts.

And that, more than anything, makes you pause. Because Gojo Satoru never winces.

Your hands, still braced against his shoulders, feel the tension coiled beneath the fabric of his robes, the way his body is drawn tight with pain. You frown, fingers instinctively pulling back.

"Is that where you’re hurt?" you ask, watching him closely.

His mouth presses into a thin line. He doesn’t answer.

"Do I need to call Madam Pomfrey?"

"No," he blurts, shaking his head too quickly. "N-no, don’t call her."

"Gojo," you say again, his name a warning on your lips, "I hate your existence, yes, but you can’t work in this condition."

His mouth twitches at that, as if he wants to argue, but his body betrays him. His shoulders are rigid, his breathing uneven, and up close, you can see it. How utterly drained he looks. The fight is there, as it always is with him, but it’s losing ground against whatever has happened to him.

"Let me help?" you ask, your voice quieter now. "I don't hate your guts as much as you think I do."

Gojo doesn’t answer immediately. He stares down at his lap, his hands curling and uncurling against his knees, fingers tightening like they need something to hold onto. His face is unreadable at first—blank, composed, the kind of carefully controlled mask you’re used to seeing on him when he wants to act like he’s above everything. But then, you see it.

The slight furrow of his brow, like a loose knot being pulled just enough to show the tension beneath. The way his eyes flutter shut for a fraction of a second too long, as if bracing himself. There’s something fragile in the way he holds himself, a hesitance that makes your stomach twist. And the fear—it’s there, too, small but unmistakable. A flicker of something buried deep, an instinctive flinch before a blow that never comes.

You’ve known him too long not to recognize it. It’s rare, so rare, that he lets anything slip. But this? This, he is making obvious to you. Or maybe he’s too tired to hide it.

He exhales slowly, something inside him caving as he looks up at you, his usual sharpness dulled by something heavier. And when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

"Don't tell anyone," he mumbles. He says it carefully, like the words might crack if he’s not careful, like admitting them out loud is already too much. "Only Suguru knows. Shoko might have an idea, but she hasn’t seen it."

"Seen what?" you ask, blinking. You don’t understand. Not yet.

Gojo clears his throat, blinking up at you almost hesitantly, and then, he starts to move.

You don’t register what’s happening at first. His fingers go to his tie, loosening it with practiced ease before pulling it free completely. Then, he shrugs off his robe—fluid, almost effortless, as if it’s second nature to him. Even though you know that every motion must be pulling at something beneath his skin.

You take a step back, a little confused, your heartbeat climbing against your ribs. His hands move next to the buttons of his shirt, and immediately, your palms fly up to cover your eyes.

"Satoru, what are you—"

"I'm not trying to shag you, Fawkes," he cuts in, and there it is, that dry, sardonic humor, slipping in like armor. Like a last line of defense before something breaks apart completely.

It doesn’t sit right with you. The words are light, but the air between you is heavy, suffocating. You peek through the gaps in your fingers, your breath catching in your throat just as he pulls the fabric of his shirt aside. And then, you see it. Your hands fall away from your face as horror floods through you.

Scars.

They stretch across his torso, stark against pale skin. Some old, faded into silvery remnants of pain long since endured, while others are newer, still pink, still angry. A latticework of healed wounds, of places where his skin has been split open and sewn back together, over and over again. A map of injuries that do not belong to someone like him.

Gojo Satoru—the most brilliant Seeker of your generation, the most untouchable student in your year, the epitome of effortless arrogance, of perfection bred into blood and bone—is covered in scars.

Your stomach twists violently, the image searing itself into your mind, refusing to let go. You don’t understand. You don’t understand how this is possible, how someone like him—who laughs so carelessly, who walks through life like nothing can ever touch him—has been hurt this many times. How no one knew.

How you didn’t know.

Gojo exhales, slow and steady, watching you carefully. As if gauging your reaction. As if waiting to see if you’ll flinch, if you’ll recoil, if you’ll say something that will make him regret showing you.

But you can’t say anything at all. Because all you can do is stare at him, at the evidence of something that feels too big to process, at the proof that there is a part of him—this hidden, wounded part—that you have never, ever seen before.

"Say something," he whispers. His voice is uneven, as if he’s barely holding himself together, as if the wrong word might be the final push that sends him spiraling. "I know what you're thinking. It's ugly, and disgusting, and you're probably judging me—"

"Where does it hurt?" you ask, so softly it almost dissolves in the space between you. The words barely exist, barely form, like speaking too loudly might make another wound appear, another scar etch itself into his skin. The thought sickens you. You couldn’t risk that. You wouldn’t.

He swallows thickly, his throat bobbing. He looks down at himself, at the war mapped across his body in raised lines and bruised skin. His hands tremble as he lifts them, hesitating before gesturing toward his shoulder—the same place you had grabbed him earlier, unknowingly pressing into a nasty bruise. Then, slowly, his fingers trail lower, to the deep bruising along his stomach, to the side of his ribs where fresh gauze is haphazardly secured. The sight makes something in your chest twist.

You step forward. Carefully. Slowly. Like he's the most fragile thing in the world. And maybe, right now, he is.

He doesn’t flinch when you kneel in front of him. He doesn’t move when you lean in, close enough to examine the wounds but not enough to crowd him. You hold your breath, not wanting to disturb the silence between you, not wanting to make this moment anything more than what it is.

Then, you see it. The bandaging. The gauze. A foreign, unfamiliar thing in the world of magic.

"Why is there gauze on this?" you ask, barely above a whisper. Your voice is steady, but there's something behind it—something careful, something that wavers. "Nobody in the wizarding world uses this. This is Muggle medicine. We have enchantments, spells, things that heal without leaving a trace."

You look up at him, and you wish you hadn't. Because when your eyes meet his, you see it. The fear. Not of pain, not of the wounds themselves, but of you. Of your reaction, of what you might think, of whether or not you’ll look at him and see something broken.

But all you feel is the ache blooming in your ribs, sharp and relentless, because how had he let it get this bad?

How had he been living like this?

"You wanted to be more like me, right?" he says, voice taut, not with anger but something bitter, something exhausted. "This is what it's like. Being a pureblood. Especially in the Gojo bloodline."

You blink. The words are leaden, settling heavy in the space between you. "Your parents did this to you?"

"More or less." He exhales, shaky and uneven, reaching for his robes, his fingers curling into the fabric like he’s suddenly aware of how much of himself he’s revealed. You see it in the way his shoulders pull inward, in the way his throat bobs. He can’t stand for you to look at him any longer. And just as he's about to cover himself, you reach for his wrist, firm but not forceful. "Can I help?"

He hesitates. A long, weighty pause. "I can't let you. I haven't let Suguru help, either," he murmurs, voice quieter, more fractured. "If the scar's gone, they'll—"

"It won't be." You squeeze his hand, gently, reassuringly. "Trust me."

Another pause. Then, softer, more careful: "Is it still bleeding?"

He nods, swallowing hard, gaze dropping to the gauze, the dark stain spreading over the white. You sigh, nodding once as you pull your wand from your boot. "This might hurt a bit, okay? Let me help."

You move carefully, peeling the gauze away from his skin. It sticks at first, the dried blood clinging stubbornly, and you wince at the sound it makes as it pulls away. Beneath it, the wound is ugly—deep, angry, raw. Blood wells up sluggishly from the broken skin, glistening under the dim light. The stitches are an atrocity. Uneven, poorly spaced, almost haphazard, thread pulled too tight in some areas and too loose in others, as if they were done in a hurry. You blink, glancing up at him, but he's already looking away, his mouth pulling into something almost sheepish.

"House Elf. Dobby," he says, giving a weak smile.

"Right," you murmur, exhaling sharply. "I'm afraid I have to undo them."

He nods once, eyes fluttering shut as if steeling himself. You whisper, raising your wand over the stitches, "Dissuo."

The effect is immediate. The sutures unravel, pulling apart like an unseen hand is gently tugging the threads loose. Blood beads at the surface again, the punctures from the stitches still visible, dotting his skin in cruel little half-moons. You work quickly, removing the strings where they’ve fully unraveled. He flinches when your fingers graze his skin, and you mumble an apology, to which he waves you off, his expression unreadable.

You swallow, shifting onto your knees, steadying yourself. The next spell—it's rare. You aren’t even sure you can do it properly. But once, you overheard Snape speaking of it to Dumbledore, back when you were in his office. It’s powerful. More powerful than anything you’ve ever cast before.

Taking a slow breath, you whisper, "Vulnera Sanentur."

Your wand moves in slow, fluid arcs, tracing delicate circular motions in the air. You speak the incantation again, then a third time, voice quiet, almost reverent. The blood recedes, as if retreating back into his veins, and the torn flesh begins to knit together. It’s not instant, nor painless—you see the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers dig into his knees, white-knuckled. But it works. The wound closes, leaving behind a pale, raised scar. Healed. Not erased. Never erased.

Gojo exhales, a breath he had been holding onto for too long, his eyes flickering down to where the wound had been. His fingers twitch, hesitating, before pressing lightly against his side, testing. You watch him, and he watches his own hands, as if unsure whether to believe what he’s seeing.

"It’s done. Although, it only healed the tissue. If you want the scars to go away, you have to use Dittany," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he just blinks at you, his expression slack with something unreadable. Then, slowly, as if his mind is catching up with his body, his lips part, and his brows lift. His entire face transforms, shock spilling into every crease and line. He looks at you like you've just rewritten the laws of the universe.

Then he laughs. Not loud, not his usual bright, careless cackle, but something quiet and disbelieving. A little breathless. A little awed.

"Where in hell did you learn that?" His voice is hoarse, but there's a familiar lilt to it now, teasing, even as the remnants of surprise still linger in his gaze. "More importantly, can you teach me?"

Something in your chest eases, uncoiling like a knot that had been tied too tight for too long. He looks like himself again. His eyes aren’t dull with exhaustion or wary with fear. They’re alight, searching, full of something that almost looks like hope. And for the first time tonight, you feel like you can breathe.

You shake your head, your lips tugging into a grin. "Only if you tell me how you made our trusty map."

His eyes narrow immediately, and just like that, the moment shifts. His mouth twitches, and he reaches for his shirt where it’s draped over the armrest, pulling it toward him with a lazy sort of defiance.

"Keep your secrets," he mutters, slipping one arm through a sleeve. "I'll keep mine."

You roll your eyes but don’t push, don’t pry. Instead, you rise to your feet, brushing the dust from your knees before reaching out. Your fingers barely ruffle through his hair as you place a hand on the top of his head.

"Don’t worry too much about the ancestry list, yeah?" you say, voice softer now. "You can take your time. I know it's hard, what you're doing."

Something flickers across his face at that, too quick to catch. He shifts, his posture stiffening for the briefest second before smoothing out again, but the hesitation lingers in the air between you. He knows something. Something he's not telling you.

But you don’t press. Not tonight. Not after this.

You exhale, turning toward the long table, toward the stack of parchment and the requests still waiting to be sorted through. "I'm gonna get started on Marauders' business," you say, glancing at him only briefly as he tugs the hem of his shirt into place. "I'll see you later."

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, softer than before, "See you later."

And for the first time in weeks, you believe him.

You're on patrol the next night, taking the list of duties from the Head Girl before heading up the stairs to the next corridor. It’s a quiet shift this time. No long treks across the castle, no winding through the dungeons or climbing the Astronomy Tower. Just a few dimly lit hallways to check, a stretch of silence to exist in. You are alone for a moment, waiting for your assigned partner, when you hear hurried footsteps—quick, uneven, like someone is running up the stairs two at a time.

Then he appears, breathless and grinning, hair askew as if he’d been racing against time itself. Gojo.

You frown. "I thought I had Patricia from Ravenclaw with me on this side of the castle. What are you—"

"With a lot of charm and my face, I can do anything," he cuts in, nudging your shoulder with his own. "Including switching patrol duties with other people."

You roll your eyes, but you don’t argue. You could, but it wouldn’t change anything. Gojo always finds a way to get what he wants.

The two of you walk side by side through the corridor outside the Great Hall, the hush of the castle wrapping around you both. Your footsteps echo in tandem, the sound rhythmic. The torches flicker as you pass, their glow casting long shadows against the stone walls. You scan the dark corners for movement, ears pricked for the sound of someone sneaking through the halls, but the night is still.

Being a Prefect has its perks. If you weren’t, your work as a Marauder would be so much harder, more inconvenient. You wonder if Gojo ever thinks about that—if he ever feels the weight of secrecy pressing down on him the way you do.

Then, quietly, almost hesitantly, he says, "I never really said thanks, did I?"

You glance up at him, brow furrowing slightly. Gojo doesn’t thank people. He doesn’t apologize, either. Not really. Not in the ways that count.

"You don’t have to," you murmur. "Anyone else would’ve—"

"No," he interrupts. His voice is softer now, edged with something unfamiliar. "No one else did do anything, did they?"

"That’s because you wouldn’t let them," you say, shaking your head. "I’m sure Suguru would’ve found a way to help if you’d just asked. He’s the only one other than me that knows."

Something shifts in his expression, just for a second. A flicker of something unreadable.

"Exactly," he murmurs. "That’s why I didn’t ask."

You don’t know what to say to that. The words settle into your bones, leave a strange feeling behind, like a splinter just beneath the skin.

Gojo nudges you again, his voice lighter this time. "You were right, though. About me being stubborn."

You scoff. "I’m always right."

"And humble, too," he teases. "Truly a rare combination."

"You’re one to talk."

"Yeah, but you like me anyway," he grins.

You don’t respond. You don’t need to. The warmth between you says enough.

"Did you hear about it?" you ask after a few beats, voice low in the quiet hallway. "Everyone wants to go to Hogsmeade together."

Gojo's lips curve, that familiar glint sparking in his eye as he turns to you. "I am so going to spike Utahime’s butterbeer with firewhiskey." A pause, then, almost as an afterthought, "Or hex her. Haven’t decided yet."

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. "Why are you always at odds with her?"

He clicks his tongue, as if the answer should be obvious. "I’m at odds with you, too. All the time. Some people are just more fun to irritate than others."

"You are… insufferable," you mutter, rolling your eyes as the two of you finally reach the library. The heavy wooden doors loom ahead, and you lean against one of the stone pillars outside, exhaling softly. It’s a moment of respite—just a breath—before Gojo shakes his head, something more serious settling into his features.

"I really do have to visit the Ministry again this weekend," he murmurs. "I should—"

"Don’t do that," you cut in sharply, eyes locking onto his. "I don’t want to see another gash on you."

His gaze softens, but there’s something unreadable behind it. "Listen, Fawkes, this is serious, right? We can’t just… do things like this. I have to get into the Ministry somehow, use my father’s connections. Maybe say I’m writing a paper for school. Those foolish receptionists see me and melt, anyway. My father won’t know. I won’t go home at all this time."

Your arms cross over your chest. "And if your parents find out you were snooping around at the Ministry, God knows what will happen to you."

His expression doesn’t change. He just watches you, like he’s weighing something.

"Isn’t that how it went last week?" you push.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "This is a usual occurrence. Although that gash was… rare. It never gets that bad." A beat, then, quieter, "Something is happening. I’m sure of it. My parents have been more and more stressed lately. Dobby said tensions are high at home in his last letter."

Your brows furrow slightly. "I ought to meet this elf," you muse, half-joking. "He seems like a real treat."

Gojo huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "He’s shit at listening to me. Never obeys properly. But he’ll make sure no harm comes to me." He hesitates, just for a moment, then, in a voice so low you almost miss it. "He even puts himself between my father and me, when…"

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

You swallow. The words sit heavy between you, unspoken but understood. You shift slightly, peeling yourself away from the pillar, standing just a little closer to him now.

"You really should be more careful," you murmur.

Gojo tilts his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite the weight of the conversation. "What, worried about me, Fawkes?"

You scoff, turning toward the library doors. "No. I just don’t want to have to patch you up again."

"Mm," he hums, as if he doesn’t believe you. Then, teasing, "You should come with me. Make sure I don’t get into too much trouble."

You shake your head vigorously. "Absolutely not."

"Then at least admit you’d miss me if something happened."

"Gojo."

He laughs, full and bright, the sound stretching down the empty corridor, lingering in the hush of the castle’s late hours. You roll your eyes, pushing open the heavy library door, the familiar scent of parchment and old books greeting you as you step inside.

Gojo follows, glancing around, hands tucked into his pockets. His voice drops to a conspiratorial murmur. "Doesn’t look like there’s people snogging each other in here."

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "You sound disappointed."

"Not disappointed. Just relieved." He grins, nudging your shoulder. "Would’ve been awkward. For them."

You roll your eyes, already moving toward the librarian’s desk to check if there’s anything left to be locked away before closing up. The library is empty, save for the faint crackling of the enchanted lanterns floating near the bookshelves, casting long, flickering shadows against the high-arched ceilings.

"Come on," Gojo says after a beat, leaning against the desk like he owns the place. "Let’s close up and head to the Room. We’ve got an hour. We can work on requests for tonight instead. Keep it lighthearted."

You sigh, shaking your head, but the exhaustion in your limbs is already giving way to the familiarity of routine—the quiet, effortless ease of mischief shared between the two of you.

"Alright, fine," you mumble, shooting him a look. "But you’re doing most of the work."

When you’re headed for the Great Hall the next morning, a hand catches your wrist and pulls you sharply to the side. A breathless yelp escapes you before another hand covers your mouth, warm and firm, silencing you before you can cry out. Your heart stutters, a rush of panic prickling along your spine—until you hear the voice, low and amused, so close it sends a shiver down your neck.

"Shh, princess. Just me."

Your pulse slows, but only slightly. You shove his hand off, scowling as you step back, glancing around to make sure no one else saw. "You cannot sneak up on people like that," you whisper, voice sharp, "Gosh, with everything I’ve been dealing with, I thought I was actually in danger."

Toji tilts his head, studying you with sudden interest. "What things?"

You hesitate. The weight of secrets presses against your ribs, the things you can’t tell him, the things you shouldn’t. "Things I can’t tell you," you say eventually, folding your arms, "Same reason I sneak around all the time."

"Ah." His mouth quirks, the expression unreadable. Something shifts behind his eyes, though. Like a thought just out of reach, a puzzle piece clicking into place. Then he nods, stepping back, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Alright. Meet me near the Black Lake tonight?"

You pause. The Black Lake. You haven’t been there since everything changed—since the first pieces of the mystery began unraveling, since you and Gojo began putting things together, since the cryptic notes led to something far darker than you had anticipated. Your stomach twists. You exhale. "How about the Astronomy Tower?"

Toji raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Getting romantic, are you?"

You roll your eyes. "Filch won’t catch us there."

"How do we know that?"

"Prefect duties end at eleven. Filch can’t stay up past midnight, and Mrs. Norris is the only thing we need to be wary of. I usually carry treats with me," you murmur. "So, midnight. Astronomy Tower."

He watches you for a beat, eyes dark, considering. Then he nods, leaning down slightly, just enough for his breath to ghost against your ear. The movement is slow, deliberate. Almost teasing. "Alright, sure."

You don’t let yourself react. You swallow down the odd flutter in your chest, school your features into something neutral, and push past him toward the Great Hall.

The warmth of the Great Hall greets you like a familiar embrace, the golden morning light spilling through the enchanted ceiling, dappling the long wooden tables. The smell of fresh toast, eggs, and pumpkin juice fills the air, and the low hum of conversation surrounds you, grounding you back into something normal.

You spot Utahime and Kento immediately—Utahime waving her hands animatedly, Kento looking as unimpressed as ever, though there’s a small, patient smile at the corner of his lips. You slide into the seat next to Utahime, sighing as you reach for the nearest platter of toast.

"You just missed Shoko," Kento informs you, flipping through the pages of a book beside his plate. "She left early for the Hospital Wing. Something about Pomfrey needing help with something."

"Of course she did," you mumble, biting into your toast.

"You’re late," Utahime says, nudging you with her elbow. "Almost thought you were ditching breakfast."

"Almost did."

"Yeah, yeah." She waves you off before pulling out a small notebook from her bag and flipping through it. "Anyway, Hogsmeade. I need to plan properly. I refuse to get distracted this time."

"By what?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Sweets." Utahime sighs dramatically. "Last time, I spent all my money at Honeydukes and had to borrow from Shoko to get actual supplies. This time, I have a strategy. First stop: Scrivenshaft’s. Then, Zonko’s. And then, only then, I will go to Honeydukes. That way, I won’t spend everything at once."

"You act like that’ll stop you," Kento says dryly, turning a page.

Utahime glares at him. "Shut up, Kento." Then she turns to you. "Oh! I was also thinking, I want to send some sweets home. My mom loves Honeydukes’ Fizzing Whizzbees. What do you think I should get for my dad?"

You hum, chewing absently. "Chocolate Cauldrons, maybe? They last a while. My dad likes those. My mum's more into Chocolate Frogs, though. She thinks they're cute—until the enchantment wears off. Then she feels too guilty to eat them, says it’s like killing a pet."

Utahime snorts, not looking up from her notes. "Right. Because clearly, the ethical dilemma only kicks in once it's stopped moving."

You roll your eyes, nudging her. "Shut up."

She grins, scribbling something down with newfound determination.

You let them chatter then, let the noise of the Great Hall settle over you like a soft blanket. But somewhere, beneath the warmth of the moment, your thoughts keep flickering back—to the pull of everything, to the weight of the night ahead, to the quiet, nagging feeling that things are shifting, and you aren’t sure in which direction yet.

Classes slip by in a blur, the hours folding into one another until they are nothing more than a string of half-remembered lessons and the scratch of quills against parchment. In Potions, you answer correctly—something about the precise brewing time for the Draught of Living Death—and Snape, after a long pause, begrudgingly awards you five points. The question had been difficult, one of those deliberately obscure ones he liked to throw at students to watch them squirm. Only Gojo might have known the answer. But Gojo, of course, was asleep in the back, head propped up on his arm, hair falling over his eyes, utterly undisturbed by the world around him.

The day drags until your last class—Magical Theory. The final bell has rung, students are already filing out, their conversations rising into an indistinct hum as they shuffle toward the corridors. You close your book, tuck your quill into its case, slip it into your bag with careful, practiced motions. You should be leaving with them. You should be thinking about dinner, or about the plans Utahime had been prattling on about all morning, or about anything other than what you are about to do.

The thought has been clawing at the edges of your mind, insistent, restless. You can feel it, curling its way into your thoughts, taking root like an unspoken thing waiting to be acknowledged.

You clear your throat. "Uh, professor?"

Professor Fig pauses by his desk, glancing over his shoulder. His robes are different from the other professors'—layered, flowing, more reminiscent of the old-world wizards you’d read about in Muggle fantasy books. It suits him, you think. It suits the way he teaches, the way he speaks of magic not as a set of spells and incantations, but as something vast and ancient, something stretching beyond the limits of what you understand.

He tilts his head. "Yes?"

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. You shouldn't be asking this. You don't even know why you're asking it, not really, except for the fact that it has been gnawing at you ever since the pieces began to slot together, ever since you started looking at magic differently—at everything differently.

You inhale, slow, measured. "How did... dark magic originate?"

There’s a beat of silence.

You shift, adjusting your grip on your bag. "Just out of curiosity," you add quickly, as if that will somehow lessen the weight of the question. "You talked about ancient magic today. And all of it was just... good magic. None of it was dark."

There. The words are out. They linger in the air between you, heavier than you expected. You brace yourself for his reaction, for the way he might look at you differently now. For the way you might not be able to take this back.

He almost smiles. As if he’s been waiting for this, as if the question was always meant to come from you. Then, with the careful patience of a professor who has had to explain something a hundred times but never tires of it, he says, “There isn’t one. Not an exact origin, anyway.”

He leans back against his desk, folding his arms, watching you—not unkindly, but with that knowing glint in his eye, the one that says that he knew it was coming. His voice is even, measured. “Some believe the first true forms of dark magic were the Unforgivable Curses—spells crafted not to protect, not to heal, but to control, to torment, to kill. The complete opposite of what we might consider ancient magic, the kind that nurtures and restores. It’s a bit like philosophy, in the Muggle world.”

You shift, straightening your spine, as your fingers curl around the strap of your bag. “Philosophy?” You tilt your head. “Like Hegesias? Kant? Socrates?”

A small chuckle leaves him. “You know your Muggle theorists well.” There’s no condescension in it, just the simple amusement of someone who’s surprised and impressed in equal measure. “Not many Muggleborns keep reading up on Muggle history once they find out they’re wizards. It’s like they forget the world they came from.”

He exhales, thoughtful. “But yes, some magical historians argue that dark magic has always existed. That it had to exist, an inevitable counterpart to light. Just as nature balances creation with destruction, magic manifested in dual aspects—healing and harming, shielding and cursing. Maybe the first wizards didn’t invent dark magic. Maybe they just... stumbled upon it. The same way humans stumbled upon fire and learned it could both warm and burn.”

He watches you carefully, gauging your reaction, but you only blink at him, absorbing.

“The Egyptians,” he continues, “were known for resurrection spells and curses meant to guard tombs. The Greeks and Romans experimented with necromancy, with magic that could bind souls, tether them. That kind of magic was never meant to be used—only studied. But people always push boundaries, don’t they?”

“So...” you hesitate, weighing your words, trying not to sound too eager. “The origin of magic itself is unknown?”

“In simple terms? Yes.” He shrugs. “No one knows where it began. Only that it did. And over centuries, it was shaped, rewritten, controlled.” A pause. “Outlawed, even.”

Your fingers twitch at your side. You glance at your shoes, then back up at him. “Is there any reading on that? On how it was outlawed, how it was regulated?”

His lips twitch, not quite a smirk but something close. “Plenty. I can recommend some books, if you’re interested. Though I should warn you—it’s not light reading.”

“That’s fine.” You huff out a breath, pulling a notepad from your bag. You don’t know why you feel oddly breathless, as if something is settling over you, pressing against your ribs. “Actually, I’d like a list of famous dark wizards or witches, too. If possible.”

Professor Fig watches you for a moment, weighing something unspoken, and then he nods. “Alright.” He reaches for his quill, begins scrawling titles onto a piece of parchment. You listen to the scratch of ink on paper, the slow pull of silence settling over the emptying classroom.

When he hands it to you, his fingers brush yours—fleeting, accidental.

“Personal research, then?” he asks, his voice light, but his gaze sharp.

You grip the parchment, curling it between your fingers. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Something like that.”

Professor Fig exhales softly, watching you with an unreadable expression. Then, just as you turn toward the door, he says, almost gently, "I hope you're being careful, dear."

The words catch you off guard, settling like a weight in your chest. You hesitate for half a second—too long, too telling—before you school your face into something neutral.

“Always,” you say, but the lie feels thin, stretched.

And then you’re gone, slipping out of the classroom and into the dim-lit corridor, the weight of the list burning in your hands.

"Gojo, you there? I have something to show you!" you call out, stepping into the Room, voice bouncing off the enchanted walls. The space is dimly lit, shifting, alive in the way only the Room of Requirement ever is, molding itself to their needs—high-backed chairs, an ancient fireplace smoldering low, the long table pushed to the center. A place of careful plotting.

Silence answers you.

You exhale sharply, closing the door behind you. The weight of the parchment in your hand feels heavier now, the inked names and titles pressing into your skin like something alive. You cross the room, your footsteps muted against the worn wooden floors, and pin the list onto the board with a sharp flick of your wrist. The paper flutters for a moment before settling.

You stare at it. A list of books. A list of names. Names that mean nothing to you. Titles that might as well be written in an entirely different language.

Your eyes flicker across them, searching for something familiar, something to grasp onto—but there’s nothing. A deep, clawing frustration wells in your chest. You shut your eyes, pressing your fingers to your temple, before running a hand through your hair, gripping at the roots. How long is this going to take? How much more do we have to unravel?

The genealogy is Gojo’s burden. This, however, is yours. It won’t be easy. It won’t be quick. But it has to be done.

Most of these are in the Restricted Section.

You exhale sharply through your nose, tapping your fingers against the edge of the parchment. Typical. Nothing useful ever comes easy. But then—your eyes catch on a title. Magick Moste Evile, by Godelot.

Your brow furrows. You've seen that book before. You're sure of it. Not just listed in passing, not buried in some forgotten bibliography. No—you’ve seen it physically. On someone’s desk, or left open on a table in the library. You can almost picture its spine, its heavy, dust-coated pages, wedged somewhere near Hogwarts, A History.

It isn’t in the Restricted Section. Which means it’s within reach.

A flicker of urgency sparks in your chest. If you hurry, really hurry, you might be able to catch Pince before she stops letting students check out books for the evening. You don’t think twice.

Your feet are already moving, propelling you out of the Room of Requirement, through the winding staircases and dim-lit corridors. The castle hums around you, torches flickering, portraits murmuring as you pass. A suit of armor creaks as you dart past it, and somewhere behind you, Peeves lets out a delighted cackle—but you don’t slow.

The library looms ahead, its great doors still cracked open. You push through them, breath unsteady, scanning the aisles for movement. Madam Pince is still there, standing at her desk, her mouth pursed as she skims through a massive tome, quill tapping against the page.

You press your lips together, straighten your robes, and step forward.

“Madam Pince,” you say, voice even. “I’d like to check out a book.”

She barely spares you a glance, her quill stilling for the briefest second before she continues marking the margins of the book in front of her. "You're cutting it close," she says, her voice thin, clipped. "What book?"

You hesitate, your fingers curling slightly where they rest on the polished wood of the desk. Magick Moste Evile is not exactly light reading. Not something a casual student would check out before bed. If she asks why, if she pries even a little, you’ll need to have an excuse ready.

But she doesn’t, when you tell her. She doesn’t even blink. Instead, she lets out a long-suffering sigh, waving her hand toward the stacks. “Well, go on then. Find it quickly.”

Relief rushes through you so swiftly it makes you dizzy. You nod, turning on your heel, forcing yourself into a calm, steady stride.

The library is nearly empty at this hour, the last few students packing their things, the only sounds left behind the faint rustling of parchment, the occasional scrape of a chair against stone. The air is thick with the scent of ink and old paper, the dim glow of lanterns casting long shadows between the towering shelves.

You weave through the familiar aisles, heart pounding just a little too fast, eyes scanning the spines with practiced precision. You know the section—near Hogwarts, A History, somewhere in the dense, dust-laden row of historical texts. Your fingers brush over bindings, some cracked and peeling, others smooth with age. And then, there.

Magick Moste Evile.

It’s thinner than you expected, its cover dark, the title embossed in dull silver. A chill prickles at the base of your neck as you pull it free from its place, the weight of it settling into your palm. You don’t stop to think. You tuck it under your arm and head back toward the desk, each step measured, controlled.

Madam Pince barely looks up as she takes it from you, her long, bony fingers flipping it open to the front page. She hums—disapproving, maybe. Then she plucks a stamp from her inkpot and presses it firmly onto the parchment inside the cover.

“Due in one week, you can renew it if you'd like. Although, I suspect you probably won't,” she says, sliding it back across the desk. Her gaze flickers up to you, sharp as a bird of prey. “Mind how you treat it.”

You nod once, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you,” before turning on your heel and making your way toward the doors, the book clutched tight to your chest.

Only when you’re back in the corridor, the heavy doors creaking shut behind you, do you let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You have it. Now you just have to figure out what the hell you’re going to do with it.

It is nearly midnight, and the castle is draped in silence. Shadows stretch long against the stone walls, the torches burning low in their sconces. The halls smell of old parchment and melted wax, the cold seeping through the cracks, curling at your ankles. You walk with measured steps, quiet, cautious, the weight of the book still heavy in your mind. It’s tucked safely beneath your pillow, as if that would somehow keep its secrets contained.

You wish you had the Marauders' Map. The thought flickers unbidden through your mind as you scan the corridor, watching for the telltale flicker of lantern light, the soft pad of Mrs. Norris' paws against stone. But asking Gojo would be a hassle. He would never let it go, would press too much, would grin like he already knew what you were up to before you even said a word. And you don’t have the patience for it tonight.

The stairwell to the Astronomy Tower is steep, winding, each step a whisper beneath your weight. The wind meets you before the night sky does—sharp and biting, threading through the seams of your cloak. You draw it tighter around yourself as you push open the final door, stepping onto the tower’s open balcony. The sky yawns vast above you, endless and dark, studded with stars so bright they seem like pinpricks in fabric, light bleeding through.

You make your way toward the edge. The stone is cold beneath your fingers as you lower yourself down, legs swinging over the side. The drop beneath you is dizzying, an endless stretch of darkness broken only by the faint silver sheen of the Black Lake far below. The rush of it makes your pulse stutter, just for a moment. It’s a reckless kind of thrill—this feeling of being right on the cusp of danger, of letting yourself lean too far just to see how close you can get before you tip over.

You breathe in deep. The cold air fills your lungs, clears your head. For the first time in hours, maybe even days, the tension bleeds from your shoulders, the nerves settling. Up here, it is quiet. Removed from everything. There is nothing but the wind and the sky and the way the night stretches endlessly before you.

And then—

Footsteps.

Your spine stiffens before you can stop it, the moment of peace rupturing like glass cracking under pressure. You don’t turn immediately, but you feel it—the presence behind you, the shift in the air.

Then his voice, low and easy.

“Didn’t peg you as the reckless type.”

You glance back. Toji stands a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, head tilted just slightly. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something caught between amusement and curiosity.

You swallow. Your fingers flex against the stone beneath you.

“I’m not,” you say, turning back toward the sky. “Just needed some air.”

“Astronomy Tower’s a bit extreme for fresh air, don’t you think?” He steps closer, slow and deliberate, until he’s right beside you. He doesn’t sit, not yet. Just watches. “We could’ve gone to the courtyard.”

“Too much of a risk.”

“Or the owlery.”

“Too many owls.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, and you hear the rustle of fabric as he finally lowers himself beside you. His presence is solid, warm even in the cold.

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then, his voice, quieter this time. “You alright?”

And it’s that question, the simplicity of it, the weight behind it, that makes your stomach curl.

"Yeah," you murmur, the word slipping out with the breath you exhale, dissolving into the cold night air. "I think so."

Toji shifts beside you, his coat rustling against the stone. He leans back on his hands, tilting his head toward the sky, as if he’s counting stars. His voice, when it comes, is quiet, threaded with something unreadable.

"Care to tell me anything?" he asks. "Or are you just gonna keep hiding behind those secrets of yours?"

A soft, fogged breath escapes him, barely visible in the chill. It’s colder now—cold enough that you can see each exhale lingering for a moment before fading. You watch it instead of answering right away, your fingers curling over the stone ledge.

"I'm stressed," you admit finally, voice small but firm. "Some things are happening here. Bad things."

A slow, amused exhale. “Bad things,” he repeats, as if testing the words on his tongue, like they might taste different if he says them himself. Then, after a beat— "That why you've been so distant?"

You turn to him then, eyes steady on his profile. His gaze is still cast outward, toward the Black Lake, the stars, the sloping silhouette of the Forbidden Forest in the distance. The sharp line of his jaw is softened by the moonlight, and for a moment, he looks entirely at ease.

"I'm not the only one who's been distant," you say simply. "You are, too."

At that, he glances at you. His mouth curves, half amused, half something else. "You keepin’ tabs on me?"

"Maybe," you say, tilting your head, teasing, but your words are quiet, careful. There’s no accusation there—just an observation, something truthful.

He exhales through his nose, a sound that could almost be a laugh, then leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "Happens this time of year," he mutters, his voice lower now. "Quidditch, classes, life. Too much shit to keep up with."

You hum in response, your gaze flicking out toward the grounds, where the lights of Hogsmeade flicker faintly in the distance. A thought tugs at the corner of your mind, small but insistent.

"Speaking of keeping up with things," you say, nudging his boot lightly with the toe of your own, "we’re going to Hogsmeade next weekend."

Toji raises a brow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Me, Utahime, Kento, Shoko. Gojo, obviously," you say, rolling your eyes. "Saturday."

Toji snorts. "Sounds like a loud group."

"You know Gojo," you say, exasperated. "Everywhere he goes, the volume increases."

Toji chuckles, shaking his head. "True." Then, after a beat, he glances at you. "What, you askin’ me to come?"

"Not exactly," you say, shifting slightly, nudging a loose pebble off the ledge with your fingertips. You feel the moment stretch between you, hanging in the cold air. Then, finally, "I was thinking, if you're free, we could grab a Butterbeer together. While we're there."

You don’t look at him when you say it, but you feel his gaze on you. Then, a slow, lazy grin spreads across his face. “You asking me on a date, sweetheart?”

You scoff, shoving his shoulder lightly, but there’s warmth in your face that you hope the night disguises. “It’s just butterbeer, Toji.”

"Yeah," he says, stretching out the syllable, like he’s considering it. "Yeah, alright. Could use a Butterbeer. Maybe you’ll even pay for it."

You scoff, rolling your eyes, pushing off from the ledge. "Absolutely not."

He laughs, the sound low and warm, following you as you stand, stretching out the stiffness in your limbs. "Figures."

"Smart of you," you say lightly, shaking your head as you move toward the stairs. "I think we should get going. It's late."

"Yeah, yeah." He stands, brushing imaginary dust off his robes. "See you Saturday, then?"

"Looks like it."

And as you both slip back into the darkness of the castle, the wind still howling outside, something uneasy stirs in your chest. Not quite relief, not quite comfort—just a fleeting moment of warmth, fragile and uncertain. Because even as you walk beside him, even as the night air lingers on your skin, the weight of your secrets presses heavier than before.

You finish Magick Moste Evile in two days. The words claw at your brain, settle in the crooks of your mind like an itch you can’t scratch. You don’t even need to look at the pages anymore—whole passages loop in your head, phrases heavy with meaning, with implications that sit thick in your chest.

You read another book, too, one detailing the rise and fall of dark wizards, their obsessions, their downfalls. Their desperation, their genius, their cruelty. The ink on your fingers is permanent now, smudged into the cracks of your skin, stained like the thoughts pressing against your skull.

It’s almost the weekend. You’re sitting in the Room of Requirement, the longtable before you covered in parchment, scrawled notes, half-formed thoughts. Candles flicker in their sconces, casting long, wavering shadows across the stone. The air is warm, thick with the scent of old books and melted wax, but there’s something else, too. Something heavy.

You don’t know why you feel so tense.

Gojo walks in half an hour later, quiet in a way that is wrong. The sound of the door creaking open, the steady footfalls of his boots—these things are familiar. But the silence that follows isn’t.

You look up, and he isn’t looking at you. He’s clutching a few books, knuckles white, gaze fixed on the pinboard. His face is unreadable, his usual glibness absent, replaced with something you can’t quite name.

“Hey,” you start, hesitant, “I wanted to talk to you about some things. And some people. I spoke to Professor Fig about dark magic. Its origins, how it evolved, all of that, and—”

“Fawkes, hold on a second—”

“No, wait, I have questions,” you press, the words rushing out now, like if you don’t say them now, they’ll slip through your fingers, “Look. There are things in these books that don’t add up, contradictions that—”

“Fawkes.”

The way he says your name is different this time. Sharper. Final.

You blink at him, thrown off by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s still not looking at you, his jaw set, tension coiled tight in his shoulders.

You try again, softer this time. “Just.. let me finish, and then I’ll let you say your bit.”

And then he laughs. A short, hollow thing, entirely humorless.

“I don’t want to say my bit,” he snaps, and before you can process it, he slams the books onto the table. The sound is deafening, echoing off the stone walls, sharp as a slap.

You flinch.

There’s a beat of silence where neither of you move. Your pulse is pounding against your skull, the room suddenly too bright, too suffocating.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you say, staring at him.

Gojo presses his hands against the table, exhaling sharply through his nose, head tilting forward, white strands of hair falling into his face. His jaw clenches.

“You never shut up about things, do you?”

The words hit harder than they should. Something sharp twists in your chest. Your grip on the quill tightens, breath coming in a little faster now, shallower. The tension in the air is thick, suffocating.

And then you laugh. Short, bitter, disbelief curling into something hot.

“How are you such a two-faced person?” you snap, voice rising. “One day, you’re thanking me for helping you not die, and the next, you’re screaming in my face!”

Gojo exhales harshly through his nose, shaking his head like he can’t believe you. “Oh, come off it—”

“No, seriously, what is your problem?” You slam your hands onto the table now, matching his stance. The parchment in front of you shifts, some falling to the ground. You don’t care.

Gojo finally looks at you. Really looks at you. His eyes are bright, electric, furious.

“Have you ever considered,” he says, voice low, dangerously controlled, “that maybe I don’t want to hear you be annoying all the damn time?”

Something inside you goes very, very still. The room feels different now. Like something just cracked, and you don’t know if it can be put back together.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

“Fuck you,” you say, voice trembling with rage. “You know I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t important. You know I wouldn’t be looking into this if I didn’t think—”

“Oh, please,” he interrupts, scoffing, running a hand through his hair, “you’re looking into this because you can’t help yourself. Because you always have to stick your nose in things that aren’t your problem.”

“It is my problem,” you snap, voice loud, cracking at the edges. “It’s all of our problem, Gojo! Do you think this is just fun for me? Do you think I’m doing this for a fucking hobby?”

“I think you’re doing it because you don’t know when to stop.”

You shake your head, exhaling harshly, hands clenched into fists. “You really think so, huh? That I’m just- what, doing this for shits and giggles?”

Gojo laughs again, incredulously, running a hand down his face, like this conversation is physically exhausting him. “Merlin, you just don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t,” you snap. “Because you never tell me anything. You just- you just shut me out—”

“Because I have to!”

He’s yelling now. It echoes off the stone walls, the candles flickering from the sheer force of his voice.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Gojo takes a step back, running both hands through his hair, his fingers pressing against his scalp like he’s trying to contain himself.

He’s breathing hard. “I figured it out.”

His voice is raw. Rough. Like it physically hurts to say. Your chest feels too tight, your heartbeat a dull roar in your ears.

Gojo swallows hard, staring at the ground. His fingers twitch at his sides. His jaw clenches, then unclenches. He shakes his head, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“I figured it out,” he says again, quieter this time. And then, voice cracking, as he continues, “And I can’t fucking tell you because it’s going to hurt me.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. Your pulse is a violent thing in your throat, too fast, too uneven. Gojo doesn’t look at you.

The weight of his words presses down on your chest, and you don’t know what to do with it. Something is breaking.

“Who is it, Satoru?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the thick silence between you like a blade. Your chest is heaving, breath unsteady, fingers pressing into the worn wood of the longtable. He won’t look at you. His head is bowed, eyes downturned, his fingers gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

“Who is it?” you repeat, softer this time, but no less insistent.

The candlelight flickers, casting shadows over his face, deepening the furrow in his brow, the tension in his jaw. You step closer, your palms flat against the wood now, the heat of frustration curling up your spine. He’s standing on the other side, rigid, trying so hard not to speak. You can see it—the war raging inside him, the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard, the way his fingers flex like he wants to reach for something but doesn’t know what.

Then, a quiet curse, hissed through his teeth, barely audible. And when he finally looks up at you, his expression knocks the breath from your lungs.

You’ve never seen him like this before. He looks… small.

Like he’s been carrying something too heavy for too long, and now, under the weight of your gaze, he’s starting to buckle. His eyes are glassy, but his mouth is twisted, regret pooling in the corners of it.

“I’ve known for a week now,” he admits, voice hoarse, like it’s scraping against his throat. “Since I went home.”

Your breath catches. The meaning behind his words settles over you in an instant—thick, suffocating, cold.

“And you didn’t care to tell me?”

The anger snaps, sharp and sudden, breaking through the thick fog of silence. Your voice is louder now, a sharp contrast to his broken whisper. He flinches. You don’t give him time to recover.

“I’m going to ask you again.” Your voice is shaking, but it’s firm, stronger than before. You straighten your spine, wipe the dampness from your temple with a trembling hand, forcing your breathing to steady. “Who is it?”

Gojo takes a step back. Just slightly. Barely noticeable. But you see it. You feel it.

“I-I can’t—”

“Who is it, Satoru?”

You’re pushing now. You know you are. Your voice is something authoritative, something fierce, something that doesn’t feel like your own. It’s cutting around the edges of the room, filling the spaces between the bookshelves, the stone walls, the towering ceilings.

He’s fighting it.

You can see the battle waging in his mind, the way his hands twitch at his sides, the way his lips press into a thin line, trembling at the corners.

You exhale, long and slow, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I want a name.”

You lower your tone, grounding yourself, pulling in every ounce of control you have left. “I promise you,” you say, softer now, slower, like you’re offering something fragile, something real, “we won’t do anything stupid. I won’t go to any professors. I won’t go to anyone for help. We’ll figure this out, yeah?”

For a long moment, he says nothing.

The only sound in the room is the distant flickering of candlelight, the shallow inhale of his breath, the way your pulse roars in your ears.

And then, finally, his shoulders cave. His hands press into the table. His head dips forward, a sharp inhale ripping through his lungs, like the very act of saying it is physically painful.

And when he speaks, his voice is so quiet you almost don’t hear it.

“…It’s Suguru.”

It’s a whisper, barely carried through the air, but it crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your heart drops, and your body goes cold.

Your fingers tremble where they press into the wood.

Gojo keeps his head down, his breathing uneven, like the words have stolen something from him, something irreversible. His entire frame looks smaller now, hunched inward, like he’s trying to make himself disappear.

He won’t look at you. You don’t know if he can.

"You've known for an entire week that your best friend is practicing dark magic at school, and you didn’t think to tell me?"

Your voice barely registers above a whisper, but it lands between you both like a weight. Heavy. Sinking. Pressing down on the silence, crushing what little air is left in the room. He doesn’t react at first. Not outwardly. But you see the way his fingers twitch, the way his throat bobs as he swallows thickly.

"You knew this whole time," you continue, the words slow, deliberate, coated in something cold. "And you just… let it happen."

Gojo exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face, but it does nothing to soften the sharp edges of his features. His jaw clenches, his eyes squeeze shut like he’s bracing for something.

"I needed proof," he says, his voice strained, the words barely pushed out through gritted teeth. "That it was actually him. I had a hunch before, but I confirmed it during the weekend—"

"So you knew before anything," you cut in, your tone sharp, slicing through his words like a blade, "and you didn’t fucking tell me."

Gojo’s head snaps up, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to anger, but you don’t stop. You step forward, closing the space between you, your chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven.

"Are you an idiot? Seriously?" The frustration curls hot in your throat, bubbling over, words spilling faster now, sharper, crueler. "Did you think he’d just stop, out of nowhere? After starting to practice dark magic?"

Gojo flinches. Just barely. But he does.

"I did!" His voice cracks as he shouts it, the sound ricocheting off the stone walls, making the candles flicker wildly in their sconces. "He’s my best friend, okay? I thought—fuck, I thought he’d stop if he realized what he was doing was dangerous!"

"You’re an idiot," you say, voice dripping with disbelief. "You think someone who has already started practicing dark magic will just- what? Randomly fucking stop one day?"

The room feels too small now, the air too thick. The space between you and Gojo crackles with something volatile, something on the verge of shattering.

You take another step forward, and he steps back.

You grab the parchment off the table—the one you had been writing notes on just moments ago, before this whole mess unraveled—and shove it toward him, jabbing it against his chest with enough force to make him stumble slightly.

"Take this," you demand, voice clipped, breath still uneven. "Clear out every question I’ve written on it."

Gojo stares at you, blinking like he doesn’t understand, his expression unreadable.

"What?" His voice wavers slightly, but you don’t care.

"We’re going to learn what he’s doing," you say, your voice leaving no room for argument. "And then we’re going to figure out how to stop him."

Gojo swallows. His fingers tighten around the parchment, knuckles paling.

"You’re not…" he hesitates, his voice quieter now, unsure. "You’re not going to report him? To Dumbledore?"

"You think I’m as stupid as you?" you snap, eyes narrowing. "No. We’re going to fix this. Make it right."

Something flickers in his expression. Something you can’t place. Fear, maybe. Hesitation. Or maybe, just maybe, relief.

The next morning, the carriages roll through the frostbitten grounds, wheels creaking against the dirt path. The sky is an expanse of dull gray, thick with the weight of oncoming snow, and the cold seeps through every seam of your coat, burrowing deep beneath your skin. You tug your gloves higher, flexing your fingers inside the worn leather, but the chill lingers.

Inside the carriage, Utahime sits across from you, arms crossed, wrapped in a thick woolen scarf. Shoko leans against the window, breath fogging up the glass, tracing something absently against the frost before wiping it away. The ride is bumpy, the wind cutting through the cracks in the wood, but inside, it’s warm enough—cozy, almost. A stark contrast to the tension pressing against your ribs.

Nanami had grumbled about his seating arrangement this morning, less than pleased at being forced to share a carriage with Gojo and Geto. Something about how Satoru would “eat his brains out” before they even reached Hogsmeade. You had barely listened, mind elsewhere, preoccupied with the thoughts that had been gnawing at you all morning.

"You’re going to see Toji at the Three Broomsticks?" Shoko’s voice is light, teasing as she pokes your side. "How scandalous."

The corner of your mouth twitches, but the expression doesn’t quite form. You turn your gaze back toward the window, watching the trees blur past.

"It doesn’t feel like I’m doing right by him anymore," you admit, voice barely above a murmur. The words feel foreign, strange on your tongue, as if saying them out loud makes them more real.

Utahime tilts her head, curiosity sparking in her dark eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You don’t like him?"

"I don’t know." You exhale, a slow, measured breath, watching it cloud in the cold air before dissipating. "It just… feels wrong. Like I rushed into everything, and now I’m having second thoughts."

Shoko hums, blinking in thought. The carriage jolts slightly as the wheels roll over uneven ground, and you grip the edge of your seat.

"Well," she says after a moment, voice thoughtful, deliberate, "you were pretty occupied when you got involved with him."

Her eyes flicker to you, gaze sharp despite the lazy tilt of her head.

"Have you ever thought about the fact that you probably just needed some stress relief?" She pauses, watching your reaction carefully before adding, "And that’s where he came in?"

The words settle into your chest like a stone. Heavy. Unforgiving.

You press your lips together, looking away. The distant hum of chatter from the other carriages drifts through the cold air, mingling with the steady crunch of hooves against the frozen ground.

You don’t answer.

When all of you reach Hogsmeade, the cold is sharper, cutting through the layers of wool and leather wrapped around you. The air smells of damp stone, chimney smoke, and something sweet—melted caramel from Honeydukes, maybe. You step down from the carriage with a sigh, your boots sinking into the frost-bitten ground, and pull your cloak tighter around you.

The village is alive, filled with the kind of careless, easy chatter that makes your skin prickle. Students scatter in different directions, voices rising over one another as they debate where to go first—Zonko’s, Scrivenshaft’s, The Three Broomsticks. The usual. There’s a lightness to it, a kind of mundanity that feels almost foreign to you now.

You glance over your shoulder, and your stomach turns when you catch Gojo’s eyes already on you. He’s watching, silent, gaze unreadable behind the winter glare of his glasses. He looks... too calm. Too collected. Like he’s trying too hard not to let anything slip.

You slow your pace as the others move ahead, letting Utahime take the lead, watching as she and Shoko disappear into the crowd toward High Street.

“You look like you’re suspicious of him,” Gojo murmurs beside you.

You blink, startled by his voice so close, turning to find him walking in stride with you, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. His tone is even, almost lazy, but his words are precise. Calculated. Shit. You hadn’t even realized you were being so obvious.

“Sorry about that,” you say, voice tight, shoulders tensing. He laughs, light but not quite amused. “It’s alright. I did the same thing when I first found out, too.”

You glance at him, brows furrowing. “Really?”

He tilts his head slightly, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I find that hard to believe,” you say. “You seem unfazed by everything all the time.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, the breath curling into the cold air between you. “When you find out your best friend is up to things you can’t even say out loud,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, “it becomes as difficult as breathing underwater.”

The words settle over you, thick and suffocating. You don't speak. Because what can you say to that?

A pause. Just long enough for the weight of the conversation to settle. Then, like clockwork, Gojo’s shenanigans begin again.

"Man, is she really dragging us all to Scrivenshaft’s?" he groans, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "What a load of crap. I don’t wanna go." He swears under his breath before perking up, mischief lighting his face. "Hold on, I’ll fix this. Let me just get up there and take us all to Honeydukes."

You snort as you watch him bound ahead, zeroing in on Utahime like a predator on its prey. He tugs at her coat collar, leaning down to mutter something about her scarf being atrocious, how she has the taste of a grandmother, how she’s leading them to the most boring shop in all of Hogsmeade. Utahime glares up at him, swatting his hand away with the kind of practiced ease that tells you this is routine, a well-rehearsed play between the two of them.

You shake your head, laughter slipping from your lips, before your gaze flickers sideways. To Suguru.

He’s quieter than usual. Not that he was ever particularly loud, but there was a time when he spoke more freely, when he matched Gojo’s ridiculousness with an easy smirk and a sharper wit. Now, though, he lingers at the edge of the group, shoulders slightly tense, expression unreadable. His humor—when he does engage—is dry, quick, sometimes cutting. You’ve always thought he might be funnier than Gojo, in a more effortless way. Gojo is all spectacle, all loud and attention-seeking. Suguru? Suguru picks his moments.

"You alright?" you ask, keeping your voice light. "You look stressed."

He glances at you, then hums, a vague nod. "I think so." Then his mouth quirks, just slightly. "I felt you eyeing me. You should be doing that to him."

He tilts his head ever so slightly toward Gojo, and you blink, thrown by the implication, your brain stuttering for a second before you whip your head up to meet his gaze. Suguru chuckles. Not mockingly, but teasingly, his dark eyes alight with something unreadable.

You scoff, crossing your arms, huffing out a breath. "Don’t make jokes like that. They’re not funny."

He hums again, but this time, it sounds more amused.

"I’ve seen your face go red twice now because of him," he muses, his voice low, even. You narrow your eyes. "And?"

"And," Suguru continues, shrugging, "I didn’t think you’d be the type to deny yourself something."

You exhale sharply, crossing your arms tighter over your chest, ignoring the way your heart skips, the way your pulse stirs beneath your skin.

"Don’t be ridiculous," you mutter. Suguru only smirks.

"Alright, everyone," Gojo announces, clapping his hands together like he’s about to deliver the most important decree of the century. "All those who want to buy boring things like quills and ink, go ahead and shuffle on inside to Scrivenshaft’s with the one and only ogre of our group, Iori Utahime."

Utahime, unimpressed, smacks his arm—hard. "Why do I even bother with you idiots?" she grumbles, pushing past him toward the shop, her long scarf whipping behind her.

You giggle as she disappears inside, shaking your head. You’re not in need of anything, anyway. Your mother had sent you a fresh set of supplies just last week, so there’s no point in wandering in just to stare at parchment and overpriced quills. Kento, ever the responsible one, follows Utahime inside, leaving the rest of you standing on the cobbled street.

Gojo exhales dramatically, spinning on his heel to face the remaining three of you. "Now that the boring ones are gone," he says, clapping a hand on Suguru’s shoulder, "who wants to go to Honeydukes?"

Suguru barely glances at him. "You’re buying," he says flatly, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "I’m not spending even one galleon in there."

Gojo gasps, affronted. "The audacity," he mutters.

"I have to exchange money first," you chime in, stretching your arms over your head. "I’ve run out of wizard money."

Gojo turns to you, scandalized. "'Wizard money,' she says," he mocks, nudging your shoulder. "You should really work on your lingo, L/N. It’s been six years, and you still talk like a Muggle."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Six years, and you still manage to get on my nerves."

Shoko and Suguru exchange a knowing look, both of them shaking their heads as they laugh.

Utahime, unimpressed, smacks his arm—hard. "Why do I even bother with you idiots?" she grumbles, pushing past him toward the shop, her long scarf whipping behind her.

Suguru barely glances at him. "You’re buying," he says flatly, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "I’m not spending even one galleon in there."

Gojo gasps, affronted. "The audacity," he mutters.

"I have to exchange money first," you chime in, stretching your arms over your head. "I’ve run out of wizard money."

Gojo turns to you, scandalized. "'Wizard money,' she says," he mocks, nudging your shoulder. "You should really work on your lingo, [L/N]. It’s been six years, and you still talk like a Muggle."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Six years, and you still manage to get on my nerves."

Shoko and Suguru exchange a knowing look, both of them shaking their heads as they laugh.

Utahime steps out of the shop just as you finish speaking, Kento following behind her, adjusting the strap of his bag. She claps her hands together, eyes bright. "Alright, next stop, Honeydukes!"

"W-wait," you stammer, taking half a step back. "You guys go ahead. I have to exchange my cash first, and then I have to meet someone."

"Meet someone?" Gojo parrots, spinning on his heel to look at you, eyebrows raised. His gaze is scrutinizing, a little too sharp. "What, you got a hot date?"

You shake your head quickly, swallowing hard. "Nothing like that, I just—"

"Yeah, she has a date," Utahime cuts in before you can finish, her voice loud enough to make passersby glance over. She grins, hooting obnoxiously, "With the one and only Fushiguro Toji."

Silence. Everyone stops.

All three boys turn to you at once. Six eyes—three very different expressions.

Kento, whose jaw was practically on the floor, fixes his face when you glance at him nervously, clearing his throat like he wasn’t just gaping. Suguru, ever composed, only raises a brow, his expression unreadable, though there’s something amused at the corner of his lips. And then there’s Gojo.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Your fingers curl into the sleeves of your coat, your heartbeat hammering a little too loud in your ears. You force yourself to swallow past the dryness in your throat, to move your feet, to do something.

"I-I should go," you mumble, already turning away.

And then Gojo scoffs. Loudly.

"Don’t come back if you’re shagging him."

The words hit like a slap, sharp and flippant, dripping in sarcasm. Your breath catches.

Suguru smacks him on the back of the head, not too hard, but hard enough to make Gojo roll his eyes. "Ignore him," Suguru says, voice smooth, a little exasperated. He looks at you, softer now. "Come to Honeydukes after, yeah? We’ll do other things until then. Let’s save sweets for last."

You nod, but your face feels too hot, and you don’t trust yourself to say anything. You turn on your heel, leaving before Gojo can say anything else.

The Three Broomsticks is warmer than outside, but you don’t feel it. The moment you step in, the air folds around you like something alive—thick with the scent of butter and spice, the burn of firewood curling in your nose, the low thrum of conversation rising and falling in waves. The warmth presses against your skin, but the cold lingers in your bones, an ache that won’t shake loose.

The pub is crowded, as it always is on Hogsmeade weekends. Students in scarves and woolen coats cluster around heavy wooden tables, their voices overlapping, laughter curling toward the rafters like smoke. Someone knocks over a mug, and the sharp clatter cuts through the noise before disappearing into the din. The walls glow amber in the firelight, flickering against brass sconces, shadows stretching long and soft against the wood.

You glance toward the door, but Toji isn’t here yet.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, pressing against the leather. It’s fine. You’re early. He’s late. No big deal. But still, the weight in your stomach doesn’t ease. You move toward an empty booth near the back, slipping into the seat. The wood is cold beneath your palms, and you rub them against your thighs, trying to quell the jitter in your hands. Your gaze flicks to the door again, watching with a quiet, creeping kind of dread.

He arrives fifteen minutes later. No urgency in his step, no apology in his face. He slides into the booth across from you, unhurried, like he belongs here, like time bends for him. Like he isn’t even remotely sorry for making you wait. And you think, absently, that he probably isn’t.

"You waited long?" he asks. His voice is low, smooth, carrying over the noise of the pub like it was meant to be heard.

You shake your head. "Only fifteen minutes."

"That's a while for just butterbeer," he murmurs, not quite an apology. "Sorry about that."

The words are weightless, effortless. And then he grins—sharp, lazy, a flash of teeth that is more knowing than amused. One arm slung across the back of the booth, completely unbothered. "You keep checking the door? Lookin’ for me?"

You huff, rolling your eyes, but you don’t deny it. He knows you won’t.

He only laughs, tipping his head toward the passing barmaid. "Two butterbeers."

You watch as she nods and disappears into the crowd, leaving you alone with him again. He tilts his head slightly, watching you the way he always does—like he can see straight through you, like whatever he finds there is more amusing than it should be.

"Nervous, sweetheart?"

Your spine stiffens, but he catches it. Of course he does. The smirk pulls wider.

"Not at all," you lie.

"Yeah?" He leans forward, resting his chin against his knuckles, eyes glinting. "You ever been on a date before?"

You roll your eyes again, but you feel it—the heat creeping up your neck, betraying you. "It’s not a date."

His grin stretches, wide and wolfish. "That’s not an answer."

You make a face, turning your head slightly, but he doesn’t let up. He never does.

"You’re serious, huh?" He whistles low, shaking his head. "Six years in school, and not one single date? What, you too busy with your books?"

You don’t take the bait. Just shake your head, pressing your lips together before exhaling. "I had other things to focus on."

"Like what?"

"Like my future."

The words come easy. A practiced response. Something you’ve always had tucked away, something neat and safe, something that keeps you from having to think too much about what you never let yourself want.

Toji snorts. "Yeah, yeah. Big dreams, big plans. You always been like that?"

You shrug. "And you? Always been like this?"

"Like what?" he asks, tilting his head, leaning back against the booth, watching you with that same unreadable expression.

"Like," You search for the right word. "Like you have it easy."

For a moment, nothing changes. But there’s something there—a flicker in his gaze, gone before you can place it. Then, he chuckles, shaking his head.

"I don’t have it easy," he says, like it’s a joke, like it’s funny. "I just don’t try too hard. I don’t have to."

And that’s the difference, you think.

"Right," you say, though your voice comes out quieter than you intend. There’s something needling at the edge of your thoughts, something sharp and insistent, a sensation like the point of a knife pressed just against the skin.

And then, there it is, the thing that’s been gnawing at you all along. It’s been there from the moment you stepped into the warmth of The Three Broomsticks, from the moment you saw him waiting at the table, his fingers drumming idly against the wooden surface, the way he always does when he’s waiting for something he already knows is coming. Shoko’s words have been running in your mind like a song stuck on repeat, one you were too distracted to hear properly. Until now.

Your stomach twists, a slow and unpleasant sensation, like you’ve eaten something that doesn’t sit quite right. You suddenly feel too aware of everything—of the hum of conversation around you, of the scent of butterbeer thick in the air, of the way your hands feel awkward and misplaced on the table, as if they don’t quite belong to you.

And then the drinks arrive, placed before you with an ease that feels almost cruel. The foam rises in the glass, golden and thick, threatening to spill over the rim. You wrap your fingers around it instinctively, the warmth pressing into your skin.

"I should tell you something," you start, but the words stick in your throat, as if your body itself is resisting. You clear it, try again. "I'm... I'm not really sure if we should—"

"You don't have to say it," he interrupts, and there is something too easy, too practiced in the way he says it. He lifts his glass to his lips, takes a slow sip. "I know, already."

You blink. The room feels like it tilts, just slightly. "Wait, what?" You put your own drink down without taking a sip, barely registering the way the liquid sloshes dangerously near the edge. "What do you mean, you know?"

"I know, princess," he says with a shrug, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it doesn’t matter at all. "I know these things. I've done them before. But I was the one in your position, you know."

There’s something about the way he says it that makes your throat tighten, something about the way his words slip so easily from his mouth, so unaffected, as if they don’t belong to him at all.

"No, it's not like that, I swear," you say quickly, shaking your head. The words feel desperate, urgent, like if you don’t say them fast enough, they’ll disappear before they can be understood. "I just… I think I was so occupied with everything I was doing. Quidditch, the Dueling Club, Prefect duties, assignments, and well—"

"The thing you supposedly can't tell me," he finishes, and his voice is light, almost teasing. "’S alright."

"Is it?" Your voice is softer now, unsteady. There’s something fragile in the way you say it, in the way you look at him, searching for something you don’t quite know how to name. "I feel like I hurt you. Or used you."

His lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close. And then he laughs, a soft, quiet sound. "You?" he says, shaking his head. "If I remember correctly, I'm the one that closed that curtain around you and stepped closer. If I had simply stayed where I was, nothing would've happened."

You stare at him. The room around you feels too full, the air too thick, the butterbeer in your glass already cooling to something unappealing.

"It’s okay," you mumble after a long moment, dropping your gaze to the table. "I didn’t mind."

He doesn’t say anything to that. You don’t look up to see what’s in his expression. The butterbeer between you remains untouched.

When you step into Honeydukes, the warmth inside is almost suffocating, a sharp contrast to the late October chill outside. The air is thick with the scent of caramel and chocolate, of spun sugar and the sharp tang of citrus peels dipped in honey. Shelves overflow with every imaginable sweet—levitating sugar quills, fizzing whizbees that crackle like fire embers, licorice wands that twitch in their boxes like living things. The shop is alive, humming with laughter, the sound of coins clinking, the soft rustle of paper bags being filled.

You let yourself get lost in it, at least for a moment. You laugh at something Utahime says without really hearing it, the sound slipping out of your mouth as if on autopilot. You reach out, touching the hem of Shoko’s scarf—plush, cashmere, a deep burgundy she supposedly purchased today—before making some half-teasing remark about how indulgent she is. It’s easy, slipping into this, letting the motion of it carry you forward, like stepping into a river and allowing the current to take you.

And then Gojo appears. As he always does—like a disruption. He waves something small in your face, his grin sharp and boyish, his fingers curled around a handful of miniature fireworks, the kind that crackle in midair before spelling out crude words. "Swiped 'em."

"You’re such a twat," you say, unimpressed, narrowing your eyes at him. "So rich, but you still steal things like a shithead."

"Did you not get snogged?" he retorts immediately, flicking one of the fireworks against your arm. "Is that why you’re so pissy?"

You shake your head, exhaling sharply before stepping away, putting distance between you, though the warmth of his presence lingers in the air around you. You make your way to a shelf stacked high with Saltwater Taffies, the wrappers gleaming in bright, candy-colored hues under the shop’s golden light. You reach for a few, fingers brushing the waxy paper, already moving to pay when Gojo’s hand closes over yours.

"It’s on me this time, yeah?"

You blink up at him, momentarily thrown off by the casualness of it, by the ease with which he says it. The kind of ease that makes it feel deliberate. Your brows knit together as if you’re waiting for the punchline, for the inevitable quip that always follows whenever Gojo does something seemingly selfless. But none comes.

He shakes his head, almost amused, then takes the taffy from your hands, walking toward the counter with an unhurried, effortless stride. And just like that, he buys them. Without a single word, he returns, slipping them into your bag so seamlessly it almost feels like an afterthought. His voice is lower when he speaks again.

"Consider it a thank-you gift. For everything."

Your breath catches. There’s something in his tone—something careful, something measured. Something that doesn’t belong here, in a crowded shop filled with laughter and sugar and warmth.

"You can’t be that nice to me in front of everyone," you whisper, voice almost frantic, fingers tightening around the straps of your bag. He’s standing too close now, inches away, and it makes your pulse skitter, your chest tighten.

His lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile, barely there at all. "Everyone’s busy entertaining Utahime’s shenanigans. Look." He tilts his chin slightly, eyes flicking across the shop. "The only person who probably saw anything was Suguru."

You swallow. Your heartbeat kicks up a little, stumbles over itself. You don’t look at Suguru. You don’t look at Gojo, either. Instead, your gaze drops—to your hands, to the floor, to anything but the way Gojo is looking at you.

Then he says it.

"I’m going back."

The words don’t settle in right away. At first, they don’t even make sense. "What?"

"The One-Eyed Witch Passageway. Cellar. Straight to the courtyard at Hogwarts." He says it all too smoothly, as if he’s done this before. As if it’s just another part of the evening, another thing as simple as slipping stolen fireworks into his pocket. "I’ll wait. Come along."

And then he’s gone, slipping past you, disappearing toward the cellar door before you even have the chance to process it.

You freeze. Your palms are damp. Too damp. Your breath stutters as you try to make sense of what just happened, of how quickly the moment shifted, of the fact that Gojo just left, as if he knew you would follow. As if he expected it.

You shake your head. Vigorously. You can’t. It’s too dangerous. The others would notice. The air suddenly feels stifling, too thick, too warm, like you can’t quite catch your breath.

And then you feel it. A stare.

Your eyes lift.

Kento.

He’s looking at you. You don’t move. You don’t blink. Your body is locked in place, frozen in the space between two choices, and you don’t know what he sees when he looks at you. But you know this—he saw. He saw everything.

Your throat tightens.

Kento’s gaze flickers past you, to the cellar door Gojo disappeared through. And then—slowly, deliberately—his eyes return to yours.

And he nods.

He nods.

Your stomach drops. Your heart stumbles over itself. For a moment, you don’t understand. You look at him, then back at the door, then at him again. Your mouth opens, but no words come out.

Until, Kento’s brows furrow. A quiet exhale. And then, his gaze shifts—one last time—to the cellar door.

You understand, then. He’s telling you to leave. With Gojo.

Your breath stills in your chest. Your fingers clench at your sides. You hesitate for only a moment longer, the world pressing in around you, the weight of the decision settling heavy in your bones.

And then you move.

You slip past the shelves, past the others, past the warmth of the shop, toward the door that leads down to the cellar.

Now you know. Who sent the notes.

It was Kento.

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honeybeebard · 1 year ago

Text

Other Forms of Stimulation (Gale x Reader)

Summary// After a fight in the Shadowlands that very nearly takes your life, you realize just what Gale meant when he mentioned that book about brushes with death.

(I am so down bad for this wizard and I had to write this. It has been a while since I’ve written so I hope you all like it!! I’d love to write more if anyone is interested but for now, enjoy this :)! Also, while this is in second person, the name used for you is Tav!)

WARNINGS: 18+, smut, talks of almost dying

As your sword cuts across the last of the shadow entities you stumble to the ground, your knees aching as you take in a deep breath. The only sound you can hear is your heartbeat as it thrums in your ears, your mind racing to catch up with what had just happened.

It had been an ambush that, thanks to the curse, you couldn’t have even perceived coming. You and your friends were already weak after the fight with the cursed drider and his group of cultists so the last thing you were prepared for was something like this on your way back to camp.

However, your group had made you proud as they battled the shadows fiercely. Karlach and her great axe, Gale and his magic, and even Astarion was kicking misty ass with his longbow. It would have been over within minutes if you had been more on guard, if you had realized just how far you had gotten from your friends while fighting.

A cold chill, like a kiss of death, had raced up your spine as you felt one of the wicked creatures wrap its hand around your ankle, knocking you prone and dragging you into the darkness. The scream you had let out could’ve woken the dead as you dug your nails into the rocky earth, scrambling for anything to hold onto.

Darkness wrapped around you within seconds, your mind screaming in pain as you felt this dark energy seep into your lungs and heart. It only lasted seconds at most before Gale had saved you, a gigantic fireball lighting up the sky, but to you, it felt like hours.

The warm hand that had pulled you back to the light was your lifeline, your words dying in your throat as you looked up at Gale who was surveying you for any damages. He had been so focused that he forgot about the fight, forgot about everything that wasn’t you, but you saw one of the wretched creatures coming towards him with its claws raised.

That was when you had leaped forward, using the last of your adrenaline rush to throw Gale back behind you and cleave the beast in two. It had let out an inhumane screech, turning into a vestige before your eyes.

Now, as reality comes back to you, so does the realization of just how close to death you had been. You turn to examine the damage, seeing your companions in various stages of exhaustion. Astarion was leaning on Karlach who was leaning on her axe, both of them complaining about wanting to go to bed which made you smile. When you turned to look at Gale you saw him watching you with a mixture of awe and concern, strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

Your eyes locked together, the tension from the past few weeks of adventuring and the fight coming to a head as you saw him move his gaze from your face to the rest of your body.

It could have been an innocent survey to see if you were hurt but when you saw the color of his cheeks and the way he licked his lips you knew it was something much more darker. Lustful, even. “I, um, once read a book that explained in some detail the effect the brush of danger has on one’s desires for uh…other forms of stimulation. Have you ever read anything on that subject?”

Gale’s earlier flirtation came to the forefront of your mind as the world seemed to close in on the two of you. While you were absorbed in your thoughts, Karlach and Astarion seemed to catch on to what was about to happen. Or, Astarion did at least.

“Come now Karlach, camp’s just up ahead and I don’t want to be here to hear their pathetic humping in the bushes.” The vampire snarked, his smirk growing when you sent him a warning glare. Karlach gave you and the wizard her own knowing smile, wiggling her eyebrows, before dragging Astarion away towards the nearby campfire.

“I, um, want to thank you for-” Gale began, stepping closer to you only to grunt in surprise when you all but grabbed him by the collar and went to a nearby tree, thankful for the brazier that was lit close by. “What are you doing?!”

“Thanking you for saving my life…and showing you how much I know about that book you mentioned earlier,” You smiled, pressing him up against the bark before pulling back slightly. “That is, if you want me to. I thought you were flirting earlier but if you were just going on another rant I am so sorry-”

He silenced you with a heated kiss, his soft hands coming up to cup your face gently as he spun the two of you around so that now your back was against the tree. “Hush now,” Gale murmured, his eyes dark as he slipped a hand up your blouse. “You’re talking too much.”

“That’s rich coming from you-ah!” You gasped, back arching as deft fingers went under your bra to palm at your nipples. It felt incredible. “Gods, Gale, more please.”

Gale hummed to himself, helping you rid yourself of your top and maneuvering your pants to sit around your ankles. It had been years since he had taken a mortal lover but he had been head over heels for you for a while. He intended to prove himself worthy to you. Worthy of saving you.

Worthy of you.

You pulled him from his thoughts with another kiss, this one rougher than the last. The adrenaline seemed to be wearing off but somehow the desire was only increasing. He groaned low in his throat when your tongue brushed against his, tasting the uniqueness of you before he pried himself away. A whine grew in your chest but it was cut off when you saw him sink to his knees, his large hands resting on either of your thighs.

“Gale, I…” You trailed off as you watched him through your lashes. “What are you doing?” His gaze was intense as he tugged your pants the rest of the way down along with your underwear, settling himself between your legs as his lips turned up in a wicked smirk.

“Thanking you for saving my life.” He echoed your earlier statement, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement before he trailed a single finger down your sex. You let out a huff of air when he brushed your clit, blushing as he felt just how slick you were as he whispered, “By the weave, Tav, you’re dripping.”

A whine builds in your throat once more as he continues his ministrations. He gently dips two fingers into your aching cunt, his own groan covering another one of your cries from just how tightly you grip his fingers. You can’t stop from bucking your hips forward towards him, silently begging him for more stimulation.

“Such impatience.” He chides playfully though you can see how ragged his breathing has gotten.

“Perhaps you should hurry up then, wizard.” You say through clenched teeth, your eyes fluttering close as he bristles at your challenge and suddenly buries himself between your legs, licking a long stripe up your pussy. It was divine. “Fuck, yes!”

Gale’s tongue sets a pace that immediately has your thighs shaking, your hands flying into his chestnut hair as he shows you just how talented his tongue can be outside of spellcasting. You had lovers in the past who would taste you, some hesitant and some enthusiastic, but none of them even came close to the man beneath you.

His nose bumps against your clit with each fervent lick, savoring the taste like he was a man starving. You raise one of your hands over your head, the other still fists in Gale’s hair, and start to roll your hips in time with his tongue. He moans into your cunt, his fingers digging into your thighs until you are they are going to leave bruises.

“Please, Gale, gods it feels so good,” You whimper, voice an octave higher as he finally seals his lips around your clit and sucks. “Ah!”

“That’s it, love, take what you need.” He growls, worshipping your pretty pussy as one of his hands rustles under his clothes to rub against his aching cock. It was already hard and leaking, a stain on the front of his pants that he was sure he would be embarrassed about later.

Your ears perk up at the schlik sound, your head dropping to watch as he fisted himself while eating you out. His eyes found yours, watching you in adoration, which made your hips increase in desperation. At some point you had hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, grinding deeper into his face to the point you were afraid you would smother him.

Not that you think he would mind that.

A fire starts to brew in your stomach as he holds your gaze, his own hips rutting up in a desperate attempt to find release. You can feel yourself on the edge as he starts flicking your clit with the tip of his tongue, the sounds positively sinful. And just as you find yourself tipping over into the pleasurable abyss of Gale’s tongue, your defenses come down and your tadpole greedily reaches out to his.

He flinches at first, his pace stuttering as he sees himself through your eyes. The desperate look in his eyes, the way the entire bottom half of his face is covered in your arousal as he fucks himself needily into his hand. Gale could practically feel your pleasure through the link and it spurs on his own orgasm.

You feel your voice grow hoarse from your screams of pleasure, not caring that the camp could hear as Gale continued to take everything you gave him. For a moment you swore you could see the orb in his chest pulse with untamed magic, could feel an electric current pulse through your veins right before he pulled away with a gasp of air.

Gale smiles up at you as you sag into the tree. He takes in your disheveled appearance, from your hair to your slick-covered thighs, and ingrains the vision into his memory. You have never looked more beautiful.

“I should,” You begin, chuckling when it takes you a moment to catch your breath. “I should save your life more often if that is my reward.”

“You don’t have to do anything quite so grave for us to do this again, Tav.” He murmurs, watching as you sink to your knees to join him on the ground. “I would gladly spend eternity between your thighs if you asked me. It is better than any heaven promised to me by the gods.”

Your lips turn up in a wicked smirk as you take his cum covered hand and bring it to your mouth, sucking the digits clean as you make sure to keep eye contact. Gale tenses, his mouth parting as you bat your eyelashes innocently.

“I might take you up on that offer but first…” You trail off, pulling him closer so that your lips brush his cheek. “We have to face Astarion’s teasing.”

A loud laugh escapes his chest as he shakes his head at your teasing, cupping your face and kissing you tenderly. The taste of your and his cum mingles pleasantly on his tongue and he has to stop himself from deepening the kiss.

“A small price to pay.” He smiles, standing up and holding his hand out for you. “Come, let’s show him exactly what a pleased woman looks like.”

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thewritetofreespeech · 10 months ago

Text

Gale x Tav

words: 1992

rating: E

pairing: Gale x Tav (post game pairing)

summary: since you all are so thirsty for an extended verison of the NSFW headcanons post, I guess I had to make one. I am nothing if not a servant to my people.

tags: magic sex (literally. but also metaphorically), exhibitionism, voyeurism, masturbation (kind of), Gale using magic for naughty reasons, projection!Gale

part ii part iii

“Alright class! Please turn your alchemy text to Chapter 8, page 394.”

There was a loud, unanimous sound of rustling paper as all the students in the lecture hall flipped through their books to the requested text. You don’t know what Gale was always complaining about. This teaching thing wasn’t that hard.

Gale had to leave for a community conference of the Blackwater staff and some of the other schools of magical arts in Faerûn. Given that they were all wizards, you had asked why they all couldn’t just project their consciousness into one place and avoid the travel, but Gale didn’t have an answer for that and left earlier that week. In his absence, he had asked you to take over his Introductory to Magics class while he was gone. Given that it was an introductory course, which mostly meant learning the basics and text anyway, and you’d had ‘private tutoring’ from Mystra’s former Chosen himself, he insisted you were more than qualified to act in his stead.

It had actually been pretty fun. The young weave masters were all eager to learn. Honestly the hardest thing was keeping them on task with the subjects instead of running off with a lot of questions about your victory over the Elder Brain and recuse of the realm. It was flattering, but not apart of the testing materials.

The students all wait patiently with their books open for you to begin, and you turn around to the blackboard. All of a sudden you felt a twinge between your legs. Not a painful one but more….

“Professor [Y/N], are you alright?”

You turn to look over your shoulder at the class, clearly spaced out for a moment, before you smile and tell them, “oh yes. Sorry. Let’s talk about alchemy then.”

You begin to write and talk to the class when you feel the sensation again. It was faint, but distinct. At first you thought it was just the seam of your trousers rubbing against your apex. But it was too consistent for that. The sensation would come. Then the sensation would go. You tried to keep your mind on the lesson but the more it came & went you had to wonder what was going on.

It couldn’t be Haarlep. Despite your adventure being over, your contract with the sex demon wasn’t. He still used your form from time to time, though your popularity in Avernous seemed to be waning as he hadn’t called on it in some time. If it were him the sensation would be constant, before fading away like a breathless sigh off your lips. So it was something else.

By the time you get through explaining the 4 key groups of alchemy, and made it to page 396, the sensation had crawled up from your core and just to the pit of your belly. You were having a harder time focusing on the lesson. Your attention now spilt between 50% focused on what was happening to your body, a mere 10% on the lecture, and the rest on the stimulating sensation between your legs that was just too pleasurable to resist.

To save face, and avoid any embarrassment like moaning out loud in front of a class full of minors, you quickly pivot the class schedule into independent study. Telling the students to go out around campus and find 5, no 15 herbs, floral, whatever to craft with for tomorrow morning’s follow up lecture on application.

Some of the students seem confused. While other just look excited to have the afternoon off for ‘foraging’. Still, the all leave rate orderly while you wave them off, and just as the door closed behind the last one you let out a deep breath you didn’t really you were holding and brace your hands against the desk.

Your body felt like it was on fire. Teased, tormented, toyed with. Your hands still splayed on the desk, you spread your legs and let out a moan. Conventionally thinking would lead on to believe that rubbing your thighs together would make the sensation stronger, yet somehow spreading them apart made more room for…whatever this was to work. Your clit throbbed at the feeling of something rubbing against it. If they weren’t in front of you, you would have sworn it was your own hand touching you. The sensation was so similar. Your fingertips twitch at the thought. Prepared to slide down the front of your pants to finish you off.

“Hello there!”

You jump with a start. Eyes wide in alarm at the sound of a voice. The immediate thought coming to mind that another professor has come to ask why the entire Introductory to Magics class is out picking herbs & flowers instead of being in a classroom and caught you on the cusp of a very public private moment. Thankfully, it wasn’t. Only Gale’s Mirror Image projection standing there looking cheerfully at you. “Gale? What are you doing here?”

“I assume you mean what is Gale doing sending me here.” The clever non-corporeal remarked. “Gale has sent me here to see how his new technique is working out. And, judging by your flushed cheeks and wanton appearance, I would say it’s going splendidly!”

Your brain struggled to gather all the bits of information the projection was dealing out through your fog. But you gather enough to finally understand what’s going on. “Gale did this to me!”

“Doing. He is doing this to you ma’m.” As if to prove a point of the explanation, there was another, firmer press of rubbing against your clit. One that made you moan again and knees nearly buckle. “Gale has informed me, to tell you, that he enchanted one of the stones on his ring to be linked with your…well…your own stone. He also wants me to tell you it’s the ruby one. On the silver band.”

The one you bought him. “Can I ask…mmm…why he did this?”

“You can ask! He says it was to give you pleasure while he was away. Long distance relationship can be tricky.” It had been less than a week. “He thought this would be a good resolution in the intermedium. And, perhaps other times in the future.”

You’re not sure if you should feel violated by Gale’s magical molestations or marvel at his creativity. It didn’t really matter in the end because all you could think about was the nagging need to cum. And one other nagging thing – “and you couldn’t possibly wait until I was home to try out this new technique? I’m in the middle of teaching your class. I’m still at the academy! What if someone comes in here right now??”

“Oh. Not to worry. Gale has informed me that the door is magically locked until 2:30 this afternoon. Something about office hours? No one can enter until after that time. Does that help answer your question?”

You let out another long, heavy sigh. One of abject relief and feeling your legs give way as you fall back into Gale’s chair. All the energy sapped from your body as you gave way to the pleasure that had been bubbly up. No longer holding it back, but instead letting it wash over you.

“Gale says he’s happy you like your present.”

You open your eyes. Seeing the projection staring at you with a blank, but soothing expression. Those unending eyes seeming to look right through you. Or perhaps, more to the point, stare past itself and straight to Gale. It was kind of hot. The coolness of its gaze. “My present, eh?”

The projection nodded. “Yes. He says he did this for you.”

“Just for me?” You unbutton your blouse. It had been feeling terrible constricting for quite some time now anyway. The projection doesn’t say anything. Nor does its expression change more than the slight tilt of it’s head, as the fabric gave way to relieve more skin and the outline of your breast in their bra.

“He says yes. But the pockets of his mind I can access independently lead me to believe it’s not purely altruistic.”

You giggle at the projection’s honesty, before your laughter turned into moans. The feeling on your clit more intense. As if Gale was trying to change the conversation.

“Fuck…Gale….” Your back arched off the back of the chair for a moment before it came back down again. “I can’t take it anymore. Are you as anatomically correct as before?”

“Hmm…I believe so.” The projection looked down at itself. Seeming to ponder the concept, as well as all its parts. “But Gale has instructed me that he’s not interested in me using that ability with you. The time in Shar’s Caress was due to the other guests in attendance. With you, Gale wants you all to himself.”

There was an odd feeling of arousal at Gale’s possessiveness, even against himself in a way, but also disappointment. You were close. But the sensation from Gale’s ring to your core wasn’t enough. You needed more.

Just as you were again about to shove your own hand down your pants, you feel a new sensation of hands on you. Not just one hand, or two, but multiple hands. Mage hands. They play with your breasts, your nipples, your ears, your hair. You lean back in Gale’s chair with your eyes closed. Moaning and panting with a white-knuckle grip on the arm rests as the invisible hands play with your body. One finally gives you what you want. Phantom appendage digits thrusting into your inner core, wet and hot.

Your hips jerk up as you let out a wordless scream before the fall back down and you let it fuck you. Legs wide. Blouse open. Mouth agape as Gale abuses his power to abuse your body in the most pleasurable way possible. You’re about to cum probably harder than you’ve ever cum in your life and your pants were still on. How insane was that?

You open your eyes, half lidded and only for a moment, to see the projection still staring at you as you fall apart. Then, you finally do. You cum hard. Bowing back off the chair so hard you hear it creak, before you fall back limp against the soft leather.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

You look up at the projection again. Trying to catch your breath and right your world again. “Yes.”

“Good. Gale is glad you did. He also says that it’s made up for a rather dull afternoon of meetings.” A shiver ran up your spine at the thought that Gale had done all of this during a meeting. “The time is now 2:00. If you would like to freshen up, I suggest you make haste before 2:30 when the doors reopen. Gale says that enjoys how you look right now, but it is probably not appropriate for academia.”

“Then maybe don’t do this at ‘academia’ locations.” You quip back as you smooth out your hair.

“Fair.” The projection agrees. “Gale would like to know if you would like to do this again then when you are not in academia. Perhaps tonight? At home?”

You bite your lip at the thought of it. Doing this all over again, only this time naked in your bed. Perhaps even able to participate more now that you knew what was going on. “Absolutely.”

“Splendid!” The projection offers you a smile before it fades. Disappearing with a last, “see you tonight” as it reabsorbed back into the weave.

Alone again, you stand on shaky legs and try to right yourself for the next class. You still had two more classes to teach before you could go home that evening and become Gale’s play thing again.

The thought made it completely impossible to be totally focused on your lesson plan. You may have told some impressionable young wizards that Fly and Feather Fall were absolutely the same spell. Oh well. Mistakes happen.

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pluvpluvpluv · 9 months ago

Text

Study Break

18+ || MDNI || Content Warnings: SMUT, characters aged up, established relationship, language, praise kink, thigh riding, lil bit of breeding kink, semi public sex I think that covers it all

Word Count: 1480 exactly

Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

A/N: Happy Thirsty Thursday :) This was written in one sitting and not edited at all. I read through it once before going “yeah post it”

~~~

MC was ready for summer. Summer meant NEWTs were done and she could take a month or so off to celebrate and relax before diving headfirst into her next adventure. She had spent the last two summers under an apprenticeship with Fatima Lawang, making the trip from Feldcroft to Keenbridge every day to study and learn business from someone she truly looked up to. She would be opening a small apothecary in the hamlet she now called home. It was a wonderful location, since she knew Bernard really stuck to selling beast byproducts and plants. She wouldn’t be encroaching on his market, and she could also source ingredients from him. It was going to be, thankfully, a mutually beneficial existence.

She had moved to Feldcroft at the end of their fifth year. Sebastian had nowhere else to live over the summer months, she really had nowhere to live over that time, and neither wanted to be alone. So, when that first year had come to an end, she just followed him home. He had started courting her about halfway through that summer. She had accepted and they had practically lived together like a married couple ever since.

Before she could get to the summer and enjoy her newfound freedom with the love of her life, she had to pass the NEWTs. In order to get her apothecary license, she needed to score high in Potions and Herbology at the very least, but that wasn’t going to be enough for her. The reputation of saving the wizarding world at fifteen years old meant she was expected to do exceedingly well on all of her NEWTs, and she was determined to do so.

She had taken up residence in one of the more secluded corners of the library. It always ensured that MC wouldn’t have to share the table and she could have all of her books open and spread out. Only a select few people knew of where she hid out to study, which limited the interruptions. Except in the case of her boyfriend.

She didn’t know how long she had really been studying when Sebastian finally sat beside her. She didn’t even look up from rereading a paragraph she had already read ten times before. She still retained nothing.

“MC. Love, you missed lunch. I brought you some food.”

“Thanks Bash. I’ll eat it in a minute. I just need to understand what this page is saying.”

He set the plate down and moved the book.

“Considering it’s well past lunch and I didn’t even see you at breakfast, I think you can’t understand the page because you’re hungry. Eat and take a break.”

MC glared at him, debating whether or not it would be worth the argument since they were both the most stubborn person the other had met. That train of thought was interrupted by a rather loud growl as she was betrayed by her own stomach. She ate the food that he brought her without further complaint.

While she ate, Sebastian sat beside her and scanned over the tomes she had laid out on the table. She was paying more attention to him instead. The way that his eyebrows furrowed when he was focused on a paragraph in one of the books and the way his lips moved silently with the words. She focused on his hands as he turned the page and the way that the muscles in his exposed forearms flexed even with that small movement. She could feel herself growing hotter by the second, and it led to the realization that she and Sebastian hadn’t been intimate in nearly three weeks. It could’ve been a record, honestly. Even before he was courting her, after they took each other’s virginities that first summer in Feldcroft, they hardly went more than a couple days without going after each other. The joys of two students living with no chaperone.

“I can feel you staring holes in the side of my head, MC. Have you finished eating? Do you want me to read to you to see if that helps you understand the material better?”

The way he cared for her had also always been one of her favorite things. She had never been good at keeping herself in check, but Sebastian always did his best to make sure she didn’t overextend herself.

“I—uh it’s mostly gone. But I was thinking about something else.”

“Were you? Care to share with the class, darling?”

“I could use your help. Just in a different way.”

He looked at her curiously for a moment before it seemed he registered the look on her face and his expression grew more heated.

“Have you been thinking too much? Do you want to turn that brilliant brain off for a minute?”

His tone was condescending, and while it would normally agitate her when he spoke to her that way, this time it felt different. She nodded slowly, her eyes not leaving his own while a smirk grew on his face.

“Do you remember over the winter holiday, you told me about how one of the girls had talked about grinding on a pillow when she didn’t want to do things herself and I made you do it for me? We don’t have a pillow here, but I bet I could have you grinding on something else and feeling as good as you did that night. Come sit on my thigh, darling. We’ll see if you can ride me like you rode that pillow. Maybe you’ll make just as big a mess on me.”

As she settled in on his lap, she was grateful she had opted for a skirt instead of one of the few outfits she had with pants. The back of the skirt that draped over her boyfriend’s knee would hopefully help hide what they were doing if anyone were to stumble back and find them.

She gave an experimental roll of her hips, and she felt Sebastian’s thigh flex beneath her. MC let out a shaky exhale as she did it again. The thin fabric of her knickers and the coarse fabric of Sebastian’s quidditch pants provided the most delicious friction to her clit. Sebastian’s large hands settled on her hips beneath her skirt, the feel of his fingertips on her bare skin lighting her nerves on fire.

“Make sure you stay quiet. Don’t need anyone hearing how I’m helping you study,” his voice purred, the effect going straight to her core.

As she grew more confident, her pace picked up. Sebastian helped, tensing his thigh and slightly pushing her hips down when she rolled them to make sure that the bundle of nerves she was focused on didn’t go a second without feeling something.

“That’s it, darling. Use me. Grind that needy little cunt on my thigh.”

MC gasped softly, biting her lip as the familiar tension in her lower stomach began to build. She was able to keep her volume down, but she couldn’t keep herself from whining and whimpering completely.

“Bash. Oh gods. I-I’m~”

“Keep going, darling. I can feel how bad you need it. That pretty pussy is drooling through my trousers. You’re making such a mess for me, my good girl. Go on. Cum on my thigh. You can do it, honey.”

With his encouragement and permission, she felt herself giving into the pleasure as her orgasm hit. Her hips stuttered, but Sebastian kept her in rhythm. She registered his low moan too, her chest heaving as she started to come down from her high.

MC’s hand moved to where she assumed she’d find Sebastian’s bulge, hard and aching for the attention she wanted to give it. Instead, her hand landed on a warm, wet patch on the front of his trousers.

“Sebastian Sallow,” she spoke his name low and soft, her frazzled brain slowly putting the pieces together as she looked up at him. “You came in your pants. Untouched. Because of me?”

The boy’s freckled cheeks flooded with color as he blushed. Her normally suave boyfriend seemed embarrassed by this turn of events.

“I may have. You didn’t see yourself. Or hear yourself for that matter. I didn’t realize it was going to happen until it just…happened.”

“That is one of the hottest things you’ve ever done. If we can sneak down to the library floo flame without getting caught, we can make it to the ROR. And I can give you something else to cum in.”

He let out a dark chuckle, looking at her with blown pupils.

“You think this is a game, MC? Hmm? Merlin, I’m gonna get you so fucking pregnant.”

Her eyes widened, and she couldn’t stop the giggle that fell from her lips. She was still giddy as she pulled him down the stairs and towards the floo flame on the back wall.

Thank Merlin for study breaks.

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy fic #sebastian x mc #sebastian sallow smut #sebastian sallow fanfiction #sebastian sallow fic #sebastian sallow x mc

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koifishstick · 13 days ago

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THE MIDNIGHT READERS SOCIETY

a hogwarts university club. master list

deep within the hidden corners of hogwarts university, tucked away from prying eyes, a secret book club exists—the midnight readers’ society. this clandestine group of book lovers operates under the cover of night, bound by their shared love of forbidden knowledge and an insatiable curiosity that drives them to explore the most dangerous corners of the magical world—the restricted section of the library. the club’s founding members were a group of ambitious, slightly rebellious students who found themselves fascinated by the books that were deemed too dangerous or too powerful for ordinary students. they believed that knowledge should be free, that no spell should remain locked away in dusty old tomes, simply because it might be "too dark" or "too advanced." and so, the midnight readers’ society was born—a club of adventurers in the truest sense of the word, a fellowship of students who were willing to take risks for the thrill of discovery.

SECRET MEETINGS. the midnight readers meet in a shadowy alcove near the edge of the castle grounds, a place few students ever venture. it's a cozy, dimly lit space, furnished with piles of cushions and thick, worn blankets that smell faintly of old parchment and dust. the members gather late in the evening, well after curfew, when the halls of hogwarts are silent and the castle’s magical wards are at their weakest. the group sits in a circle, sipping tea from mismatched cups and whispering excitedly about their most recent acquisitions.

but the most thrilling part of their meetings is the exchange of knowledge. each week, a different member takes on the perilous task of sneaking into the restricted section of the library—a place heavily guarded by enchanted barriers, magical creatures, and an ever-watchful librarian, madam pincers, who is known for her sharp eyes and quicker reflexes. this daring member must manage to slip past all these defenses, find a book from the restricted section, and return to the group with their prize.

once the book is secured, the true magic begins. using a carefully learned duplication charm, the group creates perfect copies of the stolen book. the charm is precise, turning each page into a flawless replica. these copies are distributed among the members, allowing them to read what the restricted section has to offer without ever setting foot inside.

but there’s a catch—whoever takes the book must also ensure that the prior book is returned safely. once a new book is brought into the fold, the member is responsible for placing the old book back in its rightful spot. it’s a delicate balance of trust, secrecy, and skill, and the members of the society are always careful not to get caught. the thrill of a good heist is one of the many reasons the club’s meetings are so eagerly anticipated each week.

BOOKS. the books they steal are not your average school textbooks. they are tomes filled with powerful and often dangerous knowledge—books on advanced potions, rare spells, and historical records that were never meant to be widely circulated. some of these books have been locked away for centuries, thought to be too dangerous for young wizards and witches to handle. but the midnight readers know that knowledge isn’t inherently evil; it’s how you use it that matters.

one of the most prized volumes in their collection is the grimoire of ancient enchantments, a book said to contain spells older than the school itself. another is the dark wizard’s compendium, which details the techniques and curses used by dark wizards throughout history. then there’s the philosopher’s almanac, which covers everything from time travel to soul magic—a book so powerful it’s said that no wizard or witch has ever read it without experiencing strange, otherworldly dreams afterward.

each book stolen becomes a source of intense fascination. the members spend weeks poring over the copies, practicing the spells, analyzing the texts, and debating the meanings behind cryptic passages. the club’s meetings often spiral into heated discussions about the ethical implications of certain magical practices, the history of dark arts, and the potential for magical knowledge to shape the future.

RISKS. of course, there are dangers involved. the restricted section of the library is filled with enchantments designed to thwart any would-be intruders. books are often protected by cursed wards, traps that trigger upon touch, and creatures that lurk in the dark corners, guarding their secrets. one of the most infamous creatures is the book-basilisk, a serpent that only appears when someone tries to tamper with a forbidden book. it can petrify anyone who looks into its eyes, rendering them paralyzed for hours.

madam pincers, the librarian, has also developed a sixth sense when it comes to missing books. while she may seem absent-minded and somewhat harmless, she is always one step ahead of the students who try to steal from her. it’s rumored that she has a magical ability to sense when someone is in the library after hours, and she’s been known to leave enchanted notes in the restricted section, taunting the students who think they’ve gotten away with it.

yet, despite these risks, the midnight readers continue their quests, united by the thrill of the chase and the allure of forbidden knowledge.

PHILOSOPHY. at the heart of the midnight readers’ society is a belief that knowledge should never be stifled or restricted—only understood. the club members believe that by expanding their magical knowledge, they can make a difference in the world, whether it’s through understanding history more clearly, developing more advanced magical practices, or simply satisfying their own insatiable curiosity.

each new book uncovered is a small rebellion against the idea that some things are too dangerous to be known. to them, the real danger lies not in knowledge, but in ignorance. and though their methods are far from conventional, the midnight readers firmly believe they’re doing a service to their fellow students—giving them access to the wisdom that might otherwise be denied.

#koifishog #𓅓⋆˚࿔ koifish HU #scripting #shifting motivation #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting #shifting community #hogwarts uni #shifting script #shifting blog #shifting to hogwarts #shifters #reality shifter #shifting antis dni

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pluviowriting · 9 months ago

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Study Break

18+ || MDNI || Content Warnings: SMUT, characters aged up, established relationship, language, praise kink, thigh riding, lil bit of breeding kink, semi public sex I think that covers it all

Word Count: 1480 exactly

Repost from original blog @/pluvpluvpluv

Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

A/N: Happy Thirsty Thursday :) This was written in one sitting and not edited at all. I read through it once before going “yeah post it”

Part Two Here

“MC. Love, you missed lunch. I brought you some food.”

“Thanks Bash. I’ll eat it in a minute. I just need to understand what this page is saying.”

He set the plate down and moved the book.

“Considering it’s well past lunch and I didn’t even see you at breakfast, I think you can’t understand the page because you’re hungry. Eat and take a break.”

“I can feel you staring holes in the side of my head, MC. Have you finished eating? Do you want me to read to you to see if that helps you understand the material better?”

“I—uh it’s mostly gone. But I was thinking about something else.”

“Were you? Care to share with the class, darling?”

“I could use your help. Just in a different way.”

He looked at her curiously for a moment before it seemed he registered the look on her face and his expression grew more heated.

“Have you been thinking too much? Do you want to turn that brilliant brain off for a minute?”

“Make sure you stay quiet. Don’t need anyone hearing how I’m helping you study,” his voice purred, the effect going straight to her core.

“That’s it, darling. Use me. Grind that needy little cunt on my thigh.”

“Bash. Oh gods. I-I’m~”

“Sebastian Sallow,” she spoke his name low and soft, her frazzled brain slowly putting the pieces together as she looked up at him. “You came in your pants. Untouched. Because of me?”

The boy’s freckled cheeks flooded with color as he blushed. Her normally suave boyfriend seemed embarrassed by this turn of events.

“I may have. You didn’t see yourself. Or hear yourself for that matter. I didn’t realize it was going to happen until it just…happened.”

He let out a dark chuckle, looking at her with blown pupils.

“You think this is a game, MC? Hmm? Merlin, I’m gonna get you so fucking pregnant.”

Her eyes widened, and she couldn’t stop the giggle that fell from her lips. She was still giddy as she pulled him down the stairs and towards the floo flame on the back wall.

Thank Merlin for study breaks.

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow fanfiction #Sebastian sallow smut #Sebastian sallow x mc #Sebastian x mc #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fic #Sebastian sallow fic

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adarkrainbow · 2 months ago

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I am currently re-reading "The Black Company" by Glen Cook, the first trilogy which I love immensely (I haven't looked at the later trilogies and series).

If you do not know what "The Black Company" is, it is a series of novels started in the 80s that formed, alongside older works like "The Elric Saga", the foundations of the genre we know today as "dark fantasy". And "The Black Company" is one of the specific highlights of the dark fantasy sub-genre that later inspired authors to create what we call the "grimdark fantasy" (though I personally put The Black Company in "dark fantasy" rather than the "grimdark" genre, even though it was a big inspiration for the grimdark).

I love The Black Company. But, I hear you ask, why am I speaking of this onto my fairytale blog? Well... you guessed it: The Black Company is actually a fairytale fantasy. It is not something that is talked about often, nor something that was very much highlighted outside of some trivias, but despite The Black Company seeming like a dark deconstruction of the early Tolkienesque fantasy (which it is), it is also... a deconstruction of fairytales.

Here is a list of points showing the fairytale influence over Glen Cook's work, from the broadest and vaguest to the most specific. WARNING there are BIG SPOILERS ahead for the original trilogy.

From the get-go, names are rare in "The Black Company". As in, personal names. This is one of the most famous features of this series: almost all of the main characters go by nicknames or aliases, and the rest are left anonymous. From the members of the Black Company who abandon their life behind, to the sorcerers who keep their true name secrets, we are following the adventures of "Croaker", "Captain", "Raven", "The Lady", "The Hanged Man", "One-Eye", "Darling", and others. Add to this the sparse and succint physical descriptions, and the fact the past of most of the characters stays mysterious, foggy and untold - the narrative focusing mainly on their actions and their words - and you have a form of archetypal storytelling making the characters seem like they came out straight of a folktale (which is ironic as the story is precisely about introducing gritty realism to an universe of fantasy).

By extensive, the very narrative style of the books (mainly the parts written by Croaker for the Annals) is reminiscent of the way fairytales a la brothers Grimm were told. A very focused, quasi-oral narrative flow filled with ellipses and allusions, mixing direct descriptions with narrator thoughts, spending a lot of time over some trivial things while telling in two sentences huge events, slowly revealing things or explaining elements in a disjointed and broken way...

Still on the same vibe, the magic system (or rather the lack-of) was clearly meant to recreate the effet of magic in fairytales, and legends and myths in general. Unlike other fantasy works where magic is explained or has given rules and conditions, magic here stays a mysterious art only truly understood by its wielders. We are given some rules and elements, we know the power levels of some characters, but magic stays a mysterious force whose effects, while obvious, grandiose and visible, are unclear in their scope, limit and effect, leaving a true "everything is possible" effect that do make the wizards and warlocks of this series "legendary".

The first book opens and hammers down, through Croaker's narrative, the idea that "good versus evil" doesn't exist, that "good" and "evil" are mostly human illusions and excuses, that in the end everybody is just morally gray and the "good side" is decided by the winners of battles and those that write down history. This is of course a subversion of the epic fantasy genre a la Tolkien, but it also serves as a subversion of the very fairytale logic of "good versus evil". And then, a de-subversion as Croaker and the Black Company come to realize, as they get involved deeper and deeper into the wars of the Lady and the return of the Dominator, that while human "goodness" and "evilness" are illusions, there is still an actual "evil" that is too inhuman and dangerous for the world and deserves to be fought by true "heroes". So, the trilogy does end up falling back into the fairytale dichotomy... But to do so, it needs to go beyond the human scope and scale of things, to enter the world of ancient myths and eldritch magic.

Among the Ten who Were Taken, several evoke "classical" fairytale monsters. All of them are evil witches and wicked sorcerers, but some clearly evoke the werewolfs of legends and the Big Bad Wolf (The Howler, Moonbitter) while others clearly take after the giants, trolls and ogres of old (Shapeshifter, Bonegnasher). [Plus Toadkiller Dog has strong "Big Bad Wolf" vibes too] Also, they use extensively flying carpets to fly around, directly as a nod to the One Thousand and One Nights. There are also several sorcerers who evoke the dwarfs of legend, from the evious Limper described as a "small man", to the duo of One-Eye and the aptly name Goblin, who are basically the trickster imps and mischievious dwarfs of old legends.

The story span over the three first books is actually a retelling of Snow-White. Literaly. It is about the fight and struggle by a powerful and beautiful witch-queen (the Lady) with powerful magic to her side (her Eye is the equivalent of the Magic Mirror) to destroy a pure little girl fated to destroy her (Darling, reincarnation of the "White Rose", quite a nod to "Snow White"), only for the little girl to be saved and protected by servants of the Lady who betray their former employer (The Black Company). The little girl events gets, in a Disney fashion, to become "friend" and gain control and protection from animals and plants of nature... with the twist being her "Disney princess" powers make her befriend the alien fauna and insane flora of the Lovecraftian Plain of Fear.

In "The White Rose", the memoirs of Bomanz note how strange it is that everybody was fascinated by the Domination and the Taken, despite them being pure evil, and how little interested is paid to the remains of the White Rose, despite her being the hero that saved them all. This can be taken as a reflection on fictional villains in general, but it does strike a chord with fairytales: fairytale villains are often more iconic, more well-known, more fascinating than the heroes, and the stories often end with the villains - not caring about what happens to the heroes or the "good guys" once the threat is done with. Everybody knows at least half of the names of the Taken, but nobody knows where the White Rose's grave is. (Aka, the "Disney villain phenomenon")

The Taken (plus Lady and Dominator) sleeping forever in their barrows, guarded by a DRAGON, and "woken up" by various intrepid adventurers passing by a deadly barrier has very strong "Sleeping Beauty" vibes - which becomes ironic when later the Lady reveals that her mother was actually the twisted source of the Sleeping Beauty story in this universe.

#the black company #dark fantasy #fairytale deconstruction #fairytale fantasy

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littlejuicebox · 1 year ago

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Midnight Chimes 4 / Ringleader

Pairing: Astarion x F!Reader Warlock.

Word Count: 2,415

Summary/Setting: You and Astarion have met before, though you think it meant more to you than it did to him. You are an apothecary shop owner that has recently gained some mysterious Warlock powers; Astarion is, in your eyes, a rake that you wouldn’t trust as far as you can throw him. You two run into one another again after the nautiloid crash.

Preview:

It hadn’t really been you that found the three new party members, after all. It had been your patron. The blasted thing seemed to alternate between completely ignoring you and positively strong arming you into submission. And it seemed unfortunately hellbent on collecting every straggler along the way of this little adventure. Though you supposed the cleric, the githyanki, and the Blade would likely prove to be more useful additions than the pale elf sitting nearby. But how could you explain the connection to the celestial being to Gale or anyone else if you did not truly understand the connection yourself? How could you explain they were putting their trust in the wrong person for the job? Gods, you needed to get back to Baldur’s Gate and head to Sorcerous Sundries. Surely they would have some information about this unwilling bond. And speaking of unwilling bonds…

Warnings: eventual smut and gore 18+ / in game spoilers / angst, trauma, fluff

A/N: Finally feeling (almost) 100% back to my normal, healthy self! Thank you for the good vibes and well wishes! <3

The warlock, the wizard, and the rogue.

This little group started off with the makings of some ridiculous fairytale your parents would have read to you before bed.

Though, despite your parents wishes, you hadn’t really been a child interested in fairytales and make believe. Your penchant for pragmatics had developed early on, and before long mama and papa had all but given up on their dreams of a perfect princess daughter. In her place stood some sort of mad scientist… at least in their eyes.

You hadn’t actually been mad. Not then, at least. Though you were starting to worry that between the parasite and your patron, you might truly be going crazy now. No doubt the two were at war, trying to determine who would wrestle ultimate control of your mind.

Should you simply choose between the lesser of two evils, when your fate already feels sealed as it is?

Gale and Astarion had blindly followed your lead the first day, and remained silent every time you decided to stop and change course, prodded in another direction by the celestial being playing with your psyche. This abrupt switch in traveling plans led you all to Lae’zel, where you convinced the tieflings to let her go, and Shadowheart, as she desperately tried to break open the door of some abandoned ruins.

Astarion had simply picked the lock of the ruins, earning him some clout among the others for his skill set and further suspicion from you. After all, why exactly did a man like Astarion have any need for a skill like that?

Subsequently, the five of you explored the dank, dilapidated building. After downing a handful of humanoids and some reanimated corpses, the group happened upon a strange, skeletal being named Withers. He said he would see you again soon.

After a relatively restless night in camp, you all happened upon the Grove on the second day of exploration. Some druid named Halsin is missing, though it turns out he may be the answer to your little predicament, Nettie tried to poison you (stupid, really, to try to poison an apothecary with one of the most basic tricks in the book), you saved a little tiefling thief from death, and then you met Wyll… all in a couple of hours.

The Blade of Frontiers is looking for some devil he’s supposed to kill; he’s also got a tadpole in his head, and like Gale, seems in relatively good spirits for such a grim situation. Those two seem suspiciously well-adjusted.

The entire journey thus far had only been two days long and exceedingly… well, odd.

It was certainly a much different experience from your day to day of brewing potions and tending the shop. You wanted nothing more than to return to the comforts of city life. But instead, you were forced to be the unwilling ringleader of this circus, despite your protests on the matter.

You are discussing your concerns about leadership with Gale as the group takes a short rest not far from the Grove. Wyll is gathering the last of his supplies and will meet up with all of you in mere moments.

“Oh, but you’re doing a fantastic job, Demetria!” Gale exclaims, somehow unfailingly supportive of a woman he barely knew.

Oh, how you wished to trust anyone half as much.

“You have such remarkable intuition. We wouldn’t have found Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Wyll, or all this great loot without you!” He continues, before gesturing to a handful of gold and scrolls while positively beaming.

The wizard clasps a friendly hand on your back and then scans the surrounding area. He smiles at you once more, “Now I plan to make myself useful and harvest some flora! If you plan to make use of that newly procured cauldron, I best give you materials to work with.”

You smile softly and nod at the wizard before he disappears into the shrubbery. Brewing potions was easy; you could craft all the basic ones by memory alone. But leading a group of people through the wilds based on some sort of fabled intuition and instinct? You weren’t so sure about that.

And it seemed unfortunately hellbent on collecting every straggler along the way of this little adventure. Though you supposed the cleric, the githyanki, and the Blade would likely prove to be more useful additions than the pale elf sitting nearby.

But how could you explain the connection to the celestial being to Gale or anyone else if you did not truly understand the connection yourself? How could you explain they were putting their trust in the wrong person for the job?

Gods, you needed to get back to Baldur’s Gate and head to Sorcerous Sundries. Surely they would have some information about this unwilling bond. And speaking of unwilling bonds…

Astarion is perched on a fallen log, basking in the midday sun’s rays. He’s the picture of relaxation, as if this entire sordid affair is a holiday away from Baldur’s Gate.

Sure, the pale elf had been helpful in battle, and he seemed to have a strange knack for opening locks, but as far as participating in camp efforts went, he certainly left a lot to be desired. You should have guessed as much. With the princely attitude and haughty confidence, it was likely he was merely another spoiled, rich elf. He reminded you of…

Nevermind.

You look to Shadowheart, hoping to pursue a conversation with the woman, but she is a few feet away, resting on her knees in prayer. Lae’zel is also preoccupied as she meticulously sharpens her already deathly blade. You’ve spent almost all day trying to intentionally avoid Astarion and keep any conversation with him to a minimum. But as everyone else seems busy doing their own thing, you’re left with no choice but to take a few minutes of reprieve near the rogue.

You sigh and nestle yourself on the ground, unwilling to take the empty spot on the log next to Astarion; sitting like an animal in the dirt seemed the better option for your pride. As you lean back to stretch your aching muscles, the warm country breeze picks up, swirling around the elf’s silver curls. You are sitting downwind from the rogue, and the gust pushes a whiff of bergamot and rosemary in your direction.

You can’t help it. The fragrance angers you. Astarion hadn’t even written to you once, even to send a simple rejection or at least compliment your sample. He’d wasted your time on your last few hours of vacation three years ago. All for what, exactly?

He hadn’t even gotten to bed you, which had surely been his goal, in the end.

You glare at him, in all his world-endingly beautiful privilege, as he simply lounges about in the sun as if nothing is wrong.

“It seems you liked my perfume sample enough to procure a rip off of it, but not enough to write.” You state coolly, watching the pale elf as he snaps his eyes open to study you. You notice him thinking, no doubt calculating some sort of smooth response.

“You can save the piss-poor excuses, Astarion.” You sigh, now reaching into your pack, trying to find the small vial of perfume oil you’d had inside your robes when that ship snatched you up. You open the vial and take a deep breath, basking in the comfort of familiarity.

It smelled like home. Like your quaint little townhome, in Waterdeep. Too bad scents can’t transport you back in time… at least not literally.

There are a few beats of silence as Astarion watches you.

“I do apologize for not recognizing you before, and for not writing…” He begins, slowly, as if trying to soothe a wild animal, “I lost your card. I have a tendency to be… forgetful. And I lose things a lot. But, I did quite like the scent, as you can tell.”

You nod, acknowledging the apology but not willing to acquiesce any further. You cannot decipher if Astarion’s words are the truth or if they are simply honeyed lines meant to subdue you. Your pinky finger presses against the perfume bottle’s rim and you rub a bit of the fragranced liquid behind your ears.

The wind shifts, blowing your thick, dark hair forward around your face, obscuring your vision. You cap the small vial and then quickly tie your hair back. When you are able to see again, Astarion is almost gawking at you, scarlet eyes blown wide in surprise.

He shifts and recovers quickly, jerking his gaze away and running a hand through his windswept curls. When he speaks, his voice has a manufactured, airy nonchalance to it, “It is quite windy out here, isn’t it?”

You don’t respond, and he turns to face you once again. His jaw tenses for a moment, and then he leans back, assessing you once more. He tries another tactic.

“That is… another lovely scent that you’re wearing.” He murmurs, and this time, the genuine, hesitant intrigue in his voice catches you off guard.

“Thank you,” You begin, and despite yourself, you are flattered by his statement. You truly love when others notice and compliment the artistry of your craft. You shrug and offer the vial to Astarion. Perhaps a small olive branch is due, if the two of you are stuck tethered together for who knows how long.

The rogue takes the bottle and inhales the fragrance, and then he emits a noise that sounds something like a soft moan or groan. It’s a deep, uninhibited sound from the back of his throat, almost as if he’s absolutely losing himself in the scent. When he focuses on you again, there’s a relaxed look in his eyes paired with a soft, unguarded smile. It reminds you of the way he looked at you in your parent’s tavern.

“Delicious…” He murmurs, his tone dropping into that salacious one he’d used on you at the tavern all those years ago, when asking if you planned to murder someone with poisons. Something about the way he said the word while staring directly into your eyes, his pupils blown from the fragrance he’d just inhaled, made your face grow hot.

You aren’t interested in a rake, and you won’t be fooled again, you remind yourself. No matter how beautiful the bastard truly is.

You extend your hand out, motioning for the vial and he obliges with a disappointed tut.

“It’s a combination of lavender, sage, and vanilla.” You explain, tucking the precious vial back into your pack.

“And what else? There’s something else, isn’t there? It’s the same thing that was in the sample you gave me.” He responds, eyebrow cocked in curiosity.

You laugh in genuine surprise, “Good nose. Are you trying to steal my recipe so that when you return to Baldur’s Gate, you can have an exact duplication instead of the lesser version you have now, Astarion?”

You are partly joking, partly serious.

The elf shakes his head, brows crinkling together in absent thought, “No… merely curious, I suppose. I’ve never smelt anything quite like your concoctions. I have to admit the memory of the scent from that night has… stayed with me. I would have written to you to tell you as much, if I could have. If I hadn’t… lost your card.”

You squint your eyes. There is something genuine in Astarion’s statement, despite the strange excuse about losing the card. Sure, he may have truly lost it. But then, he could have simply returned to the Drunken Dragon and asked your cousin for your address.

The next time you visited your family on holiday, after your conversation with the rake, your cousin indicated the elf hadn’t been by since that night. When you asked about Astarion every year, feigning nonchalance, your family always indicated he hadn’t been seen.

It was almost as if he were avoiding the Drunken Dragon altogether for those three years.

You’d ultimately assumed he moved away… or perhaps died, murdered by one of his jealous lovers.

“It’s dragonsblood… just a drop.” You admit, eyeing the silver-haired elf with suspicious curiosity.

A sudden bark of laughter escapes Astarion’s lips. And then his head tips back and he positively cackles in a mixture of amusement and delight. He seems to find this information exceptionally hilarious. Your brows stitch together in confusion as you watch the rogue chortle.

Sure, it was an unusual additive. But it wasn’t exactly hilarious, was it?

“Dragonsblood!” He exclaims, clapping his hands together in front of him as his eyes crinkle with mirth, “How… unique. You are quite the artist, Demetria.”

You feel the flush rise in your cheeks at the compliment while you murmur another thank you. Surely he’s flattering you, trying to ingratiate himself and hoping you’ll forgive his slight against you, isn’t he?

Astarion’s eyes flit between yours now, and he hums in thought, “You look… different. From my memory at the tavern.”

“Really? Well you didn’t actually remember me at all until the parasite helped you, so I’m not quite sure how reliable your memory of me is. You look the same as I remember.” You deadpan, instantly trying to deflect from his observation.

You know what he means… the ring hadn’t just affected your mind. It has permanently altered the color of your eyes into a strange purple, reminiscent of the cosmos itself. But you aren’t ready to share anything about your patron or the damn ring with anyone else just yet.

Astarion cocks his head, and he is about to say something more, but then Gale is bursting back through the brush. His eyes are wide with apprehension as he looks between you and the rogue. The concerned expression on your otherwise affable campmate causes everyone in the vicinity to quickly rise to their feet.

Gale grimaces as he addresses his new traveling companions with some level of unease, “I think you all might want to see this.”

And then he disappears back into the brush without another word. Part of you thinks you shouldn’t follow him, but you do anyway. After all, how could this possibly get stranger than it already is?

Your patron is laughing again. Poor little apothecary, you have no idea.

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astarionfixation · 11 months ago

Text

Chapter 6: "It won’t hurt but a moment, darling"

Part of "Am I Fu**ing Insane !?!" A multi chapter adventure in Astarion’s mind

Rating: Mature for mentions of sex and blood

CW mentions of sexual assault, sex trafficking, panic attacks

Word count count: 6.5k yep, I was away for a week but at least I come bearing gifts words

Pairings: Astarion X OFC Tav

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54356776/chapters/138874459

I have a quite serious praise kink. Which also means compliments in the forms of tags and/or comments might very well spur me to write and post more

** Thoughts "" Dialogue - - Remarks ++ Quotes / Memories

The scene at the inn looks extremely familiar and he's sure some corners of it resemble quite accurately the night before. Except his delusional hopes to find a solution to his current parasite predicament have all but dissolved, yet maybe shape shifted towards an unlikely alliance with her. Small, insignificant human that she is, yet each and every one of his companions seems to have a fascination with her.

And indeed, he catches her eye from across the room, as their accidental mutual friends are buzzing around her, certainly grateful to have their health and strength back without apparent consequences from the night before. And he is sure it's just gratefulness but from the way he sees the wizard getting closer and familiar to her, hand on her shoulder that drops to her hip, certainly with the excuse of the crowd around her, surely he lowers his head and gets his filthy mouth way too close to her ear to make her hear whatever he thinks will impress her.

He finds his teeth gritting and he swears it's just because

*No one gets to tamper with my food!*

In that instant it is almost too convenient that this lovely, smiling barmaid seems intent to care only for whatever he is going to ask, forgetting every other shouting creature that demands her attention for another pint of anything.

“How may I serve you, my lord”

And he has to bite his tongue not to laugh at the epithet, despite how convenient his looks have been in gaining him access to every place -and person- he has ever set his eyes upon.

“Well sweet thing” he begins with his mellifluous tone set to persuade fairies to give up their own light for him. A long, delicate finger reaches for a strand of her straw like hair and wraps around it, inviting her closer so he can whisper to her.

“I would be so, very very grateful if you could get me two glasses of the most precious drink you offer in this fine establishment”

His movements are studied and rehearsed and his brain might as well focus on the corner of his eye, searchin for Her and considering options to send back to Waterdeep different pieces of the mage in different boxes if his excuse for a flirt does not promptly focus on someone, anyone else but Her. He's not jealous, of course not, *of him?!??* And he knows, from her lips, from her mind how all of herself is pulled to him.

*It was my name on her lips last night! My name on her darn little book! Not any wizard from Waterdeep or otherwise!*

He's brought back by the clinking sound of two goblets that are definitely more elegant and rich looking than anything anyone else is holding in the tavern, and he knows once again how far his simple charm can get him. The girl is smiling at him, full of hope, pulling herself closer from behind the bar so that her bosom is almost obscenely exposed in front of him. And he would be lying if he didn't admit to the flattery it always was to see people stumble upon their own feet in an effort to please him, to be chosen by him for the night, blissfully unaware of how that meant their luck had turned on them forever.

A dark flash threatens to take away his attention from the scene and he knows it's much better not to linger on memories. In one of his exaggerated movements he finds the hand of the girl to bring to his lips, his eyes fixed on her cornflower ones. He plants a long, wet kiss that holds so many promises, none of which he will keep, and he lingers a moment longer so she can have her fill of his attention. As he slowly pulls away his index finger goes to tuck a strand of her hair just behind her ear, brushing lightly on her skin and he can tell already: a word and he would have her, she probably wouldn't even make it upstairs. He holds her gaze and her trembling lips just barely audible let him know that

“Not to worry my lord, it's on the house”

*Of course it is, why do you think we were playing this game, darling?*

His hand swiftly abandons her hair to grasp at the glasses, his work done. As he turns around to find in which ways he will have to skin the mage, he realises his lips are way too close to her ear, but her eyes are fixed on… himself. And they are somewhat even darker than usual? The look on her face he would have called imperturbable yesterday reveals something akin to disturbance today.

*Maybe I will actually have to skin the wizard tonight if he's the reason of her bother*

His head moves slightly towards the stairs to give her a sign and immediately he sees her wriggle out of her company and towards the path that leads to the upper floor.

*Still such an obedient little thing*

And he is only too happy to follow.

—-------

“What was that? What did you tell her? Did you give away your secret so easily just hoping she would let you drink from her?!?!”

He's genuinely confused, it takes him a moment to realise she must be referring to the barmaid that he already barely remembers. What did she have the impression was happening? Doesn't she know how he speaks and addresses everyone? How his charm is the one thing he has to keep in control of every exchange?

*Or is she actually Jealous?*

And as he closes the door of her room behind him, the glasses resting now on a surface, he begins to slowly circle -stalk- her just as he just did that afternoon at the glade, his eyes and smile focused completely on her agitated self, the soft traits of her face trying their best to look upset, yet all he can think is just…

*How adorable…*

But this time she's following his movements and turns around to look at him, her back now to the door, and the corner of his lip might be pulling ever so slightly as he considers the possibility of this ruse being just that, that familiarly naughty side of his brain already envisioning her throwing herself at him as they both fall on the bed and

*I might actually let her ride*

“If this is your way of offering yourself instead my dear, I thought we were already clear on the matter. But don't let me stop your plans of persuasion. In fact…”

He takes a step closer and his hand knows already where to find that sweet, pulsating spot just behind her ear, the idea of tearing at the skin and finally finding her sweetness without the need to imagine any longer makes him swallow emptily in anticipation, and his fingers are almost tingling due to the warmth of her skin being so close now and his muscles tense ready to pull her in, fangs almost bared when… she takes a step back?

*What is she playing at? We both know she wants this, she wants me…*

“Come now darling, there's really no need to play coy, at this point it would be only be a waste of time considering what we already shared”

The honey in his words betrays a slight irritation at the distance she put between them, his tone every bit the charming one he has rehearsed thousands of times and has never once failed him.

And thankfully! Thankfully, going through the pages of that little insignificant book allowed him to fill the gaps in ways he truly had no idea.

But now he knows, he has seen it in her eyes, transfixed on him despite the blood, or perhaps exactly because of it.

“But if it pleases your wounded pride you can tell me all about your protestations from your sweetly plump lips while I relieve you of every. single. piece. of clothing. that stands between my mouth and your lovely skin. Because that's what you want, isn't it?”

He knows how to punctuate and accentuate every word to paint an image.

And not that the mere idea isn’t inviting, he feels his own reaction both in his stomach and his crotch. The notion that, for once, he would actually enjoy taking something -He- wanted, -He- needed, for -himself- and not for anyone’s command or amusement, is almost reason enough to make this the version of the story he committed to.

“Don’t tell me that is not exactly what you envisioned whilst you…. How was it?”

And consequences be damned! Let this be a good use of that little vexing book, to cut any avenue she might think of going up to escape her own desire for him.

“ ‘Lay yourself down with my Voice pouring honey in your ears?’ No need to imagine my dear, in fact let me show you…”

*I will not be denied, and I won't let you deny yourself either sweet thing*

This is as good a version as any if it will get him access to her blood, maybe even her body because surely…

“I can't believe the privilege that has been afforded to you to still behave like a child and have people find it charming!”

He is so used to leading the game that this interruption comes too abruptly to leave her unscathed by his anger at seeing his plans crushed.

And if throwing her own words at her didn't make her confess her own desire for him, there is certainly more to use and hurt her from what he can remember of the little insignificant book. Something they share even. His voice comes out as sweet as the choice of words is cruel

“Oh you want to talk about childhood, do you? Do you want to go over how incredibly wise and mature you were “for your age”, darling? How that clever little mind of yours justified every kind of attention you were at the receiving end of because you were just… too enticing”

He inhales to punctuate the next words

“and how flattering that felt for you.”

He went too far. He knows it before he spits out the last word. He can see her jaw clenching and the deep inhale she takes, seemingly vexed whilst really, her heartbeat is telling a different story about the exquisite way his words were just the extension of his dagger at times.

Quick scenarios flash in his mind's eye,

*Is she going to cry? Is she going to storm out? Can she have anything in her arsenal to hit me back with?*

and to that his body stiffens like a spring ready to jump and react, as if any words she next throws at him could physically hit him

*Because isn't it just what I've done to her?*

It was right, it was fair, and he stood up straight with a hint of pride on his face because no stepping down now could mend her from the hurt his words just inflicted on her. He knew exactly what it had touched, he remembered every single *fucking* word he had committed to memory that night he first had his hands on her book. On her mind. He will not admit he even considered the idea they could have bonded over their shared trauma…

“Get out”

*No. No no no! This is all wrong! Where's the attack? Where are the words I can sneak around and throw back at her?! I need to build her up to crush her down! No!*

The fear of losing her anxiety-inducing presence fills his thoughts with venom, and if whatever this was has to come crashing down now, she can be sure she'll get as much damage as the loss of her brings to him.

“Well fine then, I'm sure it won't take me long to find someone kind enough to share their bed and blood with me tonight, in fact you're right, I might just go looking for that lovely barmaid again, she was so eager to please. Believe me darling, I won't be left out in the cold”

Her eyes narrow.

“You're delusional, as if you're the gods gift to every pretty girl who would open her arms and legs to you”

And that's it, that right there is the space between words that he knows will hurt just right, a cold sharp hit from the throat to that spot just above her heart that decides where her lovely colour and warmth will spread next. His crimson eyes narrow and he moves closer to her and when he's just about to move past her and grab the door handle he whispers with his head just slightly bent, so that his breath can hit her skin as much as his words will her heart

“Well… looking at you darling… I thought it was fairly obvious: she doesn't have to be pretty”.

He can feel how her body tensed up. How a strained sound gets trapped in her throat and a sharp inhale through gritted teeth have her swallow. The light of the candles is strangely reflected slightly more intensely by the corner of her eyes and that is how he knows the blow has hit just right and a strange satisfaction takes over in his chest, making him walk just a bit taller, just a bit prouder because all those decades using his body to get what his master demanded turned him into the perfect offering to anyone's desires and the least of his problems will indeed be to find someone, anyone, ready to take him in, if only he's available to give them anything and everything they might want that his body can provide. It doesn't even matter, he won't even have to think, his body has been marked and bent sinuously so many times his mind doesn't have to be there to give anyone anything they might want. Tonight won't be anything more or less special than that and the price for a warm place to sleep *maybe warm blood to drink* is something that comes as second nature to him.

He's out of the door and his feet guide him automatically towards the stairs, his mind trying to focus on the faces of any of the patrons of the inn whose sight might have already lingered a moment too long on him because that's how he knows, how he has always known that his job will be easier, his elegant form already paving the way towards a comfortable place to spend the night in as soon as he gives them what they want, and they all want the same thing anyway. His head shakes as if his mind better not dig further at that thought, and as he takes the first step down he finds his body slouching down instead, coming to sit on the step as his head bends down between his own knees, his long delicate fingers shaking as they pull at the back of his neck so that his head falls just lower and lower.

And among the flashes his mind offers of all the times he had to offer his body as the matter of an exchange for his own survival, a corner of his brain screams at the door now closed behind him and

*how could she let me go out in the cold again??!?*.

His shoulders shrug as he tries to make himself smaller. Maybe spending the night on the stairs is just as acceptable, easier, safer for everyone and safer for him, and how deep his mind must have kept him, attempting to avoid memories of useful seduction techniques coming back to him, to not hear her steps, if not her heartbeat, until the warmth of her hand is once again scorching his neck and he flinches too suddenly for his unaffected facade to remain unbroken.

He tries to turn around, his arms still protecting his face, wrapped around his knees and just his crimson eyes and dark circles peek through, looking at her in a way that might seem unthreatening enough that now her arms have gone circling around his shoulders… and it all suddenly feels warmer and there’s also something… weird, something he can't quite pinpoint, but something that feels like there’s no requirement for each and every one of his senses and instincts to be ready to react.

She breathes loudly, louder than even her need for air requires, and the noise alone should be annoying but after a few breaths he realises his own body is following her rhythm even without the need for it, but the slow, measured breaths are bringing an unexpected calm that washes over his tensed muscles, his jaw unclenches and the grip of his own arms around his knees, so tight he didn't realise it made him tremble, is now getting flushed.

*Because if she has her arms around me I don't need to hold on anymore*

The thought is fleeting and he will deny thinking that, but in the next exhale his body finally relaxes into her warm embrace. She hasn't said anything, done anything but holding him and guiding his breath with her own, and while a slight fear crosses his mind -because if she is to hit him with any word now, he would certainly dissolve- he’s also so tired of the charade by this point he can’t hold onto his persona anymore. It comes as a whisper that a part of him still feels betrayed by sharing, because it is the truth and how will that not be ammunition for her to use at a later time?

But his breath is not his own now, following in unison with hers and so the words escape his pale bloodless lips anyway

“I'm sorry, I couldn't do it, I'm sorry”

She leaves the silence holding space in the air for what feels like an eternity after his shameful confession, but he can suddenly feel her arms pulling him tighter to her. Crouching next to him, his head finds a way to nestle in the crook of her neck where he instinctively inhales deeply and the scent of mulled wine and flowers fills his entire being once again, and besides bringing back a hunger pang down in the depth of his stomach, there is now something almost soothing about what's become so familiar and intrinsically associated with her. He must be so stupid to allow himself to feel what seemingly resembles safety, if nothing else because he never knew what that actually meant, but he's so tired. Tired in a way no rest or trance can bring him peace and so even if her warmth is a lie he's making his peace with it, he'll pay the price in time, but for now he can just slightly rub the tip of his nose on that pulsating spot just behind her ear, her scent emanating from it as a sweet siren song for the beast his fangs belong to, but not without an unexpected and reassuring comfort to some other side of himself, something he hasn't felt stirring in such a long time that he had no reason to believe was still there.

The silence, filled only by their breaths, has become so familiar he might be convinced the stairs could be a welcome spot to spend the night if she keeps holding him like this, but that's when his own train of thought is interrupted by her low whisper

“Come on, come back, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry too”

And at that he shouldn't feel the warmth radiate from every spot their bodies are in contact with each other down to the centre of his stomach, but it does and it's as unfamiliar as it is pleasant. His body follows hers as her arms still circle him and help him to his feet, his head still following her scent, by convenience that also means his eyes don't have to raise from the floor to meet hers and that makes going back to her room easier.

She helps him to sit at the edge of the bed and that's when her arms retract their support and the loss of warmth feels incredibly wrong. With furrowed brows his eyes look for her to understand what he's done wrong to lose her embrace but they find hers as they seem to be just roaming across his shoulders to the leather atop his shirt. His shoulders move almost of their own volition and the leather is quickly discarded on the floor. She suddenly crouches down on the floor and the movement catches him by surprise, not sure what he should brace himself for until he realises her hands are reaching for his boots.

She might have sensed his discomfort because her next movement is announced by her voice before it happens

“I'm just going to help you out of these so you can lay down and rest if you want, is that alright?”

And he finds himself nodding before the end of that sentence makes it to his ears, the finesse with which her fingers are pulling and undoing his old boots is not something that aligns with a thing that has been broken and torn down too many times to repair and yet the careful way her hands find the way to undo them make it seem like she's dealing with something of invaluable worth.

He's slightly transfixed looking at her movements that only when her eyes meet his again, only then he realises she's done, and with a bit of uncertainty she's back up on her feet.

“Rest here, I will be on the chair and we can talk more tomorrow if you want”

But his hand goes immediately to grab her wrist because the idea of losing that safe feeling her warmth gives him now just isn't something he's ready to do without. He pulls wordlessly until she's sitting next to him on the edge of the bed and that's when he scoots back until his back hits the headboard and then his arm extends towards her in a silent invitation.

He can't read her expression but within seconds he doesn't need to because she's removing her own boots and

*surely she didn't mean to crawl across the bed to reach me in any way other than functional*

but another part of his brain seems to stir now at the sight of her on all fours moving slowly *languidly* towards him, until she's taken the invite and nestles her body between his extended arm and chest, her own arm now circling at the back of his neck.

“Is this…? I can't… nothing needs to happen, we can just rest, I am here for you”

And that sounds way too much like a challenge for his body not to stir, pulling her closer so that his nose can finally trace her hairline down to her ear again. Until the memory of her words make him shiver

+He holds a grace in the tiny bone of his wrists that clerics cannot give on freedays+

And it's both consoling and disappointing that the moment he can lose himself in her scent again, feeling her body so close to his, the words she chose to describe him come back to his mind, blessed with the curse of an impossible detailed memory that in this occasion lets him know, beyond what she could say out loud, all the ways in which her body, but most importantly her mind, have been devotedly dreaming of him, in a way that lets him know for the first time in his whole life and undeath, that someone other than himself cares about his existence, not only his survival.

*Maybe just as long as I can grant her immortality too, but still, she needs me now as I need her*

He nods as his head is nestled between her jaw and her shoulder, certainly agreeing but also to spur another whiff of that delicious scent only her skin, hair, sweat and blood could conjure, and that's when another side of him replies in a low, trembling tone coming from his chest

“I promise I won't go too far… but please…”

And with that plea his lips part slightly, his teeth now brushing against that pulsating spot with a rhythm that's been hypnotising him since the beginning of this game. His lips closing upon it in something it would surely resemble a kiss and at that moment, with a wonderful whimper escaping her lips, her head turns just enough so that she can look at him with the corner of her deep, dark eyes, her lips barely parted with a slightly faster breath coming and going through them and now he's almost overwhelmed because it was easier to focus just on that one little spot that meant finally knowing what bliss it could be to feed his deep seated hunger, and yet now the same wonder takes hold when envisioning her lips giving way to his, how easily they would part to give him access, how soft would her body truly be, pliable to his every need and desire, truly begging to be his and sate any and every hunger of his, because he knows, she said it in so many words, all circling in his mind and

+I will skip, stumble and fall, he’s the blinded fool and I’m content to stand by

I’ll be the conspicuously deranged lover of the air he walks past+

And he has a right at that to concede to the delusion that she might actually be infatuated with him for no other reason than his existence. For a moment he will believe whatever she saw in him was before she could realise anything about his immortality. For a moment he decides to believe her words, committed to paper in that little precious book that was never meant for anyone else's eyes, and that she is head over heels for him just because he's a worthy creature, just like every one of his conquest wanted to believe they were special to him, whilst he hardly remembered their name the morning after.

“it's alright, you can feed”

the words bring him back and carry a rush to his head filled with a million visions of her body, soft, supple and compliant, all the ways his hands and lips could roam those curves that gave him vertigo at the mere thought of, every way he could make her moan and coax pleasure out of her until she could feel as desperate for him and he did her now, every image fights for dominance and

*does it really matter where I start as long as I can explore each and every inch of her that’s covered in skin?*

his lips trembling, tracing closer to her and he’s finally about to taste the gates of her breath when her words hit him again

“but we can’t kiss”

His teeth have to clench because he will not lose his mind over this mere mortal toying with his needs! His eyes tighten to mere slits and his fingers are gripping so tightly to her shirt that surely in a moment the tearing sound will be echoing through the room. She has been playing him all along! She’s just doing this to mortify him and she doesn’t understand what she’s done to him! As his hands release the grip on her clothes he finds his nose trailing back to her neck, now tracing her collarbone with his hungry lips and

*If it’s a challenge you want, a challenge you’ll get love*

He nods so that his soft curls are now certainly tickling her jaw and neck, and he can tell from the way the breath has now escaped her lips that his plan is already working. His fingers roam to find the hem of her shirt and disappear beneath that, finding the stark contrast of the warmth of the skin on her sides, slowly tracing with his tips and nails to her bellybutton. Another sharp breath through her lips and she swallows emptily, and he can feel that just under his lips as they are tracing at her neck still.

“Astarion, did you hear me? You can’t…”

“I’ll do you one better darling, I promise I won’t touch any part of your body, for any reason other than feeding”

*two can play at this game*

He feels her swallowing again against his mouth and now he knows he can gently move his entire body to fit against hers. A leg between hers so that she can surely feel the response of his body, but even with half his chest pressed against hers, his fingers keep roaming her sides, down to her hips and disappearing again under the shirt, halting and changing their course just a moment before they are to brush against the soft underside of her breasts.

He can almost trace the curve and he can tell from her heartbeat that, despite her words, he’s not the only one who's hungry for the other

*but you wanted to play and gods I can make this a torturing little game for you too, my sweet*

An audible gasp escapes her lips now that his lips have locked onto a spot for a moment longer, and she might be expecting his fangs now, yet her body does not stiffen in anticipation for the pain, and that is all the more encouragement for him lo leave a soft, long, obscenely sounding kiss just where her neck meets her shoulder. The sudden jolt that travels her entire body confirming what he already knows

*your body is aching for me*

and so his lips keep leaving a soft and wet trail of kisses everywhere on her skin, coming down her shoulder and arms and back to her collarbone, while his fingers trace her sides still, and in a moment, when her back arches to meet his lips, he swiftly goes to pull her shirt down past her shoulder leaving her left side exposed, her breasts almost visible but her nipple still covered by the strained collar of the shirt.

*I need to taste you, I need to have you*

At that sight his body betrays him, as another unnecessary mouthful of nothing gets swallowed and he feels his cock twitch pressed against her hips, heaving at the rhythm of her breath. Part of him knows he needs to get this over and done quickly or he won't be able to keep his promise, but at the same time he loves to coax out that side of her that spent all that time thinking

*dreaming of me*

The part of her that is now, surely kept prisoner by whatever silly, self imposed rule she decided to lock herself behind.

*let’s see how long for*

When his hand reaches up, under her shirt, his nails start to trace the skin just around her breast and a deep moan erupts from her lips carrying his name in a way he never before loved as much

“Astarion!”

The corner of his lips pull just enough, because no matter what she said, he can feel she wants him in more ways than one, and as his nail dig just a hint too much in that delicate area just on the valley between her breasts, she exhales sharply and now he finds her breath to breathe her in, his face so close to hers that nothing is in focus, the tip of his nose grazing hers and he is now making an effort to keep enough distance between their lips yet she is likely unaware of how her mouth is reaching out to his.

*your rules, my love*

His lips trace back to her cheek and down to her ear to whisper as his nails trace her skin from the centre of her chest to that soft area south of her collarbone but still not close enough to her nipple

“Your blood just reaches out to me and blooms every time my nails press and trace just… like… that”

And the way her body arches at his words brings that soft, supple spot just atop of her breast too close to his lips to refuse now. He finds himself surprised at the idea that the first time he’s tasting her is not to give in to the delicious tempting bit behind her ear, but his mouth is now watering beyond anything he has ever experienced, his lips just sucking at that speckle of skin just south of her collarbone, where he can feel the rhythm of her heart so loudly that the distraction is almost enough to ignore that her nipple is inexorably poking through the shirt, just against his chin

“It won’t hurt but a moment darling”

and then two runaway words follow with

“forgive me”

barely breathed out.

Both words escaped his lips like traitors that were not meant for her ears, but that's quickly out of his mind when finally his fangs can break the thin resistance that the soft skin of her breasts was valiantly putting up.

The warm liquid hitting his tongue sets off an explosion in his mind, makes him realise he has never learnt enough words to describe the absolute perfection that the taste of thinking creatures could bring to his lips, it would take a poet rather than a thief like himself to describe the complexity and richness of the thick liquid that caresses his insides, from his mouth and down his throat where finally the thirst is quenched, and when it fills his stomach every single part of his body feels… relief… every muscle fills with renewed vigour he didn’t know his body could posses, and suddenly he feels his own cheeks, his own fingertips still digging in her softness, getting closer to her warmth, and the flavour is so inebriating that no part of him seems to remember anything that ever happened before her blood traversed his own veins and so feeling his own hips thrust against hers feels just like the most natural consequence of that bliss that's permeating every single part of his body. The softness of her body, even with fabric still separating their legs, makes him aware of the stark contrast with his own, his hip bones as much as his own hardness relishing in the pressure his body needs now, needs to feel as if she could be all around every single part of him. The train of thoughts is becoming so warm and fuzzy while his mouth is still indulging in a mouthful of the ambrosia spilling from her veins when a low whimper from her mouth makes him realise she's gone limp in his arms.

*shit!*

A shred of lucidity comes back to him and he forces himself to end the first moment of true perfection he has experienced in all of his existence. He plants a kiss on the punctures on her breast, gently closing them, and his hand reaches to cup her cheek, her head lulling to the side with slightly parted lips from which her breath comes in faint irregular gasps.

She is magnificent, the most beautiful creature his senses have ever witnessed, her life essence coursing through his veins maybe makes him more compliant to her and only her but suddenly he wishes he could pour every loving word and sign of affection he ever had to master to give it proper significance. Her flavour is more intoxicating than anything her bouquet tried to announce about her. There surely is no life nor undeath to ever be considered if it has to be without the smooth, velvety liquid that traverses her entire being, and now his as well. He should tell her, he wants to and words are about to betray him again when *thankfully* he manages to keep them all in, while only relinquishing a soft

“Thank you”

and his arms go to circle her torso so he can gather her to his chest, one hand caressing obsessively at her soft curls, holding her, wishing for his body to engulf any reaction that still comes from the trembling limbs. He will repeat to himself that this hypnotic hold she has on him is only due to the fact that her blood is new and fresh to his system, unable to recognise they are two distinct beings. He almost jumps when her hand sneaks on him tracing lightly at his jaw, she feels colder than usual and something akin to panic flashes behind his eyes for less than heartbeat, but then her eyelids slowly reveal her dark eyes once again, fixed on his, and a flash of her pink tongue wets her lips before she can gift him again the sound of her voice.

“you should have told me”

And the slight smirk on her face now makes him realise she’s spent but not in any danger. In fact, the rosiness of her cheeks, the breath still laboured despite her lowered heartbeat suggest something entirely different. Suddenly his nostrils are caressed by the soft tanginess of pomegranate that he now knows to be the herald of her arousal. For a moment he searches his own memories of the night he died and lived forever but he knows better than to linger there. A hint of pride takes root in his awareness as the soft, almost imperceptible jolts still travelling the length of her body tell him all he needs to know about what just happened: Pain and pleasure mixed and merged until the latter won over her.

“And ruin the surprise, my darling?”

He will deny in every way that

*really? I did not know...*

That she was truly his first and nothing could have prepared him for the way she felt. Nor the way he did.

Her eyelids seem heavy as her lips pull into a smile at that, her breathing becoming more regular and he can hear her heartbeat pulsating again enough to sing for him.

He realises he has no idea how to care for a human after a vampiric bite.

Along with the warmth her blood brought to his entire being, there's an unexplained feeling though, just at the mouth of his stomach, that he can’t quite name, as if her sweet reaction is just in preparation for a punishment, now that he has officially broken another rule imposed by Cazador.

*Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures*

He finds his face contorted in a grimace just for a split second at that thought, and while the instinct comes to hold her tighter to his chest, something else urges him deeply through a physical need to get as far away from her now sleeping body as possible.

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talenlee · 4 months ago

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The Nemuranai System

Alright, in Oriental Adventures‘ expanded 3e books –

Wait wait wait don’t go, hang on.

Content Warning: This is going to discuss some books that are, very simply, quite Orientalist, in the classical Edward Said sense. Not nakedly racist in a slursy way, just racist in how it simplifies cultures in the names of telling a particular form of story. If you don’t wanna mess around with that, y’know, probably want to avoid it.

Anyway, there’s this system in the Rokugan books for handling gear. Specifically, the idea is that as a character in the Rokugan setting levels up and accumulates experience, rather than going to a magic store and picking up new swords and armours that are part of an ongoing escalation of gear in a marketplace that is constantly creating an increased demand, rather that player characters themselves, by dint of being powerful and cool and renowned, start to affect the gear they’ve been travelling with the whole time. The spirits of their equipment awaken and become powerful in response to the person who owns them being powerful.

This also is transitive – if someone powerful gives you their sword with its awakened spirits, it can be a powerful item thanks to them conferring it, but not as powerful as if they had it, or if you take something off someone that was powerful, it won’t work for you and will just be a sword. This association, this effective transformation of gear into a social improvement, where you have to convince spirits in the equipment that you’re worthy of how cool they are, is interesting in that it both serves as a way to disincentivize theft and looting, but also means that player characters are going to get equipment that��s explicitly coded to them as they level up and fitting the way they want to do things.

This system for the ‘spirits of the item’ was known as the Nemuranai system, based on the word ‘nemuranai’ which I think translates to ‘not sleeping.’ I don’t know if this is a full-blown hilarious translation mistake in an early guidebook way, but it might be and I’d leave it to someone who knows Japanese properly to ask.

The number of books that were put out for 3.5 really is hard to hold in the mind. In a time when ebooks were just starting as a market, in a time when we didn’t have the same obvious massive front-end surfaces like DriveThruRPG and its subordinate DM’s Guild. The OGL came along at just the right time, in the same vein as other Web 2.0 stalwarts, to be a thing that resulted in a lot of people creating a lot of material the whole time.

Like me!

Anyway, that meant that not only were you getting unique lines for D20 like Warcraft and BESM but we also saw the rise of D20-ified existing games, like D20 Rokugan. I’ve talked in the past about how great Rokugan was because its creators didn’t give a stuff about Wizard Supremacy (even if they didn’t appreciate the scale of the problem). The D20 Rokugan books included books about handling magical spells and items, in a setting that didn’t really have a lot of those things.

And make no mistake, I do not have any illusions about what real Samurai or real Asian adventures in the same vein as the Dungeons & Dragons ouvre are. This is not really about Actual Asian Adventures, this is about the vision of Samurai adventure media made and distributed and remembered and replicated in the west. There, people aren’t questing and finding ancient swords (which is ironic because of all sorts of things to do with palingenesis), but instead, it’s about inheriting old swords. Notably, nobody kills people and takes the sword off them unless they’re someone bad.

This is what Nemuranai was trying to address.

I really can’t underscore how important your equipment was to your character in 3rd edition. Gear was so important to how a character functioned that when you built a character higher than level 1, there was a table that showed the appropriate amount of magical gear you started with. There were functions of how a character works in 3rd edition, like your access to weaponry with an appropriate set of bonuses, your ability to absorb or escape damage, and even your ability to engage on multiple platforms. Around level 9, everyone flies, and if you don’t pick up a way to fly around that level, even for a little bit, you are going to be in trouble as encounters are sculpted assuming you can handle an enemy just flying away and pelting you with ranged attacks.

What’s more, gear is so important that if you level up manually, and follow the tables that generate treasure and gear — distinct categories, make no mistake! — then you wind up with a character whose budget is larger than these characters who were made at a higher level, because you were expected to lose some money through the course of operations by things like selling gear or consumables, like potions and wands and scrolls or stuff you crafted for yourself (oh hi, Wizard problems, why are you here)?

Looting is a big part of the game, in that there’s a big pile of tables for it, but it’s also a meaningless part of the game in that as long as the DM is doling out rewards appropriate to the table. What this meant in my experience was players constructing wish-lists, hoping for particular items, or the DM using that level-by-level budget to construct a chain of items to give to the players. It’s there, I did run the game using the loot tables sometimes, but it wasn’t an interesting tool to use and it relied heavily on preloading, adding an accountancy element to the interesting thing (designing meaningful combat encounters).

And then you throw this game into a different thematic space, where ostensibly, ‘people don’t loot.’ Which doesn’t break the game, because the looting and the loot tables aren’t… that… important. The gear is, but the way you get the gear, it turns out, isn’t.

Look, Dungeons & Dragons, in every edition, is a modular game system of exclusions. There’s a body of opinion about D&D that thinks the idea that players don’t have an exhaustive, comprehensive vision of the rules, is a sign of a problem in the game, which is completely unhinged. The nature of a class system is to make it so that there’s ways the game can sequester operations. Don’t have a Barbarian in the party? Then nobody needs to track Barbarians. You’re not using the encumbrance rules for anyone? Then nobody needs to worry about them. If you are using them, they interact across all people.

There’s a vision of how this is a sign that there’s something wrong, or broken in how D&D works, as opposed to literally structural to the entire design methodology. If a thing is not present in the game, its operations aren’t necessary, and therefore, any new thing can bring its own operations with it. Now this is a design approach that is volume-heavy. There’s a reason you can print a dozen monster books and still not really have a reasonably varied ecology for a real world scale, because every one of those monsters is a discrete module that lets you pull it in and out. There’s a reason that building real estate is in a bonus supplementary book and the core rule book has optional content like ‘the fighter.’

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#Uncategorised

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honourablejester · 1 year ago

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On the topic of wizard character concepts, a slightly older idea of mine, stemming from the discussion of the various schools and what it might say about a wizard to consciously choose them. Specifically, the idea that people might think that abjuration wizards are cowards for clinging to the most protective aspects of magic.

Which, in my head, combined with the idea of tiefling virtue names, and a very traumatised tiefling who named themselves Craven, in the deep conviction that yes, they are a coward.

And, if you’re going to have a traumatised character, you go to Van Richten’s Guide to Ravenloft and give them the Haunted One background. And not just because it’s one of my favourites, but because, since we’re a wizard, as in a bookish nerd, there’s a pre-made harrowing event that traumatised the hell of us right there: “You opened an eldritch tome and saw things unfit for a sane mind. You burned the book, but its words and images are burned into your psyche.”

So. Our little baby tiefling wizard read a bad book, a bad book that fully scarred them for life and turned their hair literally white, and ever since then they’ve devoted their studies to the magic of protection, and renamed themselves in the full and sincere belief that they’re a coward. I am picturing a rail-thin hollow-eyed nerd literally hugging their spellbook for protection.

But why would a traumatised and self-professed coward go adventuring? Because they saw horrors, vast, incomprehensible horrors, and they know their pathetic magic right now wouldn’t stop a hair of it. If it can’t stop a goblin arrow, it sure as hell can’t stop an eldritch thing from beyond the stars. So they need to improve their magic, and the only way to improve defensive magic is to, well, defend. Plus. All their wards and libraries wouldn’t stop what they saw either. Sometimes the best defence is a good offence, or at the very least entails acquiring enough specific information to create targeted defence. Such as finding and preventing the access point from opening, for example.

I kind of want the book they read to be the work of a scholar afflicted by an allip. They didn’t get far enough into it to actually contract the allip’s curse and become one, but they came damn close. Hence why there was some actual physical transformation as a result. The hair-turns-white-with-shock thing is an old trope, but an enjoyable one, and I want it.

(Look, allips are one of my favourite creatures, they’re cool, shattered traumatised undead who discovered secrets man was not meant to know, and who are desperately trying to share that hideous knowledge to relieve themselves of its burden).

I think we’ll take Eldritch Adept somewhere down the line, for Armour of Shadows or possibly Devil’s Sight. And I’m flipflopping between Glasya and Levistus tiefling, because I think Armour of Agathys might also be a part of their heritage they cling to, but Invisibility would also be tempting for them. (I would love if a DM let my tiefling’s innate spells act like the ones from the updated races, as in I could have them be INT based and also cast them with spell slots. If that was the case, I feel like definitely Levistus tiefling).

So you have this patient, methodical, high-strung, twitchy, deeply traumatised scholar who has self-loathing embedded directly in their core, doggedly out here rattling and shuddering their way through the terror because there’s worse terrors waiting and they’ve got to be ready for them.

Yes, I have a type, why do you ask?

#d&d #5e #character concepts #wizards #tieflings #abjuration #cowardice #scholars #eldritch wizards

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officerwhitmore · 2 months ago

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The Best Time to Wear a Blue Sweater is All the Time

The morning felt surreal, charged with a strange electricity that had Vince gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The soft light filtered through the half-frozen windshield, creating a golden haze that contrasted sharply with the sharp crunch of slushy snow beneath the tires. June was perched in the passenger seat, her purple monster backpack—complete with googly eyes that bounced like manic marbles—resting on her lap. Pins clinked against each other with every turn, creating a kind of metallic soundtrack to her non-stop chatter. She was a mosaic of her own personality, vibrant and unapologetic: the backpack, the oversized hoodie, the pins that showcased everything from Mario characters to a shimmering enamel dragon, green-scaled and new. Definitely Wizards of Starlight Hollow.

“They’re keeping all the choices, Daddy!” June’s voice was breathless, tumbling over itself with excitement. “Like, not just the dragon color but also stuff like whether you save the villagers or join the rebellion. And the endings depend on the alliances you make too, not just the dragon! So, like, if you pick the blue dragon and help the mages, you get this whole ‘reviving the ruins’ arc, but if you join the bandits, it’s all about smuggling artifacts and surviving in the wastelands. And—oh! Oh! It’s coming out right before my birthday in January. Isn’t that perfect timing?”

“It is perfect, monkey,” Vince murmured, though his tone lacked the enthusiasm June clearly wanted. Her words flowed in an endless stream, and while he was trying—God, was he trying—to keep up, his mind felt like it was moving at half-speed, bogged down by something he couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the anxiety buzzing low in his gut, its presence as unshakable as the early-morning frost clinging to the car’s edges. He glanced at her briefly. She had the book in her lap, her small hands gripping its massive spine like it was a holy text. The silver title caught the sunlight: Wizards of Starlight Hollow. Vince had to admit, it looked good. Not just good—great.

He’d read parts of it when June had first begged him to, flipping through the thick tome late at night when he couldn’t sleep. It was the kind of book that shouldn’t have worked—it was too much, too ambitious, the kind of story that probably should’ve been a text-based adventure game first. But there was something magical about flipping from page 45” back to page 10 just to see how a decision played out. Something tactile. Retro. It felt like a quiet rebellion against the era of constant scrolling and endless screens.

And it wasn’t just a ‘good kids’ book.’ It was smart. It had layers. It didn’t talk down to its readers, and Vince appreciated that. He liked the moral complexity of it, the fact that even the ‘good’ endings weren’t completely tidy, that choices carried weight. It reminded him of the books he’d loved growing up. Books like Harry Potter. Or, more accurately, what Harry Potter had meant to him before J.K. Rowling had torched her legacy by being—what was the word? Baboon came to mind. No, scratch that. Baboon was too kind. Baboon implied something harmless, bumbling, maybe even a little sad. Rowling was… worse. A raging, sanctimonious black hole of bigotry? That felt closer. He sighed, shoving the thought away. He didn’t have the emotional bandwidth for her brand of nonsense at—he checked the dashboard clock—7:15 in the morning.

“Daddy…” June’s voice broke through his thoughts, not whiny but insistent, laced with that sharp curiosity she always carried. “What kind of dragon would you pick?”

“Huh? Oh, right. Uh…” Vince racked his brain, vaguely recalling the options. “Blue.”

“Blue?” June tilted her head, the disappointment in her voice immediate and obvious. “But that’s so boring! The blue dragon’s all about rebuilding the old ruins and working with the scholars. You wouldn’t even get to fight anyone! You only picked that because it’s your favorite color.”

“And?” Vince shot her a smug look, his confidence unshaken. “You think I’m ashamed of that? Blue is the best color, objectively, and it’s a blue dragon. Come on, it’s perfect.”

June groaned dramatically, flopping back against the seat. “You’d be so boring at this game, Daddy. You’d miss all the cool stuff—no treasure hunts, no dragon battles. Just fixing broken stuff and reading books all day. You’d just be... boring and nice.”

“Boring?” Vince gasped in mock outrage, pressing a hand to his chest like she’d just insulted his grandmother. “It’s called making the world a better place, Junie. Not everyone needs to go around setting things on fire, you little anarchist.”

June’s giggle burst out, bright and infectious, the kind of sound that could chase away clouds if Vince believed in that sort of thing. Her braces caught the light as she grinned up at him. “I just think dragon battles sound way cooler than ruin-restoring.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never had to rebuild a broken coffee maker,” Vince retorted, glancing at her with mock seriousness. “Trust me, fixing stuff takes real skill. And besides, I’d probably end up finding the coolest treasure while everyone else is too busy fighting over shiny rocks.”

June raised a brow, her expression sharpening with what she clearly thought was the ultimate gotcha. “Except there are no treasure hunts in the blue dragon storyline, Daddy.” She sat back, folding her arms like a pint-sized lawyer delivering a closing argument.

Pursing his lips, Vince rolled his eyes in an exaggerated show of defeat. “Whatever.”

June shook her head slowly, like an elderly sage disappointed by the folly of youth. “Very mature,” she muttered, tsking under her breath for added effect.

Vince barked out a laugh, throwing her a mock glare. “Stop learning new words just to weaponize them against me.”

“Never!” June shot back, her voice devilish, her grin impossibly bright. For a moment, the weight on Vince’s chest lightened, the tension loosening as her laughter filled the car. He reached for the heater dial, adjusting it until the warm air brushed his face, chasing away the last bite of cold.

June dove right back into her rambling, her excitement spilling out in a rapid-fire cadence Vince could only half follow. He nodded along, smiling faintly, but his mind drifted, slipping into that dangerous, familiar territory.

Tony.

The name came unbidden, unshakable, wrapping itself around his thoughts like smoke. Of course he was thinking about him—he was meeting him right after this. At Chapter Brew & Bookshop, no less. Vince wasn’t naïve. Tony probably had no intention of actually reading Wizards of Starlight Hollow, despite the show he’d made of jotting down the title at Fright Fest. But he’d surprised Vince that day. The genuine curiosity Tony had shown in June’s interests had been… rare. And it wasn’t just polite small talk; it felt real, intentional. Like Tony actually cared about what lit June up. More than Stella ever did. Hell, more than most adults ever did. That memory alone made something warm unfurl in Vince’s chest, something that felt dangerously close to affection.

The school came into view—Goodacre Elementary & Middle School, named after Dr. Lena Goodacre, a Coldwater native and pioneering environmental scientist. Vince smiled faintly, remembering how much June admired her, how she’d once begged him for weeks to let her dress as Goodacre for a school project (something he unfortunately couldn’t allow — Goodacre was a Black woman and that would’ve opened up a whole can of worms none of them needed to deal with). His gaze flicked to the book in June’s lap, and a thought struck him: Should he buy Tony a copy? Would Tony like it? Or would he think it was weird? Maybe it was too much, too soon. What the hell was Vince even doing, meeting him like this? This wasn’t a date.

But then he thought about earlier that morning, standing in front of the mirror. The chunky blue sweater he’d found at Second Chance had been an impulse buy, oversized and cable-knit, warm in a way that felt like a hug. He hadn’t realized it was technically women’s clothing until he looked up the brand later, but he didn’t have a fuck to give. It flattered him. The cut was unique, the way it curved slightly at the bottom, accentuating his ass in a way that made him raise a brow in the mirror. Paired with black jeans and his nicest pair of walking shoes, he looked... good. Better than he should, considering this wasn’t a date.

And then there was the perfume—Clinique My Happy Indigo Mist. Vince had bought it years ago on a whim, a guilty pleasure he’d never quite managed to justify. He still remembered the moment vividly: standing in the cosmetics aisle, overwhelmed by rows of sleek bottles, the air thick with a kaleidoscope of florals and citrus. Stella had been browsing nearby, hunting for a specific perfume she’d hinted at wanting for weeks. Vince had been dutiful, a husband on a mission, but then he’d caught the faintest whiff of it.

It was fresh, almost startlingly so—like the air after a spring rain, crisp and dewy, carrying hints of apple and grapefruit with just enough pink pepper to add a subtle kick. Beneath that brightness, there was something grounding, a softness that whispered through the edges of the scent: violet leaf and jasmine mingling with the delicate sweetness of orris root, wrapping it all in a cool, earthy undertone. And then the base—Cashmeran and cedarwood, with the barest touch of amber—warm and rich, like sunlight breaking through the storm. It wasn’t overly feminine, but it didn’t force itself to be masculine either. It existed in this perfect, undefinable in-between, fresh and light but layered enough to feel intriguing, almost intimate.

He’d bought it impulsively, tossing it into the cart alongside Stella’s selection and hiding it in the guest bathroom when they got home. He hadn’t dared use it—not because it smelled like a woman’s perfume, but because he didn’t know how to explain why he’d wanted it so badly. What kind of guy buys himself perfume? It didn’t make sense. At least, it wouldn’t have to Stella. But this morning? This morning, Vince had sprayed it on with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel, and now it lingered on his skin, subtle but unmistakable, settling into the soft knit of his sweater.

He caught himself now, clenching the steering wheel a little tighter as his mind betrayed him, conjuring up the image of Tony leaning in close. He could see it: Tony’s breath ghosting over the curve of his neck, his nose brushing lightly against Vince’s skin as he inhaled deeply, murmuring something low and indecipherable. The thought sent a shiver ripping through him, heat curling low in his belly. His grip on the wheel tightened, and he forced himself to exhale sharply.

Jesus Christ, get a grip.

“It’s not a date,” Vince muttered under his breath, the words more for himself than anyone else.

“What’s not great?” June’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, sharp and curious. Vince startled, his heart lurching as he glanced at her, caught completely off-guard. She was staring at him with narrowed eyes, her head tilted in suspicion, the googly eyes on her monster backpack wobbling slightly as she shifted in her seat.

“Nothing, monkey,” Vince said quickly, his voice a little too tight, a little too high. He pulled into the carpool lane, focusing hard on the steady crawl of vehicles ahead of him. Anything to keep from meeting her gaze.

June didn’t let it go. She scrunched her nose, leaning closer to him as if inspecting a crime scene. “You’re dressed up,” she said, her tone edging toward accusation. “And you smell good. Are you doing something without me today?”

Vince huffed out a laugh, a mixture of amusement and mild panic. “You’re nosy, you know that?” he said, reaching over to pull her into a quick, one-armed hug as the car rolled to a stop. “Go on, monkey. Don’t keep your friends waiting.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced but willing to let it slide. She grinned at him, sliding out of the car with the ease of a kid who trusted the world completely. Her monster backpack bounced against her back as she joined a cluster of friends near the school entrance, the googly eyes on its flap bobbing with every step. The slushy snow on the ground soaked into her boots, leaving faint, imperfect footprints behind her. Snowflakes fell softly, dotting her dark curls and catching the morning light, turning her into a walking snow globe.

Vince watched her go, his chest tightening with a pang of guilt. He hated lying to her, even by omission. She deserved better than that. But how the hell was he supposed to explain this? What was this? He didn’t even know himself.

A light tap of a horn behind him jolted Vince back to reality. He startled, quickly throwing the car into drive and pulling away from the school. His mind refused to quiet as he navigated the slick roads.

Tony. The name lingered in his thoughts, heavier with every mile he drove toward Chapter Brew & Bookshop. His nerves twisted tighter, anticipation and dread winding together like a live wire sparking just under his skin.

It wasn’t a date.

But God, did it feel like one.

Vince parked his car just outside the cozy brick façade of Chapter Brew & Bookshop, the building’s vintage charm glowing in the early morning sunlight. The windows were fogged slightly from the warmth inside meeting the mid-October chill, and the rich smell of roasted coffee beans wafted through the cracks in the door as someone stepped out carrying an oversized latte. His stomach tightened—not unpleasantly but not comfortably either—a mix of nerves and excitement churning low and constant. This wasn’t a date. He had to remind himself again because the thought had become as intrusive as a pop-up ad in his brain. Not a date.

But as he stepped inside and was immediately enveloped in the shop’s sensory overload—rich coffee, the warm scent of aged paper, polished wood floors creaking softly beneath his boots—it felt like it could be. He stopped just past the threshold, overwhelmed in a way he didn’t entirely expect. The shop was everything Vince loved: rows of bookshelves crammed with stories and knowledge, the air punctuated by the faint metallic clink of an espresso machine steaming milk, and hanging just beside the counter, a row of bookmarks that shimmered in the soft lighting like jewels. Everything about this place felt cozy, warm, and yet Vince’s stomach churned like he was walking into a damn interrogation room.

Vince hesitated near the counter, glancing at the coffee menu handwritten in curling script on a blackboard. Should he grab a drink now or wait for Tony? The indecision made his palms sweat. For a guy who made decisions under literal fire, it was laughable how paralyzed he felt standing in front of a chalkboard menu.

His smartwatch buzzed lightly as he turned his wrist to glance at the time. June’s face beamed back at him from the background, just her this time, no Stella. He’d swapped it days ago, and somehow, it still hit him like a punch every time he saw it. Not because Stella was missing, but because it felt better this way. It was easier. And that was the worst part—the ease, the relief. A deep pit of guilt opened in his stomach, sour and familiar. God, he was so tired of feeling like this.

It was 7:36. Too early to justify a drink. He shoved the thought aside as his eyes wandered, drawn instinctively toward the kids' section. It didn’t take long to spot Wizards of Starlight Hollow on display. The book stood out even among the colorful chaos of the children’s area—a leather-bound special edition that practically screamed indulgence. Vince drifted closer, his steps slow and deliberate, like the book might catch him in the act of even thinking about buying it. Its sleek black cover gleamed faintly, embossed with silver dragons twisting around the title. Vince’s hand hovered over it for a moment, the weight of the decision settling heavily in his chest. Would Tony even like this? Would he think it was weird? Too personal? Too… much? He shook his head, laughing softly at himself. Christ, this wasn’t prom. He wasn’t trying to impress Tony with a corsage.

Still, his fingers grazed the leather, and before he knew it, the book was in his hand. The silver-edged pages glittered in the warm light, and Vince ran a thumb along the smooth edge as he opened it to the first page. The text was small but crisp, the kind of print that demanded attention. And for just a moment, he thought about how Tony might react if he actually handed it over. Would he joke about it? Tease him for the expense? Or would he crack it open, intrigued, maybe even a little touched? Vince tried to picture it, stomach fluttering with butterflies that entirely didn’t belong .This wasn’t a date, and yet here he was, standing in a bookstore, clutching a goddamn book like it was a bouquet of roses.

Before he could talk himself out of it, someone bumped into him from behind, startling him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, shit—sorry!” a woman’s voice said, startling him. Vince turned, the book still in his hand, and came face-to-face with a petite woman in her late twenties. Her fiery red hair was pulled into two fishtail braids that framed her sharp features, and her black apron was slung over one shoulder, the faint aroma of coffee clinging to her like a second skin. Recognition flickered in her eyes, followed quickly by something more flirtatious.

“You’re gonna make me late standing there like that,” she said, a crooked smirk tugging at her lips.

It took Vince a second, but he remembered her—the dominatrix from Fright Fest. Well, she’d been dressed as one, anyway. Without the leather corset, thigh-high boots, and whip, she looked much less intimidating, though the flash of her gaze still carried a teasing edge.

“Sorry,” Vince muttered, stepping back slightly. He opened his mouth to say more, to let her down easy or something, but she was already gone, slipping behind the counter and disappearing into the back. Vince shook his head, bemused. How someone on a barista’s salary could afford all that gear was beyond him. That whip alone had to cost a fortune.

Humming softly to the Sara Bareilles song playing overhead—one Stella used to play on repeat back when things were still good—Vince turned back to the display. His chest tightened as he looked down at the book again, turning it over in his hands. He loved the feel of it, the weight, the richness of the leather. The only thing better, he thought absently, would be running his hands over Tony’s suede jacket, the one he’d be wearing today. Vince imagined the texture, imagined leaning in and pressing his face against it, inhaling the scent of Tony’s soap mixed with the earthy warmth of leather.

Jesus Christ, get a grip, he thought, clutching the book tighter.

Still holding the book, Vince drifted toward the bookmark display he’d noticed earlier. The bookmarks hung in a neat row, shimmering in the light like miniature works of art. One depicted a lush forest scene with tiny silver leaves etched into the edges. Another showed a starry night sky, the paint so vivid it almost looked real. But the one that caught Vince’s attention made him laugh under his breath—a glossy, hyper-realistic painting of a bright yellow egg sizzling on a cast-iron skillet. The edges were trimmed in gold and silver, and the black velvet ribbon attached to it gave it a touch of elegance that somehow felt absurd next to the playful design. It was perfect.

He plucked it off the display, holding it by the ribbon for a moment before swinging it into his palm with practiced dexterity—a skill he’d honed dueling lightsabers with June in their living room. The bookmark was sturdy, thick cardboard that seemed practically indestructible. Vince looked up at the price on the display and felt a small swell of satisfaction. Ten bucks. Pricey for a bookmark, sure, but for one of this quality? It felt like a steal.

Grinning to himself, he took both the book and the bookmark to the counter. The cashier, a young man with dark curls and a kind smile, wrapped the book in thick brown paper before sliding it into an elegant bag stamped with the shop’s logo. Vince pocketed the receipt and tossed it into the trash on his way to the nonfiction section, trying not to think about how Stella might question the charge on their shared account later. He’d figure out an excuse if it came up. He always did.

As he wandered past rows of books, Vince found himself drawn to the true crime section out of habit. His fingers brushed the spines of titles promising grisly tales of murder and intrigue, but nothing caught his eye. He scrunched his nose as a woman walked by, the sharp smell of cigarettes trailing behind her. Turning down a quieter aisle, he found himself in the mental health section, the shelves lined with memoirs and self-help books. The air here felt different, quieter, as though the books themselves demanded a kind of reverence. The smell of coffee and paper was stronger here, and Vince felt a strange sense of comfort, like he belonged.

His hand stopped on a book that seemed to call to him—An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness. The title struck a chord deep within him, and he picked it up, reading the blurb on the back. It was about bipolar disorder, a subject his therapist had suggested this book once, back before he’d stopped going to sessions altogether. The bag with Tony’s book hung loosely from his wrist as he cracked open the memoir and started reading the introduction. The words gripped him immediately, speaking to parts of himself he usually tried to ignore.

The writing was raw, honest, pulling him in immediately. He leaned against the shelf, the bag with Tony’s book dangling loosely from his wrist, and let himself get lost in the words. For a moment, the world outside the page faded away, replaced by the familiar ebb and flow of someone else’s struggle, someone else’s story. He barely noticed the soft shuffle of footsteps approaching until they stopped near him, the spell bursting open like—well, like an egg yolk. Vince snapped the book shut, his heart skipping a beat as he turned and looked, his eyes locking on the figure in the shadows of the aisle. His lips curled into a grin, his nerves flaring all over again.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Tony,” he breathed, the warmth in his voice undercut by a shaky edge. “Do you get off on scaring the fuck out of people, or am I just special or something?”

Vince hastily slid the book back onto the shelf, the bag with Tony’s book swinging slightly from his wrist. His grin remained, but his heart was pounding hard enough to make him feel dizzy. He stepped forward, hand outstretched in a gesture that felt weirdly formal, even ridiculous, considering everything they’d been through. But it was a reflex, a desperate grasp at normalcy in a situation that was anything but.

“It’s great to see you, man," Vince said, his grin twisting with just a hint of mischief despite the butterflies in his stomach. “I gotta say this is definitely the first time I’ve ever shaken hands with someone I’ve—” He cut himself off abruptly, swallowing the word deepthroated and plastered on a crooked smile instead. “...you know, demonstrated a lightsaber duel in front of. But you know what they say. First time for everything."

Tony’s warm, rough palm met his own in a firm handshake, the strength behind it almost grounding. But as soon as Vince felt the jagged texture of cuts along the back of Tony’s knuckles, the humor drained out of him. His fingers instinctively tightened, holding on just a second too long as his mind pieced it together. The scars were fresh, raw and scabbed over like a mosaic of anger and pain. Vince didn’t need to ask to know when it had happened.

His stomach sank.

The night. The night he’d drawn that line, friend-zoned Tony, and told himself it was for the best. Tony had gone home and done this—punched a wall, vented his frustration against an unforgiving surface rather than… rather than Vince. That thought brought with it a mix of alarm and sadness that hit Vince like a tidal wave. He tried not to flinch, tried not to let it show, but it was impossible to ignore the guilt clawing its way through his chest.

He’d caused this.

And for what? Vince didn’t feel worth the energy, the pain, the goddamn blood that Tony had shed over it. He was just some washed-up, mentally ill cop with a failing marriage and no sense of direction. The idea that Tony had gotten so angry, so hurt, because of him made Vince’s throat tighten with self-loathing.

Before he could stop himself, Vince turned Tony’s hand over gently, his thumb brushing back and forth over the scars with a tenderness that startled even him. The rough texture of healing skin was grounding in a way he didn’t expect, the warmth of Tony’s hand anchoring him against the tidal wave of his thoughts. His voice softened, low and quiet, the words coming from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Jesus, Tony…” Vince swallowed hard, his brows furrowing as he stared down at the hand in his grasp. “I’ve seen people break their hand punching walls like that. Don’t hurt yourself again. Not for me. Not because of something I did.”

He looked up then, his big blue eyes locking onto Tony’s warm brown ones, and Vince felt how dangerously close they’d gotten without him realizing. Tony’s height was as imposing as ever, making Vince feel small in a way that wasn’t unpleasant but undeniably charged.

“Get fired up about—fuck, I don’t know—deforestation or trans rights or goddamn Kyle Mulligan eating onions with his bare hands like a cave goblin,” Vince continued, his voice tinged with a hint of humor, desperate to break the weight of the moment. “Just… not me, okay? This stuff might seem painful right now, but I promise you, Tony, I’m just not worth that kind of energy. I need you to believe me when I say that.”

The words hung in the air between them, raw and unvarnished, as Vince searched Tony’s expression for any sign that he understood. More than anything, he needed him to understand. Even if it hurt. Even if it made this whole meeting unbearably uncomfortable. Tony deserved better than this. Better than him.

@tex-mex-tony

#anthony castile #chapter brew & bookshop #cedar point #pinecrest plaza #the best time to wear a blue sweater is all the time #blue sweater

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