#i have been staring at this for the past half hour and forgotten what i was thinking about

[admiringlove]

➵ 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.

"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 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.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[deductions-and-magic]

On the perimeter of the Int.

so I just watched Interior Chinatown and discovered Archie Kao (and proceeded to start watching his entire filmography as you do) (also i think i really need to read the book Edit: finished the book!! might write a new post)

And I think it is so poignant that he is Uncle Wong

The ABC (American Born Chinese) who has a foot in both worlds (the first to realize the dangers involved and believes it’s his responsibility to protect his people!), who says

"I was born here. In this city. I've been here my whole life."

and yet is so grounded in both cultures

who finds the victims of the systematic violence resulting from the police procedural

is performed by the ABC who was raised on an American farm, who did not know Mandarin when he moved to China a few years back to find his roots and pursued acting there, who is now back in the US (source: his Int. Chinatown interviews), who has always tried to help. to change things (even if small)

In his interviews he talked about how he spent most of his time in Hollywood on procedural dramas

And parallels with Willis Wu who as a "Generic Asian Man" could not be the hero, the lead (on CSI: Enhance! On Chicago PD: Detective but tech guy — so many parallels)

So he, like many Asian Americans, IS Willis Wu (like Uncle Wong was Willis but even more similar)

but more importantly, his path of America -> Asia -> America is the path of so many people who are unsure of “self” and where they stand, thinking about where they come from and what that actually means

What being American Means, What being Asian Means, What being Asian-American Means

so I think it's likely this show represents a culmination of his journey of self discovery

As a Chinese American

And what that means to him.

Not at the intersection of two cultures but Cape Horn -- a confluence

Where oceans crash together and people get submerged

where there is a distinct divide but you can’t see it when you’re in the water

In Chinese there's a saying: "见山是山，见水是水；见山不是山，见水不是水；依然见山还是山，见水还是水", which roughly translates to “Seeing mountains as mountains, seeing water as water; seeing mountains not as mountains, seeing water not as water; still seeing mountains as mountains, water as water"

like you're back where you are before, and it's the same

but it’s different now

Which applies to so many things here.

[spurbleu]

neighbor!simon x reader. longer read.

your neighbor is a homebody. sort of.

he’s either never home or always home. you aren’t sure what he does, but whatever it is leaves his flat vacant for months at a time, not so much as a mouse breath breaching the thin popcorn walls that separate your rooms.

and when he is in the complex, you’d never know it. a shut in, the only give away is the muffled news channel that burrows through your moldings, or smithed footfall at ungodly hours.

the first time you caught him moving in while off to work. big bloke- and when you waved to him he stared, before lumbering into his complex. given, he was holding a large cardboard box, so you weren’t expecting him to return the greeting. but a hello would’ve been nice.

it was 4 months until you got a good look at him.

you were awake at a time you shouldn’t have been for a reason you had long forgotten. you do remember thinking you might as well do your laundry.

when you went down to the mat, there he was.

tracker fed shoulders taking up half the space, and on an inhale they took two thirds. clothes looked as though they had been dyed in pen ink and left to dry in hail. mud boots, thick legs, and the silhouette of a cauliflower ear against the fabric of his balaclava.

he glared at you like you weren’t supposed to be there. an anomaly, disturbed his routine. steel face, stone eyes, swear you’d seen the same look in your history books on the shields of greek soldiers.

it all scared you shitless, so you turned on your heel and didn’t go back until the morning. you make it a point to hustle past his door after that.

but you tend to take more than you can handle. swaddling your groceries as you wobble up the stairs, just barely there before your foot catches on the last step. produce among some of the other fragile items scattered across the tiles, and you curse under your breath.

you wouldn’t characterize yourself as a klutz, but it scrambling to collect your groceries feet from your door isn’t helping your case. the paper bags struggle against your grip, and it feels like you’re just biding your time until they all rip apart.

“you need help.”

its said more like an observation than it is a question. you turn slowly, and a goliath stands 6 feet and something over you. he sports a medical mask and a ballcap, which reveals new features- sun bleached skin that peels from the bridge of his nose to between his brows, which are thick and blonde. the left is cut in half by scar tissue and spite. if you squint you see freckles.

the night he scared you, you remembered his eyes as pitch. crow feather. under your bed.

you now see they’re the deepest shade of brown.

“i- no its fine i..” your arms do a dance with the bags, trying to keep them steady.

he grabs them both from you, and suddenly they still. its like handing squealing pigs to a farmer. built for holding them. it makes you feel weird that you like it.

“unlock the door.”

you do as you’re told and find your keys in your back pocket. fumble at the lock before opening the door and standing to the side to let him in. he nods.

sets your groceries down before gently tipping the brim of his cap. he doesn’t say anything before leaving.

and this started the strangest routine.

every week you’d get groceries, he’d be there.

the first time he was on the second flight of stairs. when you questioned how he knew you’d been shopping, he rolled his shoulders and scoffed.

“your huffin n puffin gave you away.”

he was there for four more trips. each time, you had gotten more words out of him. found out he had the driest sense of humor and a plethora of knock-knock jokes that you painfully laughed at.

he even kept up with the occasional flirt.

“yknow, you could start charging for your manual labor.”

“you rich?” he returned.

you laughed. “far from it. but this is a service, and you haven’t started making demands so…”

he stopped and stared at your back before you turned around. “so what?”

“i have to assume you just like me.”

he rolled his eyes, but you caught the way his cheek twitched under his eyes. although it was hidden by the mask, you had made him smile.

“don’t get your hopes up.”

all of it was enough for you to get comfortable. and then he wasn’t there.

the absence was strange enough to make your pace stutter when you reached the second floor, but you recovered and trekked to your room.

not without glancing at his door, though.

he must be back at work. surely he isn’t…well. he couldn’t have moved out without telling you. you aren’t close but maybe you are?

you thought so hard about it for so long that you placed your ear to the wall separating your flats.

after a few moments, you heard nothing. not even a mouse breath.

you felt foolish for being so relieved. and you kept feeling foolish for hoping he’d be there with every errand, and disappointed when he wasn’t.

it was 4 more groceries trips before you saw him again.

waiting at the entrance of the complex, crossed arms and black attire stood out like a sore thumb in the winter blight that bit at your nose with snow and temperatures below freezing. you picked up the pace.

when you got to the cement steps, you sorely regretted your decision to jog. not because it winded you, or it amplified the struggle you had with your bags, but because of the smug smile you could see crinkling the bastards cheeks under his mask.

“you missed me.”

you handed him a bag. “i missed your arms. carry that.”

you could hear the grin from behind you.

“whatever you say, sweet’eart.”

[muletia]

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

[tfp] obsessed!orion pax x human!reader

summary: what if optimus' obsession bypassed his memory loss? what if he was so infatuated that even his past self yearned for you?

cw: fluff, pinch of angst, canon divergence: orion is taken by the autobots, obsessive thoughts, clinginess, orion literally cannot be left alone for one(1) second, tbh nothing happens in this, i just wanted to write obsessed!orion interacting with you, bad writing, silliness

word count: 4700

"Come to the base. It's urgent."

As you stare at the terse message from Ratchet, your chewing slows and stops. A storm of questions whirls in your mind, panic creeping into your body. Before you can even type a single letter, your phone rings. The caller is none other than the Autobot medic himself. You answer in less than a second.

"Hello? Ratchet, please don't scare me—what exactly happened?"

"It's about Optimus." Your heart skips a beat. "During the last mission, he was... injured. Or, to be precise, damaged."

"Is it serious?" you ask, pacing nervously around the break room. Lunch now long forgotten. "Will he be all right?"

"Physically—he's never looked or felt better. Mentally, however... that's a different story. I'll explain the details when you get here. And make it quick."

"Hold on, wait—I can't just leave work early like that. There's a whole procedure for this. I can't just waltz out, even though I’d love to leave right now."

"...In an hour and a half, I expect to see you here at the base. See you then."

He hangs up. You stare at your phone screen for a moment, replaying the conversation in your head. Something serious must have happened—Ratchet wouldn’t disturb you at work otherwise. And it involved Optimus... You bite your lip, torn by indecision. You need to at least make sure he's okay, to see with your own eyes what Ratchet was talking about. Otherwise, you'll regret your negligence and spend the rest of the day worrying.

Shoving the half-eaten sandwich into your bag, you rush to your computer to draft a request for early leave, praying fervently that your boss will grant it.

You kept pressing the gas, speeding toward the base, trying to balance obeying traffic laws with worrying about the Autobot. You knew he had been preparing for a mission recently, he had told you about it during a ride you shared, but you didn’t expect it to end like this. Maybe you should have, considering you were associated with a race of aliens deeply embroiled in a centuries-long war, but you always pushed such unpleasant thoughts to the back of your mind, wishing your friends the best. Now, though, all the worst scenarios were coming to the surface. Had he fallen into a coma? Was his processor damaged? Had he died? You didn’t want to think about such an ending. Optimus was alive. You were sure of that.

Seeing the familiar red rock, a tight knot of anxiety gripped your throat. In a few moments, you were about to drive into what was practically your second home, not knowing what awaited you. You glanced at the clock. You were half an hour late—well beyond the time Ratchet had given you.

As if on cue, the medic called you again.

“Don’t enter the hangar. Leave the vehicle at the entrance.”

Before you could say a word, he hung up, leaving you to sigh in frustration.

Following his instructions, you parked at the main entrance and made the rest of the journey on foot. The lights seemed especially harsh, glaring into your eyes as the tunnel stretched endlessly ahead of you, as if warning you, giving you one last chance to turn back. But no force on Earth could stop you now. Determined, you marched forward, needing to know what had happened to your friend.

The hangar was full of Autobots, their sheer presence intimidating. You had thought you were over the feeling of smallness that came with being one of the humans among them, but now it hit you again, hard, dredging up memories of when humans in their midst were still a novelty. You froze for a moment, your courage momentarily disappearing in the shadows of giants.

It wasn’t until your eyes landed on the reason you had left work early that you began to breathe again. Optimus stood there, seemingly whole and healthy, facing the platform where the kids likely were. Relief washed over you. He was alive. Your heart was still racing, but the weight of dread lifted slightly, leaving you braced for the next wave of bad news.

"Hey, sorry I’m late. Work took longer than I expected," you called out.

Your voice immediately caught his attention. Optimus turned to you so abruptly that it shocked everyone present, abandoning the conversation he had been engaged in. Tilting your head back to meet his gaze, you were surprised when he knelt down on one knee, making himself more accessible. You still had to look up, but now his face wasn’t obscured by his… windshields.

The first hint that something was off was his smile—wide, cheerful, and curious. Optimus didn’t smile like that, not even when something genuinely delighted him. Worry started gnawing at you again. Something was wrong.

"Greetings. You must be our next human ally, correct?"

At first, you were at a loss for words. Of all the scenarios you had imagined, memory loss hadn’t even crossed your mind. But before the conversation could veer into awkward territory or panic could take hold, you managed to reply, mirroring his smile.

"That’s right."

"You seem… familiar. As though we have met before."

The hangar fell silent, the atmosphere thickening.

"Of course he would remember her," Ratchet hissed under his breath. You shot him a glare filled with venom.

Focusing back on the mech before you, you forced a calm smile, masking the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You felt like you were on the verge of exploding—uncertain whether to jog his memories or pretend this was truly your first meeting. Why hadn’t anyone given you guidance on how to handle this?

"Erm, well…" you began, only for Ratchet to step in and spare you.

"Humans can look quite similar at first glance," the medic interjected. "Orion, this is [Name], the last human who should know of our existence."

A flicker of something lit up in his cyan optics—something indefinable, known only to him.

"Greetings, [Name]. It is a great pleasure to meet you."

He extended a servo toward you. Tentatively, you clasped one of his digits, ignoring the ache in your heart. This shouldn’t have been happening. You shouldn’t have to forge a new relationship with someone so dear to you. It felt uncanny—like he was wearing Optimus’s skin but was someone entirely different inside. It was unnerving, disorienting. Yet this stranger had knelt before you, reduced himself to your scale to show respect, just as Optimus always had. It was a glimpse of his alternate self, a sign of the inherent honor and kindness he still carried.

"Hello, Orion. The pleasure is all mine."

Letting go of his servo, you gave him an apologetic smile, signaling the end of the conversation. You needed answers, clarity about the situation, before you could decide how to proceed. As Orion straightened up, you stepped past him toward the platform. You could feel curious optics on you, particularly his, as you fist-bumped the kids. Unbeknownst to you, Orion clenched his servo in the same way you had during your handshake.

"So," you said to Ratchet, "what happened?"

The medic sighed, clearly weary of recounting the story yet again. But you had to know. You listened intently, the details unsettling and at times horrifying, but you felt a growing sense of calm. At least now you knew what you were dealing with—what topics to avoid, how to act. The relief faded, however, when you learned that the first attempt to restore Optimus’s memories had failed, and no date had been set for the next.

As Ratchet spoke, most of the team dispersed, leaving only you, the medic, and Orion in the hangar. Taking a moment to process everything, you glanced at Orion, catching his curious gaze.

This was your new reality. Optimus was gone, yet not entirely, standing just a few meters away, watching you intently. It was too much to dwell on. You needed something to distract yourself.

Standing from the couch, you headed down the stairs. You figured you’d be here for the rest of the evening, so you might as well find something productive to do.

"[Name]?" Orion’s voice stopped you in your tracks. He looked genuinely concerned. "Are you leaving already?"

His behavior puzzled you.

"I’m just going to grab my things. I’ll be right back."

"I see. May I accompany you?"

Oh, that was adorable—especially with the hopeful tone in his voice.

"I’m not sure you’ll fit in the tunnel in your current form," you teased with a laugh. "It won’t take long. I’ll be back in a minute."

This time, you quickened your pace.

For several hours, Orion's life had been filled with uncertainty. He didn’t know how he had ended up on this planet, who the Autobots around him were, or why they called him "Prime" when he felt he was unworthy of the title. And now, another enigma had appeared—you. Orion could not rationalize the overwhelming need to be near you. He had felt it the moment he laid his optics on you. The need to stay close, to converse, to observe. The need to know you better. Never before had such intense emotions stirred within him for anyone, let alone a stranger. But you weren’t a stranger. This may have been your first meeting, and he may have spoken to you for the first time, but you were not unfamiliar. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes into hours since you had disappeared into the tunnel. He regretted not following you, even if it meant transforming into his alt-form. At least he would have kept an optic on you, preventing the gnawing feelings of confusion and longing from devouring him from inside.

Ratchet watched his friend closely. He recognized that look, that body language. He knew what it signified, what storm was brewing in Orion’s processor. Optimus had been the same when it came to you. For a brief moment, his friend was back. Too bad it was under such circumstances.

"Do you really remember that woman?" he asked.

"I am not certain," Orion replied, still gazing toward the tunnel. "I feel like she is not a stranger, even though I know this was our first encounter. And as… Prime, if I indeed held that title, was she close to me?"

Primus.

"Perhaps closer than any human, but only Optimus knew to what extent. That might explain why you recognized her."

"Then she is special."

"Everything points to that."

Orion glanced at him, offering a faint smile. For reasons Ratchet couldn’t quite explain, the gesture was hard to look at. Fortunately, you emerged from the tunnel, giving him an excuse to start working again.

"See? I told you it’d only take a minute," you laughed, a black backpack slung over your shoulder.

Orion didn’t confess the truth—that by his reckoning, you had been gone an eternity. He watched intently as you climbed the stairs and took a seat on the couch.

"So, Orion," you began, "what did you do on Cybertron?"

Oh. You were curious about him? Truly? He had never thought of himself as particularly interesting.

It was fortunate that you were not looking at him because his body language betrayed his embarrassment.

"I was an archivist. Do humans on Earth have similar professions?"

"Of course. You know, I’ve always admired archivists. It’s meticulous work, requiring patience and nerves of steel—if you know what I mean. Anyway, it’s an important job, and anyone who takes it up is very cool in my book."

"Cool?"

"You know, fascinating, impressive, admirable."

"Does that mean that... in your optics, I am… cool?"

He asked without thinking and immediately regretted it when you gave him an amused look. Embarrassed, he tilted his helm downward. For such a towering and formidable being, he was also astonishingly skittish. It was peculiar to see a former Prime in such a light, but it made him more relatable, more emotionally accessible. Even so, you couldn’t deny that you missed Optimus.

"Of course, you’re cool to me."

That answer brightened him. A spectacle of stars dances in his optics.

You returned to typing on your laptop, but Orion had other plans for you.

"It seems I still have much to learn about this planet."

"I think you’ll catch on quickly. Besides, if it makes you feel any better, the other bots don’t know everything either. If you’re ever unsure, just ask. I’ll do my best to help."

"Thank you, [Name]. Your kindness is very important to me."

"Anytime. If you’d like, you could also explore our literature—it’ll give you a good insight into what humanity is all about. That sounds like a fitting activity for an archivist, doesn’t it?"

He would much rather have you as his sole source of knowledge about your species, as it meant spending more time with you. He wanted to know not just what you were but who you were—your interests, where you worked, how you spent your free time, your philosophy, beliefs, and hobbies. Everything you were willing to share. He wanted to know you inside and out, to solidify this sense of connection and make it real. And if you wished, he would bare his own secrets, reveal his spark, and show you every part of himself. Perhaps then you might look at him just for a second longer.

"Yes, I believe that would be an enjoyable activity. And what is it that you do?"

He asked question after question, each answer adding a new layer of understanding about you. He shared a little in return, preferring listening to you—your opinions, your perspective.

Time passed swiftly in your company. Relentless and unforgiving, it waited for no one. Orion realized this when you set aside your device and began stretching. It was a mesmerizing sight—your movements were so different from those of Cybertronians, fluid, and light. That was until the air was pierced by the loud crack coming from your back.

Energon froze in his fuel lines, and his spark leaped to his intake.

"[Name]? Are you alright? Are you harmed?"

"Hm?" you hummed, confused. He looked as though calamity had befallen him, as though you’d been beheaded. Then you remembered—it was Orion, not Optimus, and the human body was weird. "Oh, that. Don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s perfectly normal." To prove your point, you began cracking your knuckles, stopping quickly when you saw his horrified expression. "Okay, sorry about that. But really, I’m fine. I just need to stretch."

"Alright…" he replied, though he didn’t seem convinced. You couldn’t blame him.

You rose from the couch and stepped down from the platform, intending to take a short walk. Panic erupted in his spark. Oh no. No, no, no. He didn’t want to be left alone, not after such a jarring experience. He wouldn’t let you out of his optics now—not even for a moment.

"May I accompany you?"

"Of course!" you replied without hesitation, smiling—a gesture he immediately mirrored. "It won’t be very exciting, though."

"On the contrary, I find you to be a most intriguing individual."

"Oh, thank you," you said, clearing your throat, embarrassed. Compliments delivered in that baritone still flustered you.

Together, you ventured deeper into the base, bypassing various sections. In the training room, Arcee worked on her speed, while Bulkhead struck a makeshift punching bag fashioned from an old car. The children watched the spectacle, occasionally entertaining themselves. You both quickly slipped past the always-open entryway and continued on your way.

“[Name]?” Orion inquires. You turn into an empty hangar with a high platform, starting to ascend the stairs.

“Hm?”

“How do humans attempt to court their partners?”

You hadn't expected that kind of question. You stop mid-step, pondering your answer. When you look at him, his expression is dead serious, though his optics betray a determination. Why would he want to know this? You decide it’s probably mere curiosity.

“It depends on the person.” You continue climbing the stairs until you finally reach the top, now level with his faceplate. “Some buy gifts like flowers, others go on elaborate dates. But the common factor is spending time together, and getting to know one another. Feelings tend to develop naturally that way,” you explain. “Actually, that’s an interesting topic. How did it work on Cybertron?”

“Similarly. However, instead of exchanging ‘flowers,’ we presented rare metals or crystals to leave the best impression. To demonstrate strength and potential as a partner.”

“I know a few people who would totally fall for that approach. Heh, I’d be thrilled to get a geode myself.”

Orion suddenly lights up. Were you suggesting something or just sharing an opinion? Whatever it was, he felt compelled to try. To prove himself worthy. Perhaps he could even find the ‘flowers’ you mentioned.

“I see. Thank you for enlightening me.”

“You’re welcome?” you reply, unsure exactly how you’ve helped, but the sight of his broad smile and bright optics makes it all worthwhile. He was utterly adorable.

The two of you chat casually until you’re forced to check the time. You inhale sharply, and Orion tilts his head slightly, curious about your reaction.

“It was great talking to you, but I really need to go. I have work tomorrow and I’d like to get some sleep.”

Panic flashes across his face. He had enjoyed your company so much. He didn’t feel alienated or alone when he was with you. The sense of connection played a significant role, but Orion had already let you into his spark. He had found a safe harbor in you and wasn’t ready to drift away just yet. He wasn’t ready to let go, even if the world around him were to crumble.

“May I accompany you?” he asks, desperation seeping into his tone.

“Excuse me?”

“May I accompany you?” he repeats, now begging.

“My home isn’t exactly designed to host a giant robot. Besides, it’s dangerous and... wait, do you even know the traffic regulations?”

His expression answers the question, but he still attempts to defend himself.

“I have acquainted myself with them partially.”

“Who has the right of way at an uncontrolled intersection?”

He opens his mouth but quickly closes it again, visibly crestfallen. He looks as though he might cry.

“Orion, we’ll see each other tomorrow,” you reassure him. “The first thing I’ll do after work is come here.”

He frantically searches for an argument to keep you with him—anything to prolong your company. Then he remembers his first encounter with human children.

“Every child was assigned a guardian who escorted them home and ensured their safety,” he states, refusing to give up. “Do you have a protector?”

“Unofficially, that was Optimus…”

“Then I would like to carry on his mission.”

“I’m not a child, Orion.”

“I understand that. I merely wish for your safety, [Name],” he explains earnestly. “And… I would prefer not to part from the company most dear to me.”

Your thoughts drift back to something he said earlier—how he recognized the bond you once shared, even though this was your first conversation. He hadn’t recognized Ratchet or anyone from his team—only you.

You tried to put yourself in his position. To suddenly find yourself in a foreign place, surrounded by strangers addressing you by a false name and feeding you information that might as well be fiction. And then, in a world where nothing is familiar, someone steps in—someone you vaguely recognize. You might not know their name, but you know there was once a connection. Wouldn’t you cling to that tiny thread, desperately pulling it closer if someone tried to take it away?

Orion had found solid ground, and you were unintentionally trying to undermine it. You exhale softly. You already knew you’d be saying goodbye to sleep tonight.

“Alright.” His smile makes it all worth it. It’s as though you’ve handed him a star from the sky. “Let’s see what Ratchet has to say about all this.”

"I see no objections."

Orion looks at you with excitement sparkling in his optics.

"Wow, that was quick."

"It's a good excuse for Orion to explore the area and get accustomed to his alt mode."

The medic refrains from adding that if the former leader remained at the base, he would likely have wasted away in longing for you, lamenting to every sentient being that he couldn't wait to see you again. Though the comment teeters on the edge of his glossa, he opts for discretion. Optimus, at least, had never vocalized his peculiar obsession with you quite so openly.

"Should anything unusual occur, contact me immediately. Someone will come for you in the morning," Ratchet advises his friend before turning to you. "Good night, [Name]."

You thank the medic for his diligence and ask him to take some rest, earning a piercing glare that almost feels lethal, then retrieve your backpack and head toward the tunnel. Orion stays close by, not leaving your side even after transforming. Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for you, visibly delighted at the prospect of your first shared drive together. In his mind, this was more than a mere drive—it was a deeply intimate act, almost akin to inviting a partner into one’s private space.

But his dreams are promptly shattered when you inform him that you have your own car.

The journey is uneventful but nerve-wracking; you constantly check your side mirror to ensure Orion is still following you. Thankfully, there are no issues, and he even remembers to use his turn signals when necessary. Everything proceeds smoothly until you pull into your driveway and are struck by a dreadful realization: Will a Peterbilt even fit in my garage?

You park your car to the side, leaving Orion enough space to drive safely. Exiting your vehicle, you open the garage door and wave at him to proceed. You nervously bite your thumb, watching the massive truck carefully edge into the space. There are barely three centimeters between the roof of the truck and the ceiling. When you close the garage door, the already limited space shrinks further.

"So, do you regret your decision now?" you ask, stepping around to the front of the truck.

Orion transforms with meticulous precision, carefully positioning his limbs and helm to avoid damaging the walls. The process goes well until his helm grazes the ceiling with an audible thud, dislodging a few small pieces of debris. He winces slightly and rubs his helm but offers you a warm smile.

"I do not regret my decision."

"Pfff, well, that's good. Are you all right?"

"I am unharmed."

You can’t help but feel guilty for confining him to such a cramped space, but it was his choice. If he insisted, he would simply have to endure it. Of course, that meant you would have to endure it, too, as the issues began almost immediately.

"All right, I’m going to grab my things. I’ll be back in a moment."

He panics again—something you’re beginning to expect from him.

"Please, do not leave me."

His voice is unchanging. A deep and thick baritone that permeates your body, speaking straight to your soul. It is strange to hear the same voice coming out of a shamed and uncertain being, begging you for company.

"I’ll only be gone for two minutes."

You reach for the door handle, but his servo shoots forward, blocking your exit.

"Orion," you chide, your tone sharp and reprimanding.

He doesn’t meet your eyes, his apprehension laid bare.

"Please, I do not wish to be alone."

"Two minutes," you say firmly, though your annoyance falters when you see the raw emotion in his optics. Sighing, you place a hand on the edge of his digit, catching his attention. "I’ll be back. I promise."

He believes you, of course he does. He trusts you to return, yes, he even knows it. It doesn't change the fact that he is frightened, he feels alone, and your proximity calms the storm raging through his processor. His whole body is clamoring for you, screaming for you to stay with him. He craves bodily contact, he wants your soft hands to stroke his metal and your lips to whisper sweet nothings. He wants more, he wants to feel the softness, more, more, more.

He takes his servo away.

"Good mech."

As you disappear through the door, Orion buries his face in his hands. Despite his embarrassment, he can’t suppress a grin. He had enjoyed that moment—far too much.

He wants to hear you say it again.

When you return, you’re carrying a blanket, a deck of UNO cards, some snacks, and your laptop. Orion beams at the sight of you but frowns when he notices you shivering.

"Are you cold?" he asks with concern.

"Hmm? A little, but I’ll warm up soon."

Without warning, he gently scoops you up in his servo, handling you with the utmost care. The shock is brief—you don’t even have time to protest before he places you on his chassis. His servo remains loosely wrapped around you as a precaution, but your back presses against his warm metal frame. Tilting your head up to glare at him for pulling such a stunt, you find him already watching you, amusement dancing in his optics.

"Ask next time before you do something like that," you scold lightly.

"I make no promises," he teases, earning a playful flick to his digit.

"I was planning to play UNO, but since you pulled that move, let’s watch a movie instead. Unless you’d rather do something else?"

"I leave myself entirely at your mercy."

He would have been content doing nothing as long as he could hold you close.

"All right, then. A movie it is."

It's hard for him to keep up with the plot when he's overstimulated, but he tries, because your questions encouraging discussion come out of nowhere. And it was just at moments when he started to drift off, when the optics shifted from the tiny screen to you; when there was only you and him in the world. Sometimes, however, he would focus for longer, especially during the romantic scenes. He longs to experience something similar with you, an indestructible, sappy love. To recite poetry into your ear and watch you blush, to announce to everyone how much you mean to him. To bestow expensive gifts, the geodes you mentioned earlier. He needs your tender words, your praise, your touch. You could do whatever you liked with him, and he would give you his spark.

He worries when you fall silent for too long.

"[Name]?" he calls softly, leaning closer to check on you. Relief washes over him when he sees you’ve simply fallen asleep. Poor thing—you must have been exhausted.

Still, a part of him resents it. He wanted to talk to you longer, watch more films, learn more about human romance to win your favor. But he knows his thoughts are selfish. Setting the laptop aside, he carefully covers you with his other servo, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety.

He's not sure he'll be able to recharge. At least not now, when he was too absorbed in devouring you with his optics. You felt safe with him. You gave him your trust. You chose him.

A spark of possessiveness sweeps through his processor. He doesn't want to let you go. He doesn't want you to go to work tomorrow and leave him for eternity. He also knows he shouldn't think that way. The spark goes out.

Watching you sleep, his processor churns with thoughts. You trusted him. He vows to prove his worth tomorrow, to show you just how deep his feelings run.

Because he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be himself. How much longer he will remain as Orion Pax.

[suiana]

❝ I Reincarnated Into a Shitty Chirstmas Romance Movie and My Love Interest is a Yandere?! ❞

✎ featuring my creature, Ezra Valentine :3 this is just ezra being a weirdo, some lore for my game? idk blawg just read it and you'll find out

✎ special shoutout tags to these people @yandere-yearnings @forbidden-sunlight @moyazaika @bun3333s @yanderenightmare @cumtastiics @ozzgin

Your "childhood friend" is a bit of a weirdo, you think.

Staring at you for far too long, lingering touches that suggest that he's more than just a bit interested in you, and the weird random confessions about how he wants to get crushed under the heel of your right shoe...

It's just weird.

You've reincarnated into a shitty christmas romance movie. And your "childhood friend", aka the love interest, aka Ezra Valentine, has a crush on the main character, you. Obviously.

You don't even know why you watched this movie in the first place. Boredom, maybe? Yeah, probably was because you started dozing off after hour 1 of the movie. The movie was... 1 and a half hour long? It wasn't even rated that high. Like a... 6.9 at best.

And now you're stuck here all because you watched this shitty movie with an even shittier plot. Where the main character left the small town for a big city, came back home to celebrate christmas and meets childhood friend, decides to give up big city life because they both fall for one another.

Just like every other damn Mallhark movie. Predictable, boring, absolutely TRASH.

You don't even know why or how you got reincarnated into this damned movie in the first place! Did you fucking pass away in your sleep??? Actually just die from fucking boredom???

Well it's no use thinking about that now because you've been stuck in here for a while now. You think that you're maybe about halfway through the original plot, where Ezra and the old mc were supposed to have some bonding time together and shit. But that's not the case now, because you've changed the plot.

And you're realizing that this "childhood friend" of yours... Is acting a little bit differently.

You don't remember him being that much of a weirdo in the original movie. If you remember correctly,he was just like, a little bit of a shy loser boy who was infatuated with the MC and liked gaming. But now... Now he's, what, a masochist? Or did they just not add that fact into the movie? You couldn't have forgotten. If the love interest was openly a weirdo like he is to you, you wouldn't have dozed off in the first place. Just now, he literally asked to be crushed under your right shoe. Crushed. Under. Your. Shoe. How the hell is that boring? You'd be 101% AWAKE. You love freaks more than anything, damn!

Now that you think about it, he's more than just a bit of a weirdo.

He's been calling and acting like he's your boyfriend. Hell, he acts like a CLINGY boyfriend too. Asking where you're going, clinging to you, giving you those damned boba eyes everytime you talk to others, specifically dudes. Fun fact but you wish he'd stop abusing those eyes of his because fuck, how can you resist him when he's looking at you like that?

Worse of it all, you can't do anything. Not when your key out and helper, Ai, said to act cool and to not arouse any suspicion from him.

Ai's also another character in this movie by the way. His character trope: the hot side character that barely gets screentime and is also sentient. And right now, he's helping you find a way back to your world... Meanwhile you've been stuck in Ezra's apartment under the guise of a mandatory childhood bestie sleepover.

It's been days since you've actually last seen Ai in person because of how much Ezra, your "childhood friend", has been clinging to you. In just the past 3 days, he's made you watch the entire fnaf lore theory THRICE. And not once have you stepped outside his apartment. Not because you don't want to, but because he'd always find some bullshit excuse to keep you with him.

"O-oh but kitty you'd miss this very important scene... Where freddy goes hurhurhuhr"

"Kitty! Kitty you can't leave now! We have to watch it again! What? We watch it more times so it gets engrained into our brains! That's just common sense!"

"Keeping you h-hostage?! I'm not! All friend do this! It's just u-um, friend bonding time! We haven't been around each other in so long you know..."

It's weird. Just plain weird.

Thankfully you still have your phone so you could occassionally sneak a message or two to Ai, informing him of your current situation. As long as that black haired man baby doesn't see everything is fine...

y/n: currently watching a new video, thank gyatt for that

y/n: would actually jump if i have to watch more fnaf

y/n: erm... lowkey think this is worse though... its a video about danganronpa

Ai: don't worry, i'll be there to save you in a bit

Ai: i might have found a way to get you out of here

y/n: fr? ty for that silly goober :3 all while im chilling on the couch having some me time :333 ur so skibidi

"A-ahem! y/n who are you texting..?"

Shit. This damned guy! What does he think he's doing? Just popping up the second you finally have some alone time?! Wasn't he passed out from lunch just minutes ago???

"Erm... Just a friend?"

Ezra stares at you with wide round eyes, lps turning down into a frown before he sits uncomfortably close, pressing his long, lanky body against yours. Always the tall skinny guys that are the biggest weirdos man.

"Just a... friend?"

"Yeah, just a friend."

I mean, it wasn't wrong. Ai really was just a friend to you. Or at least that's what you think. To Ezra and his fucked up mind... Maybe you were abandoning him? And now he's jealous and might want to go batshit crazy on AI?

Haha! No way that would happen! Ezra, no matter how crazy he is, wouldn't go that far! He's just a loser who has an added interest in you now after all!

The look in his eyes say otherwise though.

"But I'm your friend, aren't I?"

Cold, dark, obsessive.

The way he stared at you sent literal chills down your spine. He had never looked at you in such a way before. Pathetic and needy, yes. But never this... Whatever the hell this was.

You back into the fabric of the seat, feeling a cold sweat line the skin of your forehead. All of a sudden, the room feels all too small and it's like you're trapped in his apartment with no way to escape.

It was suffocating.

"I'm the only friend you need. The only one you need, y/n."

You don't really recall a time where he's called you y/n so easily. It's always some stupid petname like kitty. And goddamn it, you wish he'd just say that instead. Hearing him call your name while he's staring into your very soul like this is making you feel like you're about to shit your pants.

"U-uh, okay dude chill out. You're my dearest friend, alright? Look let's jsut go back to watching that danganronpa analysis..."

And just like that, the terrifying aura IMMEDIATELY disappears and you're left with a sopping wet puppy of a man. You decide to make the first move, fiddling with the remote as you stand up and move close to the coffee table. Anythinng to gte away from this weird bipolar guy. How the hell did he develop this? A new character arc maybe?

In the midst of you trying to look anywhere but Ezra, you fail to realize that he had already taken your phone, leaving you with no way to contact Ai now.

"Now you'll never have another friend again..."

"What was that?"

"O-oh I said now you'll never be bored again! Haha!"

Right, totally what he said.

[nathaslosthershit]

Tiny Notes (OP81)

Summary: Oscar was dying, sitting in his first business meeting after signing with Mclaren. Luckily, a pretty girl his age sat right next to him, and she was certainly not in the mood to pay attention to the meeting.

A/n: I think this is one of my most favorite things I’ve written- it was originally the start to my Franco fic (coming tomorrow) but early on I got the idea to change it to Oscar and went from there. Hope you all enjoy 🫶

Neither Oscar nor the eldest Webber daughter wanted to be at the meeting. Actually Miss. Webber herself would argue that there was no reason for her to be there as she didn’t have an official role at Mclaren. But when her grown adult father pouted like a little kid when she said she’d rather eat her own eyes than sit through a 2 hour long meeting with him just because he ‘wants to spend some time with his first mini me’, she stupidly gave in. Now, as she yawned for the 5th time in the past… god, 6 minutes, she could see her dad wearing a shit eating grin while watching her die of boredom. 

Even as a father, Mark Webber could be such an asshole. 

Oscar didn’t know why he was at this meeting. He knew he had to be there, he had just signed a contract to join Mclaren for the upcoming season, but he didn’t know why they needed him there, especially since he couldn’t understand half the words these businessmen were talking about. Assets? Net Loss? He was just here to drive cars.

Maybe he would have figured out the significance of the meeting, if there hadn’t been a beautiful girl his age sitting right next to him. He had already gotten used to the idea that the Mark Webber was his manager, who currently sat across from him, but now he was expected to pay attention when he was next to an attractive girl?

The meeting might have been boring, but Oscar couldn't say his first day at Mclaren hadn’t been memorable. 

“Isn’t that right, Oscar?” The man standing in the front of the room talking asked. Oscar just looked around, hoping he wan’t the Oscar they were talking to, but when everyone stared at him expectantly, he knew he was fucked. 

“I’m sorry, I didn-”

“It is alright,” The businessman laughed, “I was just saying we were honored to sign a new driver for our second seat, and that he seems very promising, isn’t that right?”

“Oh! Yes, I am good.” Everyone laughed at that, but Oscar hadn’t meant it as a joke. He hadn’t meant it in a egotistical way, he was just being nice by agreeing with the man speaking. 

Luckily, the meeting moved on and Oscar could slouch in his chair and try to disappear and die from embarrassment. 

He thought he was out of the clear, that everyone had forgotten about him and he wouldn’t need to speak for the rest of the… hour and a half. This meeting was brutal.

That was until someone nudged Oscar’s leg and he looked up from his hands in his lap to see the girl next to him had pushed the notebook in front of her over.

Have you been paying attention?

Oscar panicked, he hadn’t meant to make his inattention that obvious.

Instead of picking up the pen, he looked at her and nodded his head, hoping his face was calm and convincing her he had been listening

She was not fooled.

She knew who Oscar was, even before he had been introduced. They hadn’t met formally, her dad didn’t want them to meet after she made a joke about how grateful she is to see that Formula 1 has a ‘hot new boy toy’. She was obviously kidding, or at least she tried to convince her dad that she was. 

It's okay, I’m not either, she wrote again, pushing the pen towards him hoping he would reply and give her something to do while this meeting dragged on. 

I don’t know what they are talking about, Oscar replied, regretting it immediately, not wanting to come across as an idiot to her.

She laughed and Oscar felt his heart flutter at the sound. 

She was in the middle of replying that she didn’t know any of it either, when her dad waved his hand at them, grabbing both the young adults’ attention. 

‘At least act like you care, and stop writing to each other!’ he mouthed to them.

Oscar gulped and began to sweat a little, but the girl next to him just rolled her eyes and made an indecent gesture. She’s got guts, he had to give her that. 

But Mark didn’t do anything but try to conceal his laughter, somehow he wasn’t mad at the girl for disrespecting him. 

She began to pick up the pen when Oscar grabbed her hand to stop her, mouthing ‘he said we can’t’

He didn’t want his manager getting mad at him. 

Meanwhile Mark Webber’s eldest daughter loved to annoy her dad, but she knew he loved it too.

“He didn’t say anything about tic-tac-toe” she whispered softly into Oscar’s ear, giving him goosebumps and sending a chill down his spine. That shouldn’t have affected him as much as it did.

Get a grip, Piastri.

So they played tic-tac-toe, and other stupid games to pass the time, until it was finally the moment they were all dismissed from the meeting. 

Both the young adults actually groaned when they realized the meeting was over. 

Oscar didn’t get time to say anything to the girl as his teammate, Lando Norris, came up to have a quick chat. He liked Lando, he really did, but his timing was terrible.

Luckily, the brit could see Oscar was anxious to leave, and he could see who was making him anxious.

“Ohhhhhh, interesting choice, Piastri. Out of everyone you set your eyes on her? Good luck with that, mate.” Lando laughed as he patted Oscar on the back.

What the hell did he mean by that?

She had been waiting for her dad to grab something from his office, but she was also kind of possibly waiting for Oscar to come out of the room. When she looked over and saw Lando was the reason he was being held up, she scoffed.

Leave it to Norris to cockblock her. 

She turned around, not wanting to get caught staring, and impatiently tapped her foot as she waited for her dad to come back. No sooner than she saw him walking as slowly as he could down the hallway, which he was doing because he saw how impatient she was, she got a tap on her shoulder. 

“I just- wanted to say thanks for keeping me sane during the meeting.” Oscar said. “Oh uh, I’m Oscar, I'll be driving for the team next year.” He said awkwardly as he stuck his hand out.

Was it rude to imply she didn’t know who he was, or rude to assume she did?

“I know who you are, Oscar.” She laughed, shaking his hand. “I probably know more about you than 99% of that room.”

That confused him. “Can I at least get your name the-”

“Oscar, what was rule number one when I became your manager?” Mark Webber said, scaring the two of them as he snuck up behind the girl.

Shit, “Uh, don’t bring up Multi 21,” he replied, realizing he had just broken that rule by bringing it up. 

The girl giggled at that, and Oscar felt his heart stop. He also felt a blush creep on his face, one that Mark too saw and by his frown, Oscar could tell he disapproved.

“No- well yes, but the other big rule.”

“If I meet any of you or other racing drivers’ daughters, I am not allowed to flirt or befriend or speak or look or breathe near any of them.” Oscar didn’t understand why that needed to be a rule but he thought fighting Mark on it wouldn’t go well. 

“Damn, two rules broken on your first day, Piastri?” The girl laughed.

“What?” Was all he replied. Then he connected the dots. The glares and looks shared between the girl and Mark, her being able to flip him off and him not getting offended by it, the fact they walked in together.

Mark and his eldest daughter could see as Oscar reached his conclusion.

“Fuck I’m- I didn’t know that- Well you see-” There was no getting out of this.

Thankfully, Mark just laughed, “it’s alright buddy, just never speak to her ever again.” Oscar shuddered at the way his manager’s expression grew darker at the end of his sentence.

The two Webbers walked away from the young driver, arguing or joking with each other, Oscar couldn’t tell, when a paper slipped out of the girl’s hand. 

Oscar picked it up and went to tell her she had dropped it, when he saw what was written on it.

Don’t listen to him, he is an overprotective ass ;)

How had she known ahead of time that her Dad would disapprove? Before he could question it further, he flipped the note to see her number was written on the back. 

Thank god he was forced to be at that useless meeting.

[userlando]

cherry wine — lando norris

lando norris x fem!reader [6.8k] summary: this is what you got for humouring him. lando was bored during the break and needed something to latch onto, it was just unfortunate timing that he’d become weirdly obsessed with your journey to… climax. warnings: 18+ best friends to lovers, explicit smut, experimental masturbation, sex toys, public sex, oral sex (f receiving), inexperienced reader a/n: okay so HEAVILY requested and it was a lot of fun to write this so i hope you find this equally enjoyable to read it!! thank you for all your love lately, it makes my heart sososo happy. as always, don't be a ghost reader, i'd love to hear your thoughts :) ily enjoy

You walked quickly, one foot in front of the other to put some space between you and the restaurant you’d just been spending the past godforsaken hour in. The shoes you were wearing pinched your toes uncomfortably and you willed yourself to hold out for just a few more moments as your phone vibrated in your hand.

I see you, the text read and you looked around the dark street before landing on the McLaren parked by the curb on the other side of the street. It wasn’t hard to miss, given how incredibly flashy and shiny it looked under the street lamp.

You hurried over, like the guy was going to come out of the restaurant and chase you, opening the door and taking a seat with an exaggerated sigh, happy that the night was over and you were in a safe space again. You reached over and slipped your shoes off with a grumble, sitting upright and finally looking over at your best friend behind the wheel.

Lando was giving you a half-amused look, eyebrows raised with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding his phone. His jaw was working incessantly on the piece of gum, and it was annoying you how it seemed to add to the smugness he was radiating. You gritted your teeth and gestured with your hand to the wheel.

“Couldn’t you have picked another car?” You asked, referring to the over the top McLaren you were currently sitting in.

“You say that as if I have more cars to choose from.” Lando turned the key in the ignition. “Besides, you’re the one who hates the Jolly.”

You grimaced because he was right, it was a humours looking thing and though your friend drove for a living, it was the most unsafe you’d felt while sitting in it. The car didn’t even have seatbelts or doors.

“Can we get smoothies on the way home?” You asked, changing the subject and it didn’t go unnoticed by Lando who threw you a sideways glance as he pulled out of the parking spot. “I’m dying for something cold.”

“Sure.” He nodded slowly and you knew what he was waiting for but you weren’t in the mood to indulge him just yet.

The date had been a disaster, as had all the other four previous dates. You’d let him choose the place, not expecting the extravagant restaurant with the overpriced menu but you’d brushed it off because you - quite frankly - refused to have another failed date. The night hadn’t gone better though.

“So, are you gonna make me beg?” Lando broke the drawn out silence, shooting you a half smile. “What was wrong with him this time?”

“He claimed to have forgotten his wallet.” You sucked your teeth in mild irritation. “We only had drinks before he was shamelessly staring at the waitresses arses and making them feel uncomfortable.”

Lando made a sound in his throat that sounded a lot like sympathy and you were grateful for it. He had a habit of poking fun at your disastrous dates and sometimes you allowed it because they were comically bad. But he could also recognise when the time wasn’t right and it definitely wasn’t, this time.

“He sounds like a twat.” He took a turn into your favourite convenience store and shot you a searching glance. “Don’t tell me you paid for him.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course not, I paid for my part and then hid in the restrooms to call you.”

Not to mention the fact that the man had become so pissed that he wasn’t even there when you’d gotten out of the restrooms, not even bothering to stay around to hear your well rehearsed excuse. They had started to flow so naturally, with how many times you’ve had to use them.

Something about that made you very bitter and also hopeless.

“Good girl.” Lando reached over to pat your thigh. “Don’t let fuckheads like him walk all over you.”

You huffed out a humourless laugh, swatting his hand away and watching him unbuckle his seatbelt before reaching for his wallet between you. Lando paused and glanced up at you.

“The usual?” He asked, rather uselessly because you never picked anything else than mango flavoured smoothies.

But you still humoured him with a nod and watched him climb out and head for the store. You watched him in silence, tearing your eyes away when they started drifting down and scolding yourself for checking your best friend out. What the hell was wrong with you?

You told yourself it was because of the long line of failed dates. Monaco was full of twats and rich snobs who couldn’t see past their noses. It was hard to not take it personally though and you were starting to enter the dangerous territory of self doubt. Maybe you were the one who was too picky, or boring or even too inexperienced to know what to do with men who showed an ounce of interest in you.

Adulthood was truly a rude awakening.

The scuffle of shoes against pavement drew you out of your thoughts and you looked to your side just in time for Lando to open the door and climb inside. He was juggling two cups and a inconspicuous plastic bag so you hurried to grab the cups from him before he ruined the beautiful and expensive interior.

“What’s that?” You asked, curiosity getting the better of you, nodding at the plastic bag as you took a sip of your drink.

There was something in Lando’s face that unnerved you a bit, making you frown when he plucked his cup from your hands and thrust the bag into it instead. Whatever was in the bag was a little heavy, but your interest was piqued enough to set the cup in the holder and peer inside.

It took a second for you to realise what you were looking at, feeling your body go up in flames when your eyes finally registered what was sitting in front of you.

“Lando!” You yelped, letting go of the bag like it had burnt you. “Why — What —“ You scrunched your nose as your friend cackled, rather amused by your reaction. “Did you get that from the store?”

He nodded with the straw between his lips, looking all kinds of cheeky and you reached over to slap at his arm.

“I didn’t even know they sold things like these in there.” You looked down at your lap where the bag was resting, frowning a little dubiously at it like it was gonna come alive and bite you.

“They do.” He said, rather unhelpfully. “I won’t be able to look Mr. Lorenzi in the eyes after that but it was worth it.”

You let out a small laugh at the thought before you went quiet, separating the flaps of the bag and reaching inside.

Bullet vibrator, discover a happy you.

The slogan made you snort unattractively, waving the packaging in your hand and hearing it rattle as you gave the curly haired man a bemused stare.

“Why would you buy this?” You asked, letting him grab the offending thing from your hand when he reached for it.

He turned it in his hand, looking all too happy about it that it made something weird swirl in your stomach. You busied yourself with taking a sip of your smoothie, but it tasted like ashes in your mouth all of a sudden.

“It’s for you.” He said and you rolled your eyes. “What? It’s a neat looking thing. It’s in coral and it’s got… Twenty functions! Fuck me.”

His voice went up in slight wonder and the whole situation felt so bizarre that you couldn’t even find the right words to use.

“Why would you buy that for me?” You asked, a little irked and Lando must’ve sensed the shift of tone in your voice because he glanced up from where he’d been reading from the packaging, eyes a little wide in the darkness.

“You’ve told me about your problem.” He said, slowly like he was choosing his words carefully. “This might help you along a bit.”

“You promised not to throw that in my face!” You squeaked, feeling your face warm up and Lando jumped when you shot your hand out to slap him.

“I’m not!” He loudly protested. “I’m not making fun of you, I’m just saying. This will make you come.”

You slapped your hands to your face, not even caring about the makeup you’d spent hours putting on, and groaned loudly in hopes to make him shut up. It wasn’t like this was the first time you talked openly about sex, but you didn’t really like it when your masturbation habits were the topic. It was odd.

“I’ll never drink again.” You promised but you both knew it was a lie.

It had been a small moment of vulnerability, one that you barely remembered but you could recount the embarrassing parts and that’s what made you feel a little sick to your stomach. You’d come home after a late night of drinking and the both of you had sat face to face on his couch and talked about anything between the heavens and earth. You didn’t even know how it came up in conversation, but Lando wasn’t gonna stop you as you confided in him about your issues.

Okay, so maybe you had a hard time making yourself finish. Maybe you were more inexperienced than the average twenty something year old, but you weren’t ashamed of it. You were well and truly aware that everyone were in different stages of their lives but it still made you a little sad sometimes.

Especially when your dates turned out to be pits.

“Just take it, bug.” Lando slipped the package into the plastic bag and placed it in your lap. He started the engine and you took some comfort in the rumble of it. “Let me know how it goes.”

* * * *

it’s a 2/10

You fired off the text before you could overthink it, letting your phone fall to your stomach as you glanced at the offending phallic shape on your bed. Maybe you weren’t in the right headspace, or maybe it was just wrong for you. But it definitely didn’t feel right and you’d given up after twenty minutes of nothing but frustration.

The vibration of your phone made you jump slightly and you picked it up.

nooooo

did you give it a real try though?

of course I did, you melt

it’s just not working

The next time you saw Lando, was when Max had invited your group of friends for a pub crawl. Max had already ordered a round when you came stumbling in, a little late and warm from having hurried all the way over from your apartment. You went around to greet everyone with kisses and pats to the shoulders before taking a seat in the booth beside Lando.

He draped an arm over the backrest and poked you in the shoulder, prompting you to look up at him.

“I have something for you.” He said and you frowned at the smile on his face, shaking your head when recognition struck you.

You glanced around the table to make sure no one was listening in before leaning into him. Lando’s eyes flitted to your mouth when you got close and you did your best to ignore it and the flicker of heat in your belly.

Christ, you really needed to get laid. There was no way that you were finding your best friend hot. The very same best friend who’d burp in your face after having fizzy drinks and pee with the bathroom door open because he knew the sound of the stream made your skin crawl.

“Not again.” You whispered, a little sternly because you weren’t going to be put through that again.

But you figured that this is what you got for humouring him. Lando was bored during the race break and needed something to latch onto, it was just unfortunate timing that he’d become weirdly obsessed with your journey to… climax.

“This one’s supposed to be better.” He said, like that’d help you change your mind. “It’s a… stimulator.”

“Do I even wanna know what it’s supposed to stimulate?” You asked quietly, like your cheeks weren’t already fifteen degrees hotter.

It was clear that Lando was enjoying this way more than you were, smile too cheeky and happy and his cheeks were flushed. It could’ve been from the alcohol he’d consumed, judging by his breath but you knew that he wasn’t a lightweight.

Lando glanced down at you and your eyes widened at the smirk playing on his lips, placing both your hands over your crotch.

“I think you know.” He whispered, giggling a little when you pushed at him.

That’s how you found yourself staring at the new packaging on your bed, eyebrows knitted together in contemplation. You didn’t really know how something called a clit sucker was supposed to get you there and you really didn’t want to know where Lando had gotten it from.

You knew that if he kept this up, you’d end up with a nightstand drawer full of sex toys that did absolute fuckall to do their job. Maybe the few drinks you’d had earlier would help you relax a bit.

So with that in mind, you yanked your pants off and laid back on your bed, legs a little spread and eyes fastened on the ceiling. You tried to ignore the dread filling your stomach as you brought the toy between your legs, holding the button with the pad of your finger until it buzzed to life.

“Shit.” You swore quietly as you directed it between your legs, kind of enjoying the buzzing as you moved it around.

The moment it touched your clit, you jumped and moved your hand away. That hadn’t felt as good as you’d hoped, and you sighed in slight irritation.

It was like the universe was in on some kind of sick joke to make your life a living hell, because your phone vibrated on your nightstand and you glanced over to see Lando’s name on your screen. You ignored it, turning yourself around and laying down on your stomach to give it a second try.

The toy was still buzzing, making a sound that was a little bit distracting but also easy enough to ignore as you went under your panties this time. You knew that you should’ve probably worked yourself up or even invested in lube because you were everything but turned on at the moment. And not to mention how the dry silicone only made it all the more unpleasant.

Your phone vibrated again, another incoming text and you buried your head into your pillow to groan out loud before tossing the toy away. You watched it roll over the edge of the bed, landing on the floor with a clatter that made you grimace.

you tried it yet? ;)

I’m guessing by the silence that you have

It took a great amount of control to not roll your eyes at the winky face. You also refused to smile at how you could’ve easily imagined his face right now.

you’re taking an awful lot of interest in my sex life, it’s creeping me out

I’m guessing you didn’t….

???

get yourself all the way over there

Jesus. The amount of embarrassment you felt could probably be seen all over your face and you were suddenly grateful that this wasn’t a face to face talk. You sat up and leaned against the headboard with an exhale.

How were you supposed to say no, I didn’t fucking come, without actually typing the words? Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

1/10

The reply was immediate, like he’d been sitting with the text conversation open and waiting for your reply.

oh what?! disappointing! we’ll do better next time

You pulled a pillow into your lap and hid a smile in it.

The next time, turned out to be five days later when he’d managed to pull you out of another horrendous date. The date itself had been fine, but the guy was everything but aware of his personal hygiene and it made you grit your teeth every time he smiled and flashed those murky chompers at you from across the table.

Lando laughed until he cried on the way home when you recalled the date, and you had to calm him down before he veered you both off the road. He’d only just gotten his car and you weren’t too keen to see it in a ditch.

“I’m swearing off of men.” You said when he turned into your street, making Lando snort. “What? I am. I’m convinced all the good guys are taken.”

Lando reached a hand out without taking his eyes off the road, pinching you in the side and making you squeak in indignation.

“Thanks for that.” He said sarcastically, referring to himself and his very available relationship status. “And you’re not swearing off of guys, are you mad? You just need to have patience.”

“I’ve already had plenty of patience, thank you. I don’t have any more in me to spare.” You rooted around in your bag for a hair tie, huffing when you found one to tie your hair up and out of the way. “I already put up with your stupid arse.”

“Hey!” He pouted and you smiled in apology. “You love me. And you’ll love me even more when you see what I got—“

He paused to reach into the backseat, and you watched with a slight bemused smile as he dug around until he made a sound of delight, sitting back in his seat. Your eyes zeroed in on the package in his hand, shaking your head before he even said anything.

“Not again.” You said in a whine, pushing the cardboard package away when he went to hand it to you. “We’re not doing this.”

Lando blew out a breath, pushing it more insistently until you relented and grabbed it from his hold. It was surprisingly heavy for such a small box.

“I’ve read that this is a game changer.” He said, looking a little too proud and it made you grin despite yourself. “Look, it’s even shaped like a rose, how cool is that?”

“Mate, you’ve got way too much spare time on your hands.” You giggled when he narrowed his eyes at you. “Fine. But you have to promise to let it go if this doesn’t work out.”

Lando opened his mouth to protest, shutting it quickly at your stern look and nodding once. It didn’t look believable in the slightest.

“Okay. Yeah, promise.” He said and you nodded, reaching over the console to press a quick kiss to his stubbled cheek in thanks for saving you yet again.

You climbed out of the car and closed the door, waiting until he’d rolled the window down all way. There was mischief written all over his face and somehow you knew he was gonna say something obnoxious as parting words.

“I expect updates tonight.” He said, wagging his eyebrows and you smiled, turning around before he could see how absolutely flustered you became.

“Don’t hold your breath.” You shouted over your shoulder, walking up to your apartment complex.

Once you were inside, you grabbed a quick shower to wash the night away and poured yourself a sad looking bowl of cereal before getting into bed with your laptop in your hands. It was still early, too early to sleep so you figured a few episodes of a show wouldn’t ruin your sleep too much.

It proved to be too boring for your overactive mind. You’d devoured the cereal and was now laying, sunken down in bed with your mind wandering and attention not at all on what was happening on the screen. You hit the space bar button to pause, eyes drifting to your nightstand where the newest toy sat, innocently but so mocking.

You narrowed your eyes at it, staring for a minute before you reached for it and pushed the laptop off to the side.

“Fucking Lando.” You cursed him quietly, ripping the package open and fishing the innocent looking rose out.

It was pink, on the verge of red and it looked very pretty to be a vibrator. You located the button, holding it down until it came to life and your eyes climbed to your forehead as you pressed on the button again; cycling through the different powers and rhythms.

It felt like clockwork, sinking down into bed and closing your eyes with a deep breath. A frown etched itself on your face when you reached into your sweats and underwear with it, feeling it buzz away until you located your clit and the strength of the vibrations made you gasp.

It wasn’t too much too soon, but kind of perfect and a spark of hope flared in your chest as you thought that, maybe this was it. Maybe you’d found the toy that would bring you high enough and tip you over the edge.

A little moan left your lips as you closed your eyes, letting the toy do its work and you couldn’t help but smile slightly at the pleasant feeling. You’d never really gotten the joys of female masturbation when your friends talked about it, but you were starting to.

Your newfound hope didn’t blossom into anything bigger though, because it took about ten minutes before you realised that you wouldn’t be taken much further than you already were. It felt good, but it wasn’t mind blowing. And frustration started to seep into your pores before you angrily yanked your hand out and tossed the toy away after switching it off.

You reached for your phone, teeth gritted because you wouldn’t cry out of frustration. You wouldn’t.

maybe a life of celibacy is healthier for me

The response came in a minute later.

don’t be stupid

was it that bad?

it was… fine. but it wasn’t enough

There was no reply after that, and you chewed your lip. Maybe you’d gone too far with discussing your masturbation and lack of orgasms with Lando. You’d been best friends for so long that the lines were starting to blur. You’d never known any boundaries between the two of you, and that’s how you both liked it. But there was something different about this whole thing. It felt different.

Your phone vibrated once again and you glanced down.

I’ll do more research

The text made you smile despite yourself.

we won’t give up

A week later, you found yourself up in the mountains overlooking Monaco. Lando was sitting beside you, dressed nicely in a suit that he’d definitely ruined by sitting on the grass and you were in a dress that looked pretty but was a little stifling to wear. There had been a gala earlier tonight and Lando had begged you to come with him, even though the both of you despised anything that had to do with overpriced champagne and snooty people.

You’d had a good time despite yourselves, bumping into a few friends from the grid and dancing the night away before it was time to call it a night. Lando hadn’t been ready to go home just yet though, so you’d driven out to your favourite spot in the city.

The lights from the houses and the marina was glittering, the water so mesmerising that you couldn’t tear your eyes away. It was a beautiful night, not too hot but pleasantly nice.

“I have another date on Wednesday.” You told Lando, breaking the comfortable silence.

The man in question turned his head to look at you, and you saw his eyebrows furrow in mild intrigue.

“Another loser?” He joked, but his tone felt a little too flat and it made something weird turn in your stomach.

Usually he was way more interested and would fire off multiple questions before asking to see pictures. You chalked it up to him being tired from a long evening and hummed, scooting closer to him to rest your head on his shoulder.

He immediately turned his head and pressed his lips against the top of your skull, like he was on autopilot. It was something he often did, but it still managed to make your heart jump a little.

“He seems nice.” You told him truthfully. “Probably not a relationship type, but he seems like a good time.”

Your hair ruffled when Lando huffed out a humourless laugh and there was something so off about it that it made you pick your head up from his shoulder and look at him in confusion.

“What?” You asked, feeling a little defensive all of a sudden. “I’m trying to think positive.”

“Why don’t you hold off a bit on the dating? Let the guys come to you instead.” He suggested, glancing away from your probing eyes.

You could read him too well and it unnerved Lando beyond belief.

“I’ve tried that, it doesn’t work. I either get someone who doesn’t know what basic hygiene is, or someone who flirts with other people in front of me, a guy who snaps at waiters and not to mention the men who find out I’m friends with the Lando Norris and will go above and beyond to have a chance to meet you.”

“Don’t say that.” He grimaced and you pulled back a bit, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Don’t say what?”

“My name like it’s something inconvenient for you.” He took in your pinched facial expression and softened his tone a bit. “I’m just saying you deserve way better than what these tossers can offer you.”

You stayed quiet, opting to lay down on your back with a sigh instead. He was right, but you weren’t about to say it out loud.

Lando wouldn’t have that though, laying down on his side and propping his elbow on the grass to stare at you. You tried to hold back the smile threatening to spill, because he was hovering over you and looking adorable that it was impossible to stay annoyed.

“Are you mad at me?” He asked, smiling like he knew the answer was in the negative because he was well aware that you could never stay angry with him. “You can’t stay mad at me, I’m too cute.”

You placed your palm against his face and pushed at it, hearing and feeling him laugh against your hand until he reached to grab and yank it away from his face.

He turned your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm, the gesture all too intimate for it to be between two best friends and it took everything in your power to not read into his small gesture. You held your breath when he turned your hand over and gazed at it, face contemplative; Lips downturned in thought and brows knitted together.

“Have you used your hands before?” He asked and you smiled in slight confusion, not expecting the odd question.

“No, I use my feet.”

Lando pinched the thin skin of your wrist in retaliation and you squeaked out a laugh.

“I meant for… Your experiments.” He grimaced at the words and you knew he used that to lessen the embarrassment from your part. It didn’t do much though, not with the way he was staring at you like he was looking into your soul.

You held your breath, staring at his face and you knew that yours was heating up faster than you could blink. But it was hard to look away from the way his pupils were starting to expand, trapping his bottom lip with his teeth in what you knew was a nervous tick.

“I wouldn’t know how.” You told him truthfully after a long stretch of silence. There was no way for you to correctly use your fingers on yourself when a toy couldn't give you an orgasm.

"Do you want me to show you how?" He asked, voice quiet and you could feel your eyes widen before you could stop them.

There was a moment where you thought you'd heard wrong, that your sanity had finally gone out the window but Lando was looking at you like he was waiting for a response and there was some conflict in his eyes that you were sure that your eyes were reflecting.

What did this mean for your friendship? Would this ruin everything? What if he just wanted to satisfy his own fucked up needs and then pretend like nothing happened? Those were questions that you wanted to ask, but it wasn't what came out of your mouth when you opened it.

"Yes."

Lando looked as surprised as you felt, like he hadn't expected you to agree to his insane proposition but it didn’t mean that he felt immense relief. He hadn’t really thought of how he’d react or what to even say if you had turned him down. All he really knew was that this had been playing in his mind ever since that damned night when you’d confessed to him. He couldn’t get the image of him between your legs since then.

He hadn’t expected to feel a surge of jealousy when you started going on your dates, but he’d hated every minute of it. It had only lessened the sting a bit when he realised that they were all essentially going nowhere and that Lando was the one who got to pick you up at the end of the night. Minus the fact that he hated how down you were after the dates. But he had the opportunity to be there and cheer you up whenever you needed it, so he counted that as a win. Anything that involved your smile that he was the reason for, was a win.

They were new feelings, but Lando suspected that they’d been laying dormant since your teenage years. They’d only ever surfaced when you talked to potential boyfriends, but he always managed to squash those feelings before they grew into something ugly and act like nothing was bothering him.

That’s probably why Lando’s hand was shaking a bit when it found a home on your thigh, slowly pushing up the silk of your dress and he couldn’t bring himself to look away from your face; caught in your stare. He could see how nervous you were, bottom lip caught between your teeth and chest moving with every quick breath you took.

Lando stopped momentarily because maybe you didn’t really want this. You looked almost scared, and that was enough for him to withdraw. What he didn’t expect was for your hand to find a place on the back of his head, messing up his perfectly styled curls and bringing him closer to your face.

It didn’t take much to get him where you wanted, and he found himself so close to your face that he could feel your breath against his lips. Lando was convinced that nothing was as intoxicating as that.

“This is mad.” You whispered, lip touching his as you spoke and Lando struggled to not groan out loud at that one brush.

“Definitely.” He nodded in agreement, watching your lips curl up into an enticing smile that calmed his nerves down. “Do you still want this?”

Your eyes flickered between his, like you were trying to gauge his reaction when you nodded.

“Do you?” You asked and Lando couldn’t dig deep enough to find the words, so he did the next best thing.

The small whimper you let out against his lips rattled something in Lando’s chest, pressing his mouth against yours in a kiss that had your toes curling and your hands grabbing desperately at his hair. The slight sting in his scalp made him open up under your lips, and he swore he must’ve died and gone to heaven when your tongue brushed his. It was like his skin was cracking open and you were touching his exposed nerves, feelings so on edge when you hadn’t even done anything but kiss him.

You were so into the kiss that you almost forgot where you were, thighs tensing a bit when your dress was pushed up and cool air hit your naked thighs. Lando pulled back enough to look at you, giving you an encouraging smile as his hand travelled up your inner thigh.

It was a struggle to keep your eyes open and on him when his fingers brushed over your clothed pussy, but it was worth it to see his mouth hang open when he felt the lace. You were warm against his skin, and he had half a mind to say fuck it and bury himself deep inside your warmth.

But he had to remind himself to slow down, take a breath and focus on you because you may have relaxed a bit; But Lando had known you for so long that he could read your body.

“This feels nice.” He commented, running his fingers over the material and you couldn’t help but laugh. “What colour are they?”

You knew it was his way of breaking the tension and hopefully relieve the anxiety blooming in your chest, and it surprisingly worked when you tilted your head up to give him a kiss that he was eager to respond to.

“Why don’t you find out?” You murmured and Lando’s eyebrow jumped, cheeky and excited as he placed his other arm on the other side of your body to straddle you.

He probably should’ve cared that his fancy dress pants were rubbing against the grass when he knee-walked down your body, but he was too preoccupied with staring at you. Your chest was heaving, and he could almost see the pebbles of your nipples against the satin material of your dress. He wondered if you wore a matching, lacy bra or if you’d opted to go without, eager to find out later.

Lando was a man on a mission, pushing your dress up to your abdomen and kneeling between your legs. He glanced down, heat flaring up in his body when he got a peek at the cherry red lace, hiding so much but so little.

He stroked a finger down between where he presumed your lips were, hearing you take a shuddering breath above at the sensation. You were looking at him, feeling turned on beyond belief and the feeling was so new that you didn’t know what to do with it.

The feeling only intensified when his finger located your clit, caressing the sensitive nub in small circles until your legs were shaking, thighs tensing.

Lando was like hypnotised, taking in every hitch in your breath and every jerk of your body until he felt like he’d burst if he didn’t get his mouth on you. He probably should’ve warned you beforehand, but he took a little pride in the surprised squeal you let out when he opened his mouth and slotted it over your pussy, sucking until he tasted your slick through the lace.

“Lando!” Your voice was breathy, scandalised and you put a hand over your eyes when you looked down and saw him staring at you.

He looked… depraved. And it did something funny to your stomach. You'd never seen him like that and you didn't really think you'd ever get to experience it.

You'd thought about it, even allowed yourself a night to fantasise about the way he'd look and what he'd say if you were ever in this position, but those were thoughts you didn't let yourself drift into too often. It was a dangerous thing to imagine having sex with your best friend, yet here you were - experiencing it. Outside, nonetheless.

"Oh, fuck." You stuttered out when he hooked his fingers into the crotch of your panties and pulled them to the side, the cool air hitting the very slick center.

The unexpected feeling had you squirming, bucking your hips up and huffing out a laugh when Lando glanced up at you, feeling a little embarrassed to be so needy.

"You're so sensitive." He pondered, sounding a little amazed before he stuck his tongue out in a crude fashion and licked up your pussy. "You're gorgeous, bug. Those guys are missing out on something great."

That got an eye roll from you, but it didn't stop the zip of heat from racing up your back at his words. You could feel him flattening his tongue to lick every part of you, like he couldn't get enough of your taste before he got your clit into his mouth and sucked.

He tried not to feel too smug when you moaned, head tilted back and facing the sky, like you were praying to whatever was up there. The stretch of your neck was gorgeous, so spotless that he had the sudden urge to sit up and mark the sensitive skin of it with his mouth and teeth. But he sat put, focusing on eating you out with an eagerness he'd never really felt before.

It didn't take you long to really become vocal, and it honestly surprised Lando because he'd always pegged you for a quiet one. Not that he complained; the sounds you were making had his pants feeling tight.

"It feels—" You trailed off into a stuttered moan that made Lando reach down and squeeze himself through his trousers, moaning into your pussy at the slight relief he felt. "Lando, fuck, I'm gonna..."

You didn't finish your sentence, too lost in the multiple sensations you'd never felt before but Lando could guess what you were trying to communicate. He kept at it, watching your face as it scrunched up and your mouth dropped open, groaning out your climax as it washed over you.

It felt better than you'd imagined, stomach clenching up and toes curling as you shut your eyes so tightly that you saw stars behind your eyelids. You weren't sure how long you were out of it, or how your hands had managed to find their way to your best friend's hair. Lando laved his tongue over your center, steering clear of your sensitive clit but he couldn't help but bump against it a few times just to hear your breath hitch.

The third time he did it, you pushed him away with an exhausted grumble, hearing him laugh as he stretched up to kiss below your navel. The pecks were so tender and sweet, a stark contrast to how he'd ate you out like a depraved man just minutes ago, and it filled your belly with so much warmth you didn't know what to do with it.

You made a confused sound in your throat when he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drew them down your legs, bunching them up in his hands.

"These are mine now." He said casually, cheek deepening into a dimple and you raised your eyebrows.

"No..." You dragged out the word, reaching out your hands to grab the flimsy material from his grip but he was quick to turn away, batting your hands away with small, teasing tuts. "Those are my fancy pair, you twit."

Lando shoved the underwear into the pocket of his trousers, ignoring your protests and silencing them rather quickly by leaning over to kiss you. And shut you up it did, because that was the last thing you expected but it wasn't necessarily unwelcomed.

He opened up his mouth under yours, kissing you deeply and allowing you to taste yourself and something about that made your legs tighten up around his body where they'd been previously splayed out.

"I'll buy you more underwear." He promised after pulling away slightly, giving you a smirk that made your head spin. "Only if I'm the only one allowed to see them from now on."

You huffed out a laugh, pushing his face away with your hand. He rolled over and laid down beside you, and you sat up with the help of your shaky arms.

"You're a walking cliché." You said, shaking your head slightly. "But I won't say no to free stuff.”

He reached a hand out to pluck a leaf off your hair, flicking it away before turning his attention to you.

You suddenly became aware of what you’d done, nerves humming just under your skin and your conflicting emotions must’ve shown on your face because Lando scooted closer to you and grabbed your hand.

“We’re okay?” You asked quietly, staring down at your intertwined hands and how his thumb brushed across the back of your hand. The way he always did when your anxiety was acting up.

“Of course we are.” He assured you, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to your naked shoulder.

You knew that you’d have to have a longer talk about what this meant for the both of you in the future. But you pushed it to the back of your mind for tonight, snuggling up to your best friend’s side and laying your head on his chest.

You did believe him though. No matter what, the both of you would be okay.

[cheesus-doodles]

Ringing in the New Year with Toman

Masterlist

‎

Had this cute idea about writing some small New Year Eve scenarios but this massive writer’s block got me good ;w; it’s a bit late but i’m glad to have gotten this done! more to come in a bit

“Stuff it! I already called dibs!”

Kazutora, however, wasn’t having it, his leg shooting out to connect with the back of Mikey’s side as the duo-colored hair delinquent attempted to dislodge the other. “No! I got here first!”

You simply sighed, returning apologetic looks to the disapproving and wary glances your little group was receiving from the surrounding crowd, your kimono sleeve hitching as you reached to rub the back of your neck. The stars that usually blanketed the night sky were unfortunately covered behind a rolling group of clouds, though that was the last thing on your mind at the moment, you spotting from the corner of your eye Baji starting to fidget, his amber gaze eyeing the squabbling pair of delinquents still latched onto either of your arms.

You couldn’t even say for sure what they were bickering about, but knowing your three boys, it was probably something mundane.

The red lanterns that lined both sides of the path leading up to the shrine swayed in the gentle breeze, the strong sense of incense wafting down from the censor at the top of the stairs stinging your nose. It was New Year’s Eve, and you had been standing in the frigid air for a good part of the past hour, and it was clear that the constant waiting was getting to your Toman boys, even if it was their idea to do this. Kazutora and Mikey have escalated to butting heads right now, hands tangled in and yanking at each others’ hair, with an amused Draken and Mitsuya egging them on from the sidelines. Pah was more worried about when the food stalls would open.

The piercing stares from the general public were getting unbearable at this point. You checked your watch again, even as you were yanked right, then left, and then right again, the once tranquil night quickly filling with their bickering that kept growing louder and louder. Another half hour to go before midnight. “Guys, this really isn’t the best time,” you attempted to shush the two, as you turned to send a warning glance to Baji, who was right on the verge of jumping in on the action. “Can we decide this later? At home?” Your words fell on deaf ears as expected, with Kazutora and Mikey having escalated to a full-scale brawl in public, with punches to the face and kicks flying in every which direction.

It was right about then that Draken and Mitsuya changed their minds from instigators to interveners - and you could only be partially sure that it was from your polite request that got through to them and not due to the fact that you barely dodged a leg being swung your way. “Hey!” The Toman Vice President snapped, his arms swiping to catch Mikey in the chest, while the Second Division Captain stamped his foot horizontally and straight into Kauztora’s waist, effectively separating the two from tearing each other apart. “I said to stop it!”

He said to stop it? Well, you were sure it was you who proposed the idea, but whatever worked.

Baji however, in his misguided attempt to ‘help’, looped one arm through yours, the black-haired boy puffing up his chest as he announced loudly: “You shitheads don’t have to fight because I’ll be ringing the suzu bell with her.”

Oh so that’s what they were fighting about.

Instantly, you could see the veins throbbing in the foreheads of every Toman founder present (save Pah), as four pairs of eyes turned to lock onto Baji like clockwork. One second passed. Then two. Everyone in the line including you held their breaths, scared to be the one to ignite the leaking gasoline. Too little too late however, and as the silent bell went off, Toman’s First Division Captain thankfully freed you from his grip as the other delinquents lunged for him, with what remained of the sanctity of shrine grounds forgotten in the tussle that ensued.

The crowd around your group shuffled a little further, eager to give the brawling boys as much space as possible. You didn’t think your face could turn another redder under the judging stares. Instead you turned your back on them, determined to pretend as much as possible that you weren’t a part of their silly fights, huffing slightly as you did so. It was almost the new year for crying out loud, couldn’t they behave just this time?

But then you looked at your group of friends now sprawled across the floor and yanking at each other’s hakamas, and your eyes softened as you failed to bite back the chuckle that slipped your lips watching them quarrel. You really couldn’t ask for better friends than them.

Thankfully for you, you were truly saved by the bell, with the line beginning to shuffle forward as your watch reached midnight. In the distance, the sound of fireworks lighting up the night sky ushered in what you hoped would be another great year in the company of your friends. Though that didn’t mean you would be waiting for the five delinquents to finish their fight. You simply stepped forward with the moving line, slowly but surely leaving the Toman founders behind, still engrossed in their arguments.

Boys, honestly.

[oceantornadoo]

his favorite patient (simon riley x f!reader)

part 5 of the two lieutenants series...toothrotting fluff

--

"where is she?"

ghost thundered into the base hospital, all teeth and claws. the hospital staff scattered in his wake, avoiding eye contact. finally, a doctor approached, looking down at her clipboard nervously. "who are you looking for, sir?" he tried not to antagonize medical staff, but someone needed to get it together. "the lieutenant." he spit out. "right this way, sir."

the doctor pushed through the door to your hospital room, the sterile breeze drifting through ghost's mask. the doctor moved out of the way so he finally could view you.

you, who had taken two bullets to your left arm and yet still managed to complete the mission. had dragged gaz out with you, who was recovering in the room next to you. you were asleep, brows furrowed even in your sleep. he drowned out the words of the doctor, opting instead to move closer to your bed. "she's alrigh'?" ghost mumured, almost to himself. "she'll need some PT to regain range of motion, but she'll be okay, sir. she's just taking some much needed rest." he nodded his thanks, and the doctor made her way out, smiling to herself as she closed the door.

ghost took off his balaclava, setting it on the table behind him. he took a seat on your bed, dwarfing the small bed with his frame. he smoothed out the furrow between your brows, his gloves long forgotten back on base, abandoned the moment he heard you were in the hospital. "s'pposed to be end game, yeah? can't get shot on me now." his thumb traced the slope of your nose, trailing to your lips, down to your jaw. "my brave dove." his thumb traveled to your collarbone, brushing back and forth. he lost sense of time, entranced in the feel of your skin, the softness against his battle worn skin. almost half an hour had passed until...

"simon?" you croaked out, throat parched. "yeah, baby? feel ok?" he was so enamored with you, all doe eyes staring back at him. ghost was gone, the bloody work done, and simon was here to stay. you nodded slowly, still recovering from the events of the past days. "thirsty." he was up immediately, looking for water. he found a water cup a nurse had dropped off earlier, so deep in his trance he hadn't seen her come in and out. "go'on." he offered you the straw and you sipped, trying to go slow. he watched your throat move up and down with every sip. "better?" you hummed your appreciation. "you don't have any recruits to bother?" he gave you a sideways grin, one of his rarities. "you're more important."

you're more important. simon was here, sitting vigil at your bedside. he shirked his duties just for you. "why are you here, si?" he clicked his teeth, breaking eye contact for the first time he'd been in the room. simon stared at the clock, stared out the window. "ya don't get it, do ya?" he turned back to stare at you. you shook your head, brows furrowing again. his thumb jumped out and smoothed it before even realizing. "i haven't taken you out on that date yet, but y'r it for me. i'm y'r lieutenant, yeah?" you reached your uninjured hand towards him and he leaned in, letting you cup his face. "its all or nothing for you, isn't it?" he nodded. "hav' to be in our line of work." you gave him a small smile. "what is this, a proposal, riley?" you brushed his thumb over his lips. "let me know when your left hand is healed for a ring, baby." you laughed and it was the sweetest sound in the world to him. "my answer is yes. and a maybe to the proposal. you're on a trial period." he nodded again, nuzzling into your hand. "jus' let me take care of you, yeah?" you nodded, falling back into your hospital bed. "now i can sleep." he kissed your forehead, and all was right in the world again.

--

ugh i want a boyfriend

[klausysworld]

Heyy could I please get a birthday story on the 12th of january? Just do what ever you wanna write as long as it as something to do with a birthday of the reader / Y/N

Please and thank you<3

Happy Birthday!!

In The Family

Birthdays were a complicated topic for the Mikaelsons. After living so long time became more and more insignificant and irrelevant to them, especially being vampires where sleep wasn't mandatory. Forever is a long time and yet if time is not real then forever is nothing at all.

For Y/N birthdays were everything. Her family always made a fuss over each other's birthdays, the celebration of the life they'd been blessed with and the ways in which they'd developed them.

However, Y/N knew that her vampire friends were overly fond so she didn't tell them when her birthday was coming up. Not even Rebekah.

She assumed they'd never ask either because it simply did not matter to them which she understood from their points of view and she never pushed the matter.

Y/N did her birthday as usual.

She went out with her friends the weekend before, minus Rebekah, Kol, Elijah and Klaus as she knew they wouldn't get along with her childhood friends as well as she'd maybe hope and so they didn't feel pressured into buying presents or embarrassingly singing happy birthday to her. Y/N got drunk and danced around deep into the night, laughing through the streets as she and her oldest friend stumbled to the hotel they were staying at for the night.

She was supposed to see her parents on her actual birthday, however they rang her all stressed out and upset saying that something important had come up and they'd have to see her the day after.

Y/N was a little upset of course that she wouldn't get to see them like normal but she understood and told them it was just another day and it could wait for a family emergency. They offered to send her gifts over, face time in the day when possible but she told them to wait until the day after and pretend her birthday had not been yet.

Her family were devastated to miss the day, they'd always made such a big deal in the past and so missing it for the first time was strange for everyone.

Y/N thought it wouldn't matter, that she too could pretend her birthday wasn't for another day...but she couldn't, not really; not truly.

Instead she ended up sat quietly on her couch, dressed for a day that wasn't going to start, watching a film she didn't really want to see and eating a microwave meal because she had forgotten to go shopping and to be honest she wasn't so sure she could afford it. Living on her own was difficult enough, especially when her job was so frequently interrupted by Mikaelson family drama; Rebekah always had her on call begging her to come over because something terrible had happened. Once Bex was okay, Y/N would find Kol upset and comfort him, find Elijah silently contemplating which was never a good thing and last but not least she'd find Klaus staring blankly at a half painted canvas, unable to conjure anything else onto the page.

She and Klaus had a complex relationship. They enjoyed each other's company and simply enjoyed each other but Klaus was too cautious of what happened to those her got to close to him and Y/N always feared she was imagining his feelings so brushed it off as much as she could. However, it was no secret that they liked each other, Rebekah teased them both endlessly and hoped they'd finally give in. Kol hoped Y/N would lighten Klaus's grouchy mood, and Elijah wondered if it were even possible for Klaus to love so purely again.

But still, their twisted family dynamic meant that she was the Mikaelson fire distinguisher which messed with her hours at work and therefore her pay.

On top of that, spending money on a hotel the week before and however much alcohol had not helped her cupboards nor her fridge. So her home remained empty and lonely for the majory of the day.

It was late afternoon, early evening when Rebekah messaged. It appeared to be urgent so Y/N rushed to be there for them, Fearing someone could be hurt or worse.

She sped in her car all the way there, probably gaining multiple speeding tickets which would catch her up in a weeks time. Her hands quickly pushed the doors open, her feet clumsily carrying her inside, her voice strained as she called out for Rebekah, then Klaus when she got no answer. A flood of worry filled her as she hurried up the stairs, checking each room but finding no one before going back down and bursting through the dining room swinging doors.

Her breathing was a state, her hair stuck to her forehead as she fell silent and froze. Each Mikaelson stood behind their place at the table, smiling as innocently as they could at her.

The table was covered in candles and flowers, a pile of presents in the centre. Her expression relaxed slightly and then softened, her eyes starting to sting as tears built up that they'd do something like this for her.

"You didn't think we'd forget did you?" Rebekah asked with a laugh, leaving her post and coming over in front of Y/N who was wiping her eyes.

"I never even told you, how...how did you know?" She sniffed and Rebekah smiled. "Nik found out." She whispered, as if the rest of the people in the room didn't have sonic hearing. Y/N's eyes drifted up to Klaus gratefully and he smiled back, his hands clenching slightly as he held onto the back of his chair.

"We thought we'd let you have the day with your family before making you come over." Rebekah grinned, grabbing her hand and pulling her to sit at the head of the table. "How was it with your family? Who came? Parents? Aunts and Uncles? Oh cousins- oh..." Rebekah shut up when Kol kicked the back of her leg, her eyes focusing on Y/N who was fighting tears.

"I'm sorry." She sniffled, her face red as Klaus too moved from his place and rubbed the side of her arm comfortingly. "My family couldn't come is all, it's not a big deal I just haven't ever done it alone before." She whispered and they each softened.

"You aren't alone anymore, love." Klaus murmured softly, kissing the side of her head and pulling her seat back for her to sit before tucking her back in.

"Yeah, don't worry darling, we're practically family anyways so you aren't really missing out." Kol shrugged, filling her wine glass making her laugh a little.

"I do hope we didn't worry you too much with the ominous text message, dear. I did tell Rebekah it was too harsh." Elijah apologised, frowning to himself but Y/N wiped her eyes again and shook her head with a smile.

"It's alright Elijah, it made for a really lovely surprise." She told him earnestly and his features relaxed as he nodded faintly.

Dinner started coming out only a moment later, all of Y/N's favourite foods as a picky eater loaded onto each of their plates and placed in front of them making Y/N blush pink and smile wide at their antics.

"See? This is my kind of dinner, good choice darling." Kol licked his lips, lifting a slice of pizza and letting it droop onto his mouth making Klaus roll her eyes and Y/N giggle.

As they ate, Y/N's eyes drifted round the room; seeing the extent of their effort as she looked at the dozens of balloons that had floated up. Then her gaze flicked to each Mikaelson. Kol was eating like a caveman, Rebekah was mixing her ketchup and mayonnaise like a child, Elijah was delicately cutting into his chicken nugget and Klaus...Klaus was looking back at her.

A small silence lingered over them, even as the others spoke between them. Y/N was brought back into it when Rebekah started telling a funny story about Elijah from centuries before, effectively embarrassing the usually stoic original and pulling a genuine laugh from Klaus.

They told Y/N about the faint memories they had of birthdays from when they were human, children especially and how they would spoil their little brother Henrik.

"In a way, you're our younger sister now. Much, much younger, you know...a thousand years give or take but still." Kol said with his mouth full. The sentiment there but his humour everpresent.

"Perhaps a sister to us however I do doubt she and Klaus would ever consider the other a sibling." Elijah commented and everyone's heads turned to him, not expecting the comment from Elijah's lips.

Rebakah started laughing first, then Kol which encouraged them all to fall into a cycle of giggles.

Klaus and Y/N flew past the teasings and continued with the evening. Eating icecream and chatting away before the cake was brought out.

It was a beautiful cake, almost magically so.

Y/N could feel her cheeks burn red and her smile go so wide it hurt when they sang happy birthday to her and clapped as she blew out the candles, telling her to make a wish. She made eye contact with Klaus as she did and Rebekah snickered.

An hour or so later Elijah began to pack things away, Kola and Rebekah suddenly disappeared and Klaus refused to let Y/N tidy up her own party so he took her upstairs.

They walked the stairs leisurely as if it were obvious something were waiting up there. Y/N wasn't sure what but she definitely hadn't expected his art room to be a romantically lit space. Music playing softly in the back ground as he stood before her and held out his hand for a dance.

He spun her to his chest, his hand in hers and the other on her waist keeping her close as they swayed against each other. His eyes stayed on hers, daring her to look away as he dipped her.

Barely a second went before both of them leaned into a kiss. Y/N's hand left his to hold onto his neck as he clutched her hips, holding her up to him as their lips moulded together perfectly.

Klaus pulled back, listening to her panting softly for lost air as he rest his forehead against hers and loosened his grip on her slightly. "You're family" He whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Your birthday is important and I promise we'll never, ever miss it."

"Thank you, Klaus. For everything today." She muttered quietly, almost shyly and he smiled, kissing her cheek just beside her lips.

"You're welcome, love. Happy birthday."

[milfsloverblog]

Quiet After

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: Two fics in a week? Is this a miracle?! Me when life is testing me so I decide to be the bigger person and write this fanfic instead of slashing tires and burning houses. VERY MUCH ANGTSY!! PAIN!!! You have been warned 🫶🏻

Larissa sat at the kitchen table, the dim light of dawn spilling across the paper before her. Her pen hovered over the letter, trembling slightly in her grasp as the weight of what she was about to do settled in her chest. She had never imagined this moment would come. At least, not like this.

Her gaze flickered to the bedroom door, where she could still hear the soft rise and fall of your breathing. You were asleep—peaceful, unaware of the storm she was about to unleash upon both of your lives.

With a final, shaky breath, she began to write.

Hours later, the morning light filtered through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the bed. You stirred awake, reaching instinctively for the warmth of Larissa’s body. Your hand met the cold, undisturbed sheets instead.

Your heart sank.

“Larissa?” you called softly, voice thick with sleep. The apartment was silent. A glance at the clock told you it was early—too early for her to have gone anywhere without telling you.

Sliding out of bed, you wrapped yourself in the cardigan draped over the chair and made your way to the kitchen. The knot in your stomach tightened as you entered and saw the counter.

A single letter sat there, folded neatly in half. Your name was written on the front in Larissa’s familiar, elegant handwriting.

No.

Your breath hitched, and you stood frozen, staring at the letter as though it might disappear if you didn’t move. The past few months had been rocky, full of arguments and moments that left you feeling like you were grasping at something slipping through your fingers. But this… this was something you weren’t prepared for.

With trembling hands, you picked up the letter and unfolded it. Her words, written in ink that was beginning to smudge, stared back at you.

My dearest,

This is the hardest letter I will ever write. I know you’ll hate me for leaving without a proper goodbye, but I feared I wouldn’t have the strength to walk away if I saw your face one last time. Please believe me when I say this decision comes from a place of love.

When we first met, I was certain you would pass me by—a fleeting encounter, forgotten as quickly as it happened. But then you smiled at me, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: hope.

The memory struck you like a wave, pulling you under.

It had been a rainy day, the kind that made the city seem quieter. You’d ducked into a coffee shop to escape the downpour, your coat dripping as you scanned the room for a free seat. Most of the tables were full, except for one by the window, occupied by a tall, elegant woman reading a book.

“Excuse me,” you’d said, your voice tentative. “Is this seat taken?”

She looked up, startled, her ice-blue eyes meeting yours. “Oh, no. Please.” She gestured for you to sit.

What began as polite conversation soon turned into something more. She was magnetic—sharp-witted, articulate, and achingly beautiful. Her name was Larissa, and as she spoke, you found yourself leaning closer, hanging on to every word. By the time the rain stopped, you were utterly captivated.

I look back on those early days with so much joy. You brought light into my life, a happiness I hadn’t felt in years. For the first time, I felt young again, alive in a way I’d long forgotten.

You closed your eyes, a fresh wave of tears spilling down your cheeks. The memory shifted to another moment: the first time Larissa had taken you to Nevermore. She’d been nervous, fussing over the details, worried about how her world would look through your eyes. But you had reassured her, holding her hand tightly as she introduced you to the place she loved.

That day, she’d kissed you for the first time, standing beneath the towering gates of Nevermore as the evening sun bathed everything in gold. It had felt like a fairytale, one you never wanted to end.

But as time went on, I began to see the truth I had been too selfish to acknowledge. You are so much younger than I am, my love. I thought I could ignore it, that it wouldn’t matter in the face of what we shared. But it does matter. How could it not?

You have your whole life ahead of you, a life full of possibilities, and yet here you are, tethered to someone whose years are numbered. Someone who will grow old far sooner than you. Someone who will leave you far too soon.

Another memory surfaced, this one sharper, heavier. It had been late at night, and Larissa had been unusually quiet. You’d asked her what was wrong, and after a long silence, she’d finally spoken.

“I worry about the future,” she’d said, her voice barely above a whisper. “What happens when I’m no longer here? What will you do then?”

You’d reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly. “I don’t care about the future, Larissa. I care about us. Right now.”

She hadn’t looked convinced, her eyes clouded with something you couldn’t name.

I’ve tried to silence my doubts, to tell myself your love is enough. But the truth is, I’ve only made things worse. I see it in the way I’ve treated you—the way I’ve snapped at you, pushed you away, hoping you’d leave. But you stayed, because that’s who you are. Kind. Loyal. Too good for me.

Another tear fell as you thought back to her sharper moments, the way her words had begun to cut deeper as the months wore on. “Why do you insist on fussing over me?” she’d snapped one night after you’d asked her if she was all right.

You’d flinched at her tone, but instead of walking away, you’d stayed. Always. Because you loved her.

This isn’t the life I want for you. You are too vibrant, too full of life, to spend your best years with someone who is holding you back. You deserve laughter and adventure, late nights and sunlit mornings, a love that isn’t weighed down by guilt. You deserve someone who can give you everything I cannot.

Your knees buckled, and you sank to the floor, the letter trembling in your hands.

Please know that this choice is not born of a lack of love. On the contrary, it is because I love you more than I thought possible that I must let you go. I want you to live, my darling, to truly live—without the weight of me holding you back.

The apartment felt too quiet, the air too still, as though the world itself had stopped as you read the last few words.

My final act of love is staying away from you for the rest of my life.

————————————————————————

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[tpwk-formula1]

haii could i please order a pizza with sicillian crust with red sauce, and jalapenos, chicken, and tomatoes and my drinks are mtn dew(dom), beer and diet coke. Served by Max Verstappen please!!

Lee-Lee's Pizzeria Menu

sicillian crust dating red sauce rough sex jalapenos "always such a fucking brat" chicken "awe you thought I'd let you cum that easy?" tomatoes "do you enjoy pissing me off?" mt dew dom (reader) beer edging diet cock recording kink served by Max Verstappen

Max Verstappen x Dom reader

AN: I am so pleased with how busy the Pizzeria has been! I work at night today so I'm gonna get a couple fics more pizzas done before I have to go in.

TW - edging, sub max, dom reader, begging, unprotected sex, filming, taunting

WC 2100+

Y/N POV

I've been watching Max from the other side of the bar for the past 15 minutes while he talks to Checo about something having forgotten about the drink he was supposed to be getting me.

Another 5 minutes pass before Max is finally waving the bartender down to orders drinks and another 3 minutes before I watch Max approaching with his puppy smile trying to sweeten me up once he saw the cold stare I was giving him.

"Max it's been almost half an hour since you told me 'I'll be right back just gonna get your drink' right back my ass" I saw while rolling my eyes and talking the drink he was offering me.

"M'sorry, Checo was talking about the car," Max tells me sheepishly. I could tell he was sorry so I decided to brush it off and pull him to my side before placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

"It's fine, just stay on task next time," I tell him softly whispering into his ear.

I don't know how or when it happened but there had been a shift in max and I's relationship. At one point in time, Max was a young curious boy doing any and everything he could to dominate me and 'keep me in check' but as the years progressed there was a switch and he was no longer the one wearing the pants in the relationship. Most people just assumed Max was whipped but the very few who actually knew about the dynamic just understood it. To them it all made sense, on track, Max was a dominant force that instilled fear in his fellow drivers but off the track, he just needed an outlet to be taken care of.

"I promise," Max whispers before placing a kiss on my lips.

"Love you," he says when he pulls back. "Love you too"

As the night progressed Max had done really well about doing what he's asked but then Lando showed up and I knew instantly I was gonna lose him in the crowd.

I trust Max and I have no issues with him going off but being left at a table by myself surrounded by people I had never met was making me grow more anxious than I would like to admit.

It was about an hour later when I finally saw Max approaching the table with a dopey smile across his face letting me know he had definitely had another drink or two.

"Hi baby," Max says while plopping down right next to me not picking up on the annoyance radiating off of me.

"Do you enjoy pissing me off?" I ask back watching as the smile on Max's face instantly falls.

"Wha- huh? Wait, what did I do?" Max stutters, struggling to try and figure out what to say.

"You just disappeared for over an hour. You left me alone at this dan table and you didn't even tell me where the fuck you went or ask if I wanted to join," I tell him back piching his thigh slightly under the table.

"M'sorry. I promise I've been trying to be good. Don't wanna make you mad, schat" Max mumbles clearly feeling the shame of the verbal lashing he was gonna get later when we got back to the apartment.

"You're gonna be in tears tonight," I reply back straight faced not cracking a normal smile.

"Please just one more chance," Max begs knowing I meant every word.

"I gave you a chance with Checo. I don't understand how you hanging out with Lando somehow always results in you getting punished. Maybe we should send him a video of you tonight to let me know he's a terrible influence," I tell him while looking into his eyes before placing a soft kiss on his cheek to throw him off.

"You wouldn't" Max says with wide eyes of the threat of sending a sex tape. I just shrug my shoulders playing along with the bit.

"I don't know, I think he would love to know that the man he's fighting to get the World Driver Championship is just a needy whiney little bitch," I reply back making Max whine.

"You're a meanie," Max mumbles.

"And you're a brat. Don't we make a perfect pair," I saw with a smile on my face.

When we finally get back to the apartment for the night Max was pretty much sober knowing I would wait until morning if he wasn't sober. He chose take his punishment now versus the morning when he would be nursing a hangover.

"Go into our room, make sure the cats are out of the room, then strip down and be laying on you back in the bed. I'll be there in 5 minutes," I say the second the door is closed.

Max makes quick work of disappearing into our room where I assume he listened to every word I said.

In the 5 minutes, I stripped down into the lingerie set I had chosen to wear under my outfit before making my way down the hallway where I find Sassy sitting by the door staring up at me curiously. I give her a quick pet before slipping into the room to find Max exactly how I told him to be. I look around the room and found a neatly stack of clothes letting me know that Max had folded them up instead of throwing them arounf our room.

"I see you remember some of our rules," I saw while staring at the clothes so Max understood what I was referencing.

When I start climbing into the bed with Max I can see him tensing slightly in anticipation.

"You know how embarrassing it was tonight?" I said before spitting onto Max's cock and starting to jerk him off making him instantly grow hard under my hand.

"I was sat there all alone for over an hour. I looked dumb as fuck. I'm sure the Monaco gossip is gonna eat that up "Max Verstappen disappears leaving his long-time girlfriend alone at the table' You know how media is, they're gonna make it seem like there's trouble in paradise. When in reality it's just little Maxie being a brat. Oh! I almost forgot," I stop my teasing to grab my phone which I brought with me into the room.

"Say hi to Lando," I say while pointing the camera at Max's face. He's giving the camera such a pained yet slutty look it makes me laugh at his desperation. I wait a couple seconds before my voice booms through the room, "I said, Say hi to Lando." While verbally reprimanding Max I send a quick slap to his inner thigh close to his dick before pinching the same spot making Max squirm a bit.

"Hi, Lando," Max mumbles barely audible.

"Try that again. I hear the way you yell at your engineer. Such a disrespectful boy," I tell him with a raised brow.

"Hi, Lando" Max finally says in a loud enough voice to be heard.

"Good boy," I tell him while moving my unoccupied hand back to his dick making sure I have the perfect angle to get Max and his already wet with precum ccok.

"So needy. You're already dripping for me," I say with a smirk on my face.

"So good, schat" Max whines making me speed up slightly just to watch Max's breath hitch.

"I love it when you get like that," I mumble while squeezing Max's cock a bit harder.

"M'close," Max mumbled making me speed up just slightly before pulling my hand away and watching Max's eyes roll into the back of his head and tremble slightly from his pleasure being ripped away in a matter of seconds.

"No," Max whines dragging out the O sounding so desperate.

"Awe you thought I'd let you cum that easy?" I tease while starting to jerk Max off again while zooming the camera in on Max's cock dripping with precum.

"Schat, please," Max says already starting to beg.

"Oh come on, you can handle more than one," I tell him while leaning down and kicking softly at his tip collecting a bit of his precum.

I shuffle down the bed slightly to start pulling Max into my mouth and down my throat taking all of Max's length into my mouth making sure to bob my head slightly before bringing Max to the edge all over again.

I could tell when he was getting close again because his thighs started tensing under my hands making me rip away from Max's cock to watch him thrash around while bucking his hips to try and gain some kind of friction.

"Fuck no," Max whines staring straight at that the camera that I angled perfectly on his face.

"I love watching you get progressively more needy," I say with a smirk while gripping onto his cock and giving it a rough couple jerks before pulling Max into my mouth again.

I didn't give Max much time to calm down so he was on the edge rather quickly.

"Please, I'm gonna cum," Max says making me bod my head a bit faster before pulling away and watching Max try and chase his orgasm on his own by moving his hand to go and finish himself off but I quickly get a grip on his wrist and giving Max a look that says knock it off.

"No more," Max whines making me smirk slightly.

"Can you give me one more?" I question with a raised brow making Max whine but slowly start to nod his head.

"Yes, I can give one more," Max mumbles softly making me smile softly.

I started jerking off his cock softly making sure I'm filming everything again. I loved it when Max got like. The noises, his hips bucking, and the pure desperation in his eyes always seemed to turn me on.

I could tell Max was getting close but I wanted to push him farther than previous so I continue my movements till the second I know Max will cum I rip my hand away and watch as Max lets out a roar of desperation while jerking his body around not being able to gain any friction as I moved away slightly.

"Please, I need it. I can't do it anymore. I need to cum baby, please," Max begs making me smile softly.

"I'm gonna let you cum in a minute," I tell Max softly while rubbing his thigh in a soothing manner making Max whimper at the touch.

I turned the video off and tossed my phone away from us. I was still sitting in my lingerie set which is completely soaked through both from just witnessing Max get to the point of begging and also because I had snuck a couple fingers into my folds and teased my clit while giving Max head.

I stand from the bed softly and strip down completely before climbing back into the bed and climbing on top of Max before instantly sinking all the way down on Max.

"Oh fuck," I moan when I feel Max stretch my tight walls. I knew neither of us would last very long but looking at Max's face he was completely blissed out.

"So good," Max mumbled making his accent come out a bit thicker.

"So big baby," I moan while softly grinding my hips to gain some friction but not enough stimulation to bring Max or I to an orgasm.

"More, please" Max begs and I give him exactly what he wants because I start bouncing my hips slightly making both Max and I moan at the pleasure coursing through our bodies.

It doesn't take me long for the knot in my stomach to grow alerting me of the incoming orgasm. I look at Max's face and can tell he's trying to hold his orgasm off until I was cumming.

"Cum for me baby," I whisper out bouncing harder on Max's cock throwing me off the edge and into a violent orgasm.

The way Max's hips were erratically thrusting and the feeling of him filling me up sent me over the edge into a shaking orgasm. I'm shaking on Max's cock trying to ride both of our orgasms out.

"So good baby," I whine softly still feeling the aftershocks of the intense orgasm I just had.

"Thank you," Max says softly through staggered breath still trying to catch his breath again.

"You did good for me," I tell Max softly while pulling off his cock and laying down on his chest.

"You're not gonna send that to Lando right," Max mumbles softly making me chuckle a little and shake my head no.

"You know I would never, but I did love watching you get desperate on camera. Might start having to do that more often," I tell him softly looking up to watch his face. I could see the conflict in his eyes but he still nodded his head letting me know it was something he would be willing to do again.

[corysmiles]

Tiny Viktor shrunken from accidentally plugging in a Rune combination when he’s experimenting w the Hexcore early on in s1 scenario is currently what my brain is cooking.

Jayce coming to the lab later and he thinks Viktor is gone but noticing his walking cane & the knocked over stool doesn’t realize Viktor is teeny tiny size of gemstone under said stool…

Runes and Ruin

Arcane G/T Fic

Notes: YES THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS ASK. This ended up being a whole lot longer than I anticipated but I hope you like to. I’m obsessed with these two fuckasses, and I would love to write more g/t stuff with them. :>

————————————

It had been at least two days since Viktor had last slept properly. Occasionally, he’d nod off, only to snap up again when his head thunked against the desk, but that was only ever for a few minutes at a time. At this point, his hands were starting to shake, and every time he blinked his eyes stayed closed for just a second too long, like his body was trying to force him to bed, but still, he resisted. They had work to do. He had work to do.

And Jayce was gone again, which meant Viktor had to pick up the slack somehow. Even with his body giving out more and more everyday, he had to complete his work. There was no time for rest.

Viktor hummed thoughtfully, fighting back a yawn as he spun through the runes attached to the Hexcore. His vision was starting to get hazy and as he glanced over his notes of the combinations he had tried already, he found it was hard to decipher anything. It felt like he was looking through perpetually dirty glasses that he couldn’t clean off no matter how hard he tried.

With a sigh, he haphazardly plugged in a new set of runes. Probably haven’t don’t these yet, he thought, or at least, he hoped.

Pulling his goggles down, he leaned back into his chair, his pencil twirling between his fingers as he got ready to write down another failure. With a quivering hand he reached out to activate the core, but this time, unlike the past hundred from his previous trials that day, the Hexcore didn’t fizzle out.

Viktor’s eyes widened as a bright bolt of blue-purple light arched out at him, searing hot and blinding. He gasped, heart racing as its power raced through his bones, electrifying the blood in his veins into a fiery molasses. He tried to pull away, jerking back from the light, but its tendrils of glowing heat pulled him back to it.

He was fairly sure that he screamed before he collapsed, the pain too unbearable for the few seconds he was still awake to feel it.

Hours later, when he woke back up his heart was still racing. He half-expected to find himself in a hospital room once again, his partner looking at him with that sad kicked-dog expression. But he was still in the lab…or what looked like the lab.

“Shit,” Viktor groaned as he gripped his head, trying to stop the pounding against his skull.

At least it wasn’t a failure, he supposed, it must have done something to have that much backlash. Instinctively, he went to grab his pencil to jot down notes of the occurrence, but when he finally got a good look at his surroundings his excitement dulled to a dim horror.

He was several feet below his desk. And not only that, while sitting, he was shorter than his chair. With quickened breaths he looked around for his crutch. He wrapped his arms around the leg of his chair to pull himself up, and when he readjusted, he spotted it. Just where he left it.

The crutch was leaned against the desk where it was easily accessible for him… and now it towered over him.

“What…” Viktor groaned as he stared up at it, “This can’t…”

He felt fine, or as fine as he could given his deteriorating state, but as he looked around the lab he was met by a similar sight. Everything towered over him. He couldn’t even see the top of the couch he’d fallen asleep on more times than he could count or the blackboard he and Jayce had used to scribble down new theories. And to his horror, he could see a screw, long forgotten under the desk, that looked to be roughly the same size as himself.

The scientist part of his brain raced through the possibilities- what this could mean for Hextech, what they could do knowing the Hexcore could not only shrink matter but seemingly leave it fully functional. But the much larger, more animal part of his brain was terrified.

He had to fix this.

But the first step would be getting back to the Hexcore, and staring up at the top of his desk, now towering above him like a mountain peak he could never hope to climb, he knew that would be a Herculean effort. Not even to mention the fact that his whole body was still shaking from the effort of staying awake.

“Alright, okay,” Viktor said under his breath, trying to steady himself as he came to terms with the situation. With a deep breath, he reached his arms up the chair leg as far as he could. The adrenaline coursing through him helped as he pulled with all his might, trying to climb it, but even with the mounting panic inside him, he only could get a few inches up before falling back down to the ground. His leg exploded with pain as he collided with the floor, and he doubled over at the new flaring heat in his joints.

“Shit,” Viktor groaned as he reached down to hold his shaking leg, “Shit shit shit.”

He’d just have to wait then, he supposed. He knew the lab like the back of his hand, and he could find somewhere to rest before he had to try again, even though he hated the idea of staying like that any longer.

His head whipped around as he studied his surroundings. He was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to pull himself far with his leg flaring with pain and his crutch one hundred times his size, so he settled on the space underneath one of their tool drawers. His leg cried out with pain as he shuffled over to it, and once he was fully hidden he leaned back against the wall, his face tight as he grimaced though the sharp heat in his leg.

He’d have to sleep there. He had no choice if he wanted enough strength to even attempt to climb the desk again.

It was difficult to find the will to sleep, with the adrenaline still coursing through him, but his body was so exhausted from several sleepless days, that when he shut his eyes he was out within moments.

When he woke up next he would be able to try again, and everything would be fine. No one had to know.

The only problem was that in his exhausted state he forgot about the one hinge in this plan.

“Viktor?”

Viktor had never woken up faster in his life. His head shot up, smacking against the wall behind him painfully, but luckily the sound didn’t seem to draw Jayce’s attention. The only problem was that his partner was only a few steps away from the drawer he was hiding under. He could feel the vibrations from the man’s now gigantic shoes every time they hit the ground, like small earthquakes against the tile floor.

“You in here?” Jayce called out again, as his feet stopped close to Viktor’s desk.

Meanwhile, Viktor sat frozen. Eyes wide at the sight of Jayce’s boots. He recognized them of course, he’d been there when Jayce had purchased them for a meeting with some potential investors. Then, he had offered them to Jayce, a soft smile at how happy his partner was to dress up.

Now, even the wooden heel of Jayce’s boots was taller than him. His breathing stuttered at the thought.

“Hey, Viktor?” Jayce asked again, his voice pitching up at the last syllable of his name.

Viktor knew that tone, of course he did. Jayce was worried, as he was more often than not nowadays. His voice tightened and raised in barely hidden concern. Ever since the day in the hospital Viktor had come to hate that tone.

Viktor’s brain worked through options of what to do. Best case: Jayce would leave, and he could fix the problem on his own. But as he watched Jayce’s boots from under the drawer he started to fear that wouldn’t be the case. After all, Jayce had gotten into the habit of meeting Viktor late at the lab every night.

Guilt burrowed deep in his chest at the sound of Jayce’s concerned voice as he looked around the lab. He could tell him, he thought for only a second before he shut down that train of thinking. That was dangerous. It didn’t matter if he trusted Jayce, if he’d be careful; he was too small and it was too risky. And he still couldn’t quite calm down his rapidly beating heart at the sight of someone several hundred times his size.

So he waited, barely breathing as to not give his partner any clues to his presence as Jayce leaned over his desk nearby. A few minutes passed with only the sound of ruffling papers above him before Jayce made an odd sound, a small questioning murmur as he reached out to grab something beyond Viktor’s sight- his crutch.

And right as Jayce shifted, something toppled to the ground from the desk above with a loud thunderous crash.

Immediately, Viktor jumped up. His leg ached at the movement as adrenaline roared in his blood. His heart pounded and his whole body tensed up, ready to flee if needed. It took him a moment to even process what had fallen with how loud it had sounded in his ears- a screwdriver, his screwdriver, now easily three times his size.

He didn’t even realize he had made a sound until the boots stopped right in front of the drawers he was under. Jayce mumbled something to himself that Viktor couldn’t quite make out, but he didn’t have any time to think about it before Jayce’s knees hit the ground.

The moment Viktor realized what was happening he froze. Jayce had heard him.

He could try to run, but without his crutch he couldn’t get far, and he’d likely hurt himself even more. Desperately, he shuffled back into the corner, pressed between the wall and the leg of the cabinet, hoping and praying Jayce just wouldn’t notice.

But Jayce was a scientist after all, he didn’t get far without being perceptive.

Viktor held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut as Jayce’s face finally came into view, brows furrowed as he looked under the cabinet. His large hazel eyes glanced around as he grumbled again something about mice, and for a brief moment Viktor thought he was safe before-

“Viktor?”

Viktor’s mouth went dry, his eyes flying open to meet Jayce’s own, now staring intently at him. For a moment the world around him froze. His heart beat so fast he thought it would jump right out of his chest.

Gods, Jayce was massive.

Before he could do anything Jayce’s hand was under the cabinet, reaching for him, and suddenly Viktor couldn’t breath.

“Stop, wait,” Viktor gasped as he held his hands out in front of him, “I…I’m fine.”

Immediately, the gigantic hand in front of him froze. Jayce’s fingers still twitched like he wanted to reach out, but they didn’t move any closer.

“Viktor, what?” Jayce shook his head in confusion, “I…apologies, but you don’t look fine. What happened to you?”

Viktor took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, “The Hexcore…I just… it did something.”

Jayce tilted his head in thought, his lips tightening as they always did when he was presented with a difficult problem. His eyes narrowed like he wanted to ask something before he sighed, the expression dropping from his face completely.

“Well I can see that…How long have you been like this?” Jayce asked, voice much softer than it had been moments before.

Viktor stilled himself, wrapping his arms around his aching leg as he met Jayce’s eyes, “I eh…I’m not sure. I tried to get back up to the Hexcore, but couldn’t make it…so I decided it was likely best for me to uh…stay here for a bit.”

Jayce’s eyes flashed with something again that Viktor couldn’t quite put a name too before he sighed. His hand retracted and before Viktor could stop him or say anything, Jayce was standing again.

“You know you don’t have to hide from me,” Jayce said, his voice booming from somewhere far above, “I can help you.”

Viktor sighed, and shrugged his shoulders even though he knew Jayce couldn’t see him anymore. He knew he was referring to something else…to the rift between them that was growing larger and larger each day, but that argument was the last thing he wanted at the moment. And he was too far away from Jayce to even warrant giving him a response…it wasn’t like he would hear it.

“I’m going to move this okay,” Jayce said, after a few moments, the drawers above Viktor shaking a bit, “Make it a little easier to talk.”

Viktor braced himself against the wall as the world around him shifted. Again, he found himself wishing he could run, to get as far away as he could from Jayce’s gigantic form that could reduce him to nothing with no effort at all. But he couldn’t. So all he could do was sit as the ground underneath him vibrated, and the cabinet was shifted away from Viktor, until he was completely out in the open.

“There you are,” Jayce said with a tilted brow and a small careful smile, “Now do you want help or no?”

Viktor scowled as he looked down at the floor, anything to avoid the dizzying sight of his partner looming above him that was starting to make him feel sick, “I don’t need your help, councillor.”

It was a low blow and Viktor knew it, but staring up at Jayce, the frightened animal-like part of him wanted nothing more than to snap- to prove he wasn’t weak. And thankfully Jayce didn’t seem too hurt. The man sighed and offered Viktor a sad smile as he oh so slowly bent down to sit on the ground next to Viktor.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” Jayce said slowly, “But I also can’t leave you here like this. You know that right?”

Viktor prickled at the man’s tone, “I don’t need your pity or your help, Jayce.”

“Then how exactly did you plan to get back up to the Hexcore?”

Viktor met his words with a scowl, “I would’ve found a way.”

“And how long would that have taken?” Jayce asked, voice firm.

And to that, Viktor had no response.

The adrenaline that had been rushing through him was starting to die off, and he truly didn’t want to argue anymore. The instinctual need to make sure people knew he was able to do things on his own warred against his own logical reasoning. This was different. He really couldn’t do this on his own. This wasn’t Jayce treating him like he was broken like he was so used to from everyone else.

Jayce never did that.

After a few moments of strained silence, Jayce cleared his throat and tilted his head towards Viktor, “Really Vik… just let me help you, it’s no problem. And I don’t want you to get hurt like this.”

A million different emotions warred in Viktor’s head before he finally gave in. His shoulders slumped forward as he let out a sigh and tilted his head up at Jayce, “Fine. Just… get me up to the desk.”

Like a dog, Jayce immediately and visibly perked up. His eyes softened as he bent down closer, his hand slowly reaching out again.

This time Viktor didn’t stop him, although his heart still jackhammered in his chest in fear at just how large Jayce was.

“Can I pick you up?” Jayce asked cautiously, his fingers hovering a mere breath away from Viktor.

Viktor stood frozen as he stared at Jayce’s hand. His eyes widened as he fully took in the size difference. He was maybe the same height as Jayce’s pointer finger, if even. The vast different was enough to make his head spin.

“Yeah, yes. That is fine Jayce.”

A soft approving sound was the only warning Viktor got before the fingers reached forward and gently wrapped around him. Viktor had to hold his breath to not jump at the contact, but after a few moments he relaxed. Jayce always had run warm, and his palm seemed to be the same. It was almost nice in a way Viktor would never admit.

After a moment, the fingers wrapped around him more securely, Jayce’s grip tight but not painful as he lifted Viktor up to his face to get a closer look.

“You’re so small,” Jayce laughed softly as he tilted his partner around in his hands like he was another experiment.

“Jayce!” Viktor grumbled as he hit one of Jayce’s ridiculously massive fingers, “Stop twisting me around like I’m a Hexgem.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jayce apologized quickly, “It’s just so odd. And everything feels okay?”

Viktor shrugged, silently cataloguing his body, “Aside from the usual, yes.”

A nod from Jayce, “Okay…okay. We can work with that. That’s good. We just need to figure out how to reverse the runes and you’ll be fine until that.”

“What do you mean until that,” Viktor frowned, responding a little harsher than he really intended, “We flip the runes and fix it now.”

Jayce swallowed nervously and shook his head like he was thinking, “This isn’t…Viktor…we can’t just wing it. This is your life! We have to try to recreate this first. What if we flip the runes and something worse happens. I- we can’t.”

With his last words, Jayce’s expression hardened as the familiar look of worry filled his eyes. However, as much as Viktor hated it, Jayce was right. They already knew the arcane worked in strange ways, and there wasn’t even a guarantee the same runes would work to change Viktor back.

“Jayce,” Viktor sighed, his head leaning to rest on Jayce’s thumb which was wrapped firmly around his chest, “I can’t walk. I can’t work. I can’t even go home like this.”

Viktor waited for Jayce to understand what he meant- for him to realize just how big of a problem this was- but Jayce’s expression just softened in response.

“You stay with me then.”

“What?” Viktor asked, eyes wide with shock, “Absolutely not. I will not burden you for some mistake I made. And I can’t just…I can’t just sit in your apartment all day until you decide it’s time to come to the lab.”

Jayce’s lips tightened in response, and subconsciously his fingers moved to rub gently across Viktor’s back, “It’s not a burden to have my friend around more often, Viktor. And you won’t. You’ll come with me, I wouldn’t feel right leaving you anywhere like this anyways.”

Meanwhile, Viktor felt like he’d been slapped in the face. Jayce’s expression was earnest, but it made no sense to Viktor no matter how hard he tried to comprehend it.

“You’re my partner Viktor,” Jayce nodded, brows raised at his tiny friend, “I’m not making you go through this in your own. Hextech is both of ours, so its mistakes are too. Besides, it’ll be nice having you around, maybe I can actually make sure you sleep for once.”

At that, Viktor flushed red in embarrassment, wanting nothing more than to hide away from Jayce, but it was nearly impossible when he was firmly stuck in the man’s hand.

Jayce laughed softly at Viktor’s clear embarrassment and brought his other hand on top of Viktor, covering him completely. “I’ll have to hide you while we go to my apartment, but I’ll get something set up for you there. We can rest tonight at least, and start looking into the runes tomorrow.”

It was hard for Viktor to fight the urge to argue that they should start now, but the all-encompassing warmth of Jayce’s hands was making a nap sound really really good.

Before Jayce even got out of the academy building Viktor was asleep. He was worried about his partner, he always was, but the sight of him so small in his hands made something soft bloom in Jayce’s chest. As they reached the cold streets of Piltover, Jayce gently dropped Viktor’s sleeping form into his breast pocket.

It would be difficult dealing with this, but if it meant Jayce could be closer to Viktor then he supposed it wasn’t too bad.

[inadaydream99]

How they respond after a kiss

A/N - just another random reaction that I got carried away with… especially Jeongin’s

Disclaimer: this does not represent any of the members in real life and is for entertainment purposes only.

Chan

“Quick, kiss me again. He’s coming back!”

Chan was barely able to catch his breath, let alone register your words, before you had pulled him in and smashed your lips against his once again. Not that he was ever going to refuse kissing you.

If someone had told you at the beginning of the night - heck or even an hour ago - that you’d end up kissing your best friend the way you currently are, you’d have laughed in their face. But as unforeseen events unfolded, Chan’s lips had come to your rescue.

You see, you’d been minding your own business at the bar, waiting to be served after offering to get the next round for your group of friends. It was busy and so you had begun occupying yourself with the soggy cardboard coaster that had been left on the bar top to wilt, tearing it into small sodden pieces until a staff member became available to attend to you. Until some overconfident - and clearly already pretty drunk - guy had decided that you needed to be chatted up by him.

Unbeknownst to you, Chan had been eyeing up the interaction from your table a short distance away, taking note of your standoffish body language. He was just waiting for the slightest indication from you before he stepped in… ah yeah, there it is.

“You good baby?” You flinched upon the hand that carefully landed on your shoulder, exhaling when you turn to find that it was only Chan. You don’t say a word, instead sending him your best “help me” look. And you’re relieved to see your best friend nod, having read your mind and clearly the situation at hand, before he gives a quick glance to the guy who’d been trying to chat you up.

You’d half expected Chan to calmly pretend to be your boyfriend and coerce the guy away. But instead you feel a finger tuck under your chin and, before you know it, his lips connecting with yours. It takes everything in you to keep your knees from buckling under you, having had all the air sucked out of your lungs. But luckily Chan feels you wobble and moves his hands to secure your waist before breaking the kiss to see if your unwanted admirer had left.

“All gone.” Chan smirks, feeling satisfied with his work. There’s not even a glimpse of embarrassment upon his features like you may have expected there to be - had you not been frozen in place like you are. The only thing that breaks you out of your swirling mind is the approaching face from before from just past Chan’s shoulder.

And that’s how you end up pulling him back in, smashing your lips into his and making out with you best friend, the drinks you’d initially set out to get long forgotten.

Minho

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because you wouldn’t shut up.” Minho rolls his eyes, like it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world. Why else would he have kissed you? Because he wanted to? Pft. Yes, he actually did want to, but that’s besides to point because he also wanted to shut you up.

You’d been yammering on for what felt like an eternity and all your boyfriend wanted to do was rest after a long day of practice. Minho loves you, he really does, and he would usually let you talk to your hearts content without any complaint. But he’s spent all day with Hyunjin and Seungmin, both of whom had been in the most annoying moods Minho had had to endure for a long time. Even his threats of tissues and being put in the air fryer were ineffective. So by the end of the day, once he’d finally returned to his quiet room and you’d messaged to say you were on your way over, Minho finally felt like he was able to relax.

“That was uncalled for.” You grumble, more so to yourself but still loud enough that you knew Minho would be able to hear you.

“Which part?” Minho raises a brow in challenge. You stare each other down while he waits for you to dare answer him. “The kiss or the shutting up?” and then he has the audacity to smirk at you.

“You know what, I think I’m gonna go hang out with one of the others.” You make for the door, but are stopped by his hand grabbing your wrist. “Minho if you don’t let me go-”

Before you have a chance to utter any half-hearted threat to him, he’s spun you around and captured you in his hold. You frown up at him when you meet stern expression.

“Call me that again. I dare you.” You gulp. While your boyfriend clearly isn’t that mad at you (you know because if he was, he would have just let you leave and then proceeded to give you the silent treatment until you are practically begging him to acknowledge you), his stare makes you nervous. You think back to just before, how you knew he’d had a long day. And the guilt washes over you like a tidal wave because, although he’d tried to get you to be quiet, he’d only kissed you to do so…

“Min…” your voice is soft, almost a whisper, as your hand slowly raises to cup his cheek. “My love. I’m sorry. I know you’re tired and I should have let you rest… please let me go so you can have some quiet.” You hold his gaze until his eyes begin to soften and you feel his grip on your waist falter.

“I’m sorry too kitten.” He sighs, placing a tender kiss to your forehead. “But please stay with me. I don’t want to be without you.” You hug him tight in response, burying your head into his chest and wrapping your arms tightly around his torso, intending to never let him go. Eventually he manages to move you so you’re cuddling on his bed, pressing a delicate kiss to your lips before you both fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Changbin

The world around you seemed to slow the moment your lips met Changbin’s. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t something you had even been thinking about. Until suddenly, it was the only thing that made sense. His hand, which had been resting gently on your arm, froze in place as the warmth of the kiss lingered between you two.

Changbin blinked, wide-eyed, his expression a mix of surprise and something softer that you couldn’t quite put into words. Then, the corners of his lips slowly curled up into a shy, almost boyish grin. His hand, which had been frozen against your arm, finally moved, gently brushing up to cup your cheek. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, his cheeks pink with a blush that matched the warmth in your own.

“Did that… really just happen?” he asked, his voice soft, almost disbelieving. There was a playful edge to his tone, but you could tell that he was being sincere.

You smiled, feeling a little embarrassed but also strangely at ease. “It did.”

“You know,” he began, his voice low but filled with warmth, “I was just thinking about how I wanted to do that.”

“You were?”

Changbin nodded, his grin growing wider, more confident now. “Yeah… but I didn’t know how to make the first move...”

You felt your heart swell at his words, the soft sincerity in his voice making the moment feel even more special.

“I didn’t want to wait any longer,” you admitted, the honesty coming easily in the quiet, intimate space between you. His smile softened, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he leaned closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. The warmth of his breath mingled with yours, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your own.

“Good,” he whispered, his voice filled with a quiet confidence. “Because I don’t think I want to wait any longer either.” His thumb gently traced along your cheek before pulling you in once again. This time the kiss wasn’t filled with hesitation or surprise. Instead, it was soft and full of warmth and when he pulled back, his cheeks were still pink, but his smile was brighter than you’d ever seen it.

Changbin chuckled, pulling you into a gentle hug, his arms wrapping around you in that familiar, comforting way. As he held you close, you could feel the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his presence wrapping around you like a soft blanket.

“I’m really glad it was you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice low and content.

You smiled into his chest, feeling the same warmth bloom in your heart. “Me too.”

Hyunjin

“You can’t just do that without warning me!”

Hyunjin hadn’t expected you to freak out so much. The delulu part of his mind had actually thought you’d react very differently to him kissing you. Like thanking him or instantly confessing your undying love for him. Most certainly not reprimanding him like you currently are…

“I thought it would be romantic!” He throws his hands in the air, exasperatedly explaining his reasoning. “You said you wanted a guy to, and I quote, “sweep you off your feet”. So that’s what I was trying to do.”

He’s not lying. You had said that only the day before. But you didn’t think he’d take your words so seriously and literally try to do just that barely 24 hours later.

“I wasn’t aware you’d actually do it.” You begin to laugh, the humour of the situation finally setting in. You can’t help the smile that breaks across your face or the laughter that just won’t stop tumbling past your lips. Even Hyunjin begins to join in after a moment. And the longer you allow his actions to sink in, the more you realise how flattered you actually are and how good his lips felt against yours…

The laughter slowly dissipates between you into silence, which you would feel the need to fill if you weren’t fixated onto Hyunjin’s lips. You can’t seem to pull your gaze away from them no matter how much you tell yourself you should and it’s not until Hyunjin breaks your daze by waving his hand in front of your face that you realise there’s no way of playing it off.

“What’s on your mind Pretty?” You gulp, finally taking in his knowing smirk. You know Hyunjin isn’t really looking for an answer, you’ve been caught red handed. And to top it off, he’s using the nickname that you have always protested him calling you…

It takes you another moment to gather the words into a coherent sentence, but once you’ve decided what you want to happen next, there’s no way you’re not going to tell him.

“Do it again.” You try to sound assured and confident in your choice, watching as Hyunjin’s devilish expression grows. He mutters a low “do what again?” to you, knowing fully well what you meant the first time. “Sweep me off my feet.” You assert.

The words have barely left your mouth when Hyunjin launches into action, scooping you into his arms and crashing his lips into yours. You can feel his smile as you allow him to deepen the kiss, your fingers reaching up to thread through his hair and giving it a little tug. You reluctantly break the kiss a second later, in much need of air, both of you staring into each other’s eyes knowing that you’re officially done for. You’ve been well and truly swept away.

Jisung

As you pulled away, you could still feel the softness of Jisung’s lips against yours, the warmth of his breath, and the slight tremble in his hands as they hovered uncertainly by your waist. His eyes were wide, surprise and wonder dancing in them as he stared at you, his lips slightly parted as if he was trying to form words but couldn’t quite find them. You could hear the distant sounds of the other members in the dorm, laughing and talking in the next room, and suddenly the closeness of the moment felt both exhilarating and a little dangerous.

The noise made Jisung blink, snapping out of his daze, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he looked at you, his hand instinctively moving to rub the back of his neck in that shy, awkward way you’d seen a hundred times before.

“You should go before someone sees,” he whispers, his voice a mix of nervous laughter and soft fondness. His eyes dart toward the door, and you can practically see his thoughts racing, imagining one of the members barging in and witnessing the whole thing.

Your heart skips a beat, the playful urgency of his words making you smile. “And what if I don’t want to go?”

Jisung’s cheeks flush a deep pink, as he quickly looks away, biting his lip to suppress a grin. He glances back at you, his eyes sparkling with a teasing glint, though you can tell he is still trying to calm the rapid beating of his own heart.

“I mean… we could stay here,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, “but if Hyunjin or Seungmin catch us, we’ll never hear the end of it.” His tone is light, but the way he looks at you makes your heart swell.

You laugh softly, stepping a little closer, feeling bolder now despite the playful warning. “Are you really that scared of them?”

Jisung’s expression turns mock-serious, though he can’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You don’t know what they’re capable of. The teasing? Endless.”

You giggle, the tension between you melting away into something light and easy, just like it always does with him. There is still that lingering warmth in his gaze, a softness in the way he looks at you that makes you feel like this moment is more than just a joke.

Before you can respond, jisung suddenly takes a step closer, closing the distance between you with a surprising tenderness. His fingers brush against your hand, hesitant at first, before slowly curling around it.

“I’m really glad you kissed me,” he whispers, reflecting on the week before when you finally caved in and made a move. Since then, it’s been a lot of kissing behind closed doors, neither of you wanting things to get out until you both felt ready.

Your heart flutters at the quiet sincerity in his tone, rendering you unable to speak. Upon this, his smile softens and his thumb gently rubs circles on the back of your hand. For a second, it feels like the rest of the world has faded away, the sounds of the dorm distant and unimportant. It’s just you and him, standing in the small space, the closeness between you comforting and safe. But then, the faint sound of footsteps from down the hall snaps you both back to reality. Jisung’s eyes widening as he quickly lets go of your hand before taking a step back. “Seriously, you should go before they see…”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh at how serious he suddenly looked, like getting caught would be the end of the world. “Alright, alright. I’m going.” You hold your hands up in surrender.

As you start to walk toward the door, you glance back at him. His gaze has followed you, his cheeks still a soft shade of pink, but his smile is wide and genuine. “See you next time,” you utter with a teasing smile.

Jisung chuckles, shaking his head fondly. “Next time, I’ll make sure we’re alone.”

Felix

“You, uh… you taste amazing,” Felix shyly gushes, his voice dropping into that familiar, deep tone, tinged with a hint of nervousness. His eyes flicker to yours as soon as the words leave his mouth, and he immediately bites his lip, as if he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “I mean, it’s just…” He stumbles over his words, looking down at the floor for a second before glancing back up at you through his lashes, his shy smile never leaving his face. “You taste like… strawberries or something. It’s really nice.”

Your stomach flips at how adorable he is, his usual confidence giving way to something much softer. “I was just eating strawberry candy before you came in,” you admit with a giggle, feeling your own cheeks flush. Felix’s eyes light up, his smile widening as he nods.

“That explains it.” He glances down at your lips again, his voice a bit quieter now, a little more thoughtful. “I like it.”

“You taste amazing too,” you tease lightly.

Felix’s eyes widen in surprise before a deep, rumbly laugh escapes him, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that always makes your heart flutter. “Oh, do I?” he asks, his voice filled with amusement and warmth now.

You grin, feeling more confident as you nod. “Yeah, like cinnamon… sweet and warm.”

Felix’s grin softens into something more tender, his hand finally resting gently on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. He looks at you like you are the most precious thing in the world, the playful teasing fading into a quiet moment that felt just as sweet as the kiss had been.

For a moment, neither of you say anything, just standing there in the comfortable silence, enjoying the closeness. Then, with a soft chuckle, Felix leans in slightly, his forehead resting against yours.

“Maybe next time, I’ll bring some strawberry candy too,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

“Next time?” you ask, raising an eyebrow playfully.

Felix grins, his eyes twinkling with that familiar mischievous glint. “Yeah. I think we’re going to need a lot of next times.” And with that, he leans in, kissing you again, just as soft and sweet as the first time, but this time with the promise of many more to come.

Seungmin

The kiss was soft and warm, full of the familiar comfort you’d come to love about your arrangement with Seungmin. The world seemed to narrow down to just the two of you, the quiet hum of the room and the warmth of his body pressing against yours making everything feel right. But then, suddenly, Seungmin pulled back, his lips parting from yours with a mischievous glint in his eyes. His expression oddly calm, as if he’d just paused a moment to consider something.

“Why’d you stop?” you ask, still feeling the tingle of his kiss on your lips.

Seungmin shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, the corners of his mouth twitching into a playful grin. “Because you weren’t responding.”

You frown, your brows knitting together in confusion. “But… I was?”

The amusement in Seungmin’s eyes only grows upon your reaction. “You’re saying that your lips were moving against mine? That I wasn’t doing all the work?”

His teasing tone makes you want to roll your eyes, but you hold back, knowing that doing so would only encourage him to be more infuriating. Instead, you try to keep your composure, even though you can feel a hint of annoyance bubbling up inside you.

Your agreement is simple: kisses whenever you both want, without the baggage of a relationship. It works well, and Seungmin’s kisses are, without a doubt, addictive. His lips are soft and plush, making every touch a sweet temptation.

“Pup, I put my tongue in your mouth and you froze,” Seungmin states, his voice dripping with condescension as he watches you mumble “You didn’t warn me.”

You shoot him a sulky look, trying to hide how his teasing is making you really feel. Seungmin’s eyes soften as he takes in your pouty expression, and a warm chuckle escapes him. “You look so cute when you sulk,” he continues to tease.

Ever since you’d struck up this kissing deal, Seungmin had found it hard to imagine why he hadn’t made a move sooner. Everything about you felt so right, your laugh, your smile, the way your lips fit against his… He couldn’t help but feel drawn to you, and it was becoming harder to keep things just as simple as you both had agreed upon.

“Just come back here and we’ll pick up from where we left off, okay?” Seungmin holds his hand out to you, his smile affectionate and warm, a silent promise of more to come. It was the kind of smile that made it impossible for you to say no. With a shy smile of your own, you take his hand, letting him pull you back against him. His warmth envelops you, your lips just close enough to feel his hot breath. The anticipation makes your heart race as your noses brush together; the closeness making every small touch feel electric.

“You ready?” Seungmin asks softly, his eyes locked onto yours with an earnestness that makes your pulse quicken.

“Ready,” you whisper back, leaning in closer. This time, as his tongue seeks entrance into your mouth, you accept it without hesitation. The kiss deepens and you feel a shiver of delight run through you as Seungmin’s arms wrap around you, pulling you in closer.

When you finally brake apart, both of you breathless and smiling, Seungmin’s eyes are filled with a satisfied glow. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Not at all.”

Seungmin grins, the mischievous glint still dancing in his eyes. “Good. Because I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

You can’t help but smile, leaning in for another kiss, your lips meeting his with the same warmth and affection. It was clear that, despite the teasing and the occasional annoyance, Seungmin was exactly where he wanted to be. With you.

Jeongin

So, you’d accidentally kissed the bane of your existence, and now he wouldn’t let you forget it. You weren’t sure how it had happened. One minute, you were squabbling like usual, the same old playful back-and-forth that always seemed to erupt between you two whenever you were in the same room. Jeongin had made some sarcastic comment, flashing that signature smug grin of his, and you, frustrated and flustered, had turned sharply, and somehow… your lips had met. It was brief, barely a second, but the impact was enough to knock the air out of your lungs. And Jeongin, of course, had the audacity to just stare at you, completely unfazed, his eyes wide but sparkling with amusement, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. It was a complete accident, but try telling that to Jeongin.

Now, here you are days later, still reeling from the embarrassment while he seemed to be living his best life. Jeongin, famously sweet and adored by practically everyone, was one of the few people you couldn’t stand. He was annoyingly charming, effortlessly liked by everyone and always had this expectant attitude, like he knew you’d give in to him eventually. And now he had this to hold over your head. You glared at him across the room as he lounged casually on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, his expression far too relaxed for someone who had been driving you up the wall for days.

“What’s that look for?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement. “Still thinking about it, huh?”

You shoot him a sharp glare, hoping the heat creeping up your cheeks isn’t as obvious as it feels. “I am not thinking about it.” You force a response through gritted teeth.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “You’re definitely thinking about it.” His grin widens, that infuriatingly smug look returning to his face. “I mean, it’s understandable. I’d probably be thinking about it too if I were you.”

You groan, throwing your head back in exasperation. “Jeongin, I swear, if you bring it up one more time—”

“What? You gonna kiss me again?” he teases, sitting up a little straighter, his eyes sparkling mischievously. Your face flames at the memory, and you clench your fists, trying to maintain what little dignity you have left.

“It was an accident.”

Jeongin’s grin softens, but the teasing glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. “You keep saying that, but I don’t believe you…”

You groan again, pressing your palms to your face. This is torture. Absolute torture. “Why do you insist on making everything so difficult?”

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression softening just a little. “Difficult? Or interesting?” He chuckles, a low, pleasant sound that somehow makes your stomach do a little flip. “You just make it so easy to mess with you. You get all worked up over the smallest things.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly as he studies you. “Maybe that’s why I like teasing you so much.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. His smugness is still there, but you’re sure you see a glimmer of something else, too. Something softer, almost playful in a way that wasn’t designed just to get under your skin. “I don’t know how anyone puts up with you,” you mutter, though the bite in your words is far less sharp than usual.

“Well, my friends think I’m charming,” he smirks triumphantly. “They all see me as their younger brother. Innocent, adorable… maybe you should start seeing me that way too.”

You snort, crossing your arms over your chest. “You? A younger brother? Absolutely not.”

Jeongin’s eyes light up, his grin widening. “What, so you see me as something else then?”

Your eyes narrow, heart racing as you realise how your words had played right into his hands. “Don’t twist my words.”

But Jeongin isn’t about to let this go. He leans back against the couch, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Too late. I’m twisting them.” You open your mouth to argue, to tell him he is delusional, but the words die in your throat as you see the look in his eyes. His teasing smile has softened into something gentler, his gaze steady and, for once, not filled with mischief. The silence stretches out between you, and you suddenly feel the weight of what had happened a few days ago settle over you again. The accidental kiss. The way he’d looked at you afterward, surprised but not… upset. Like he hadn’t minded it at all.

Your heart thuds in your chest as you meet his gaze. “Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

Jeongin tilts his head, his expression thoughtful. “Because you’re fun to be around.” He pauses, his lips quirking up in a half-smile. “And because I like seeing that look on your face.”

You blink, startled by his honesty. “What look?”

“That look,” he speaks softly, his gaze never leaving yours. “The one where you’re actually thinking about me, and not as if you hate me.”

Your breath catches in your throat, the heat rising in your cheeks again. You can’t believe it. The bane of your existence is actually saying something sweet. And the worst part? It isn’t annoying anymore. It’s making your heart race in a way you would never expect.

“I don’t hate you,” you mutter, looking away, embarrassed by how vulnerable you suddenly feel.

Jeongin’s voice softens even more, and he leans closer, his words a gentle murmur. “I know. And I don’t hate you either… but I’m still not going to let you forget that kiss.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands again. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he playfully shrugs. “But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t remind you every day.”

You peek through your fingers at him, rolling your eyes even though you’re unable to hide the small smile tugging at your lips. “You really won’t let me live this down, will you?”

“Not a chance.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Blurred Lines 6

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your boss takes an unpredictable turn.

Characters: Nick Fowler

Note: Let's get through Monday yall.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You follow Nick back to his house. It's a long ride. You're so caught up in your anxiety that you don't even turn the radio on. The silence feeds into your nerves. 

When you park, you notice your phone light up. It's Joey. You want to answer but you can't. You're not sure you can keep your cool. 

Nick's cryptic behavior worries you. If you lose this job, you're not sure the next one will be enough to keep Joey in school. You don't put in the long hours because you enjoy scrubbing floors, you want to do the best by your daughter and your husband. 

You get out and catch up to your boss as he struts inside. He has the garment bags over his shoulder.  

"I could take those--"  

"I think I can handle it," he scoffs. 

"Sir, uh, about, er..." you stumble over your words as your thoughts tangle. "Whatever I did, I'm sorry. When you sent me home--" 

"We're past that. You're back now." He opens the door and lets you through first. "So do what you're told and stop worrying."  

He shuts the door behind him and strides up to you. He dangles a dress bag on one finger. You take it as the tension strangles out any protest.  

"Go get ready." 

"Ready?" You echo thinly. 

"Big dinner. Pull yourself together." 

He sidesteps you and struts off. You look after him, confused. You sigh and carry the dress to the half-bath behind the staircase. 

You shut the door and hang the garment bag. You put your purse on the counter and sift through it. You have a tube of gloss and some mascara. Oh, some old liner that might do if you wet it. You're good stuff is at home. 

You do your best. You just need to be presentable. It wouldn't matter if you had your BB cream or some blush, you can't get rid of the wrinkles or the spots. 

Your hair. There's a comb but it's not much use. You use your fingers and find some pins in your bag. Again, nothing special, just something. 

The door handle clicks and you spin around. Nick wears his new suit. It's perfect on him. The jacket is perfectly cinched and the pants hemmed just so. 

"Can I get a bit of help?" He smirks and wiggles the paisley tie at you. 

You stare at it and take it. Your cheeks are taut. He steps into the bathroom and unfolds his collar. You loop the tie around his neck and focus on knotting it. 

"I should've asked if you needed anything else." He says. 

"The dress is very nice, it will do," you assure him and tighten the tie. "There. You're all put together." 

"And your not," he challenges. 

You meet his gaze, "I'll be quick." 

His brows flick up and he turns to unzip the garment bag. He takes out the dress and feels the fabric. He faces you again and holds it up. You gently grab it by the sleeves and pull it away. 

"Thank you, sir." 

"Nick. For tonight, call me Nick." He insists. 

"Yes, s-- Nick," you repeat as you turn and examine the velvet. 

You wait and he lingers. Finally he backs out and shuts the door.  

You ignore the mirror as you change. The dress is no better the second time. In fact, it feels tighter. Your chest is compressed beneath the fabric, your cleavage bursting. You wish he'd put an end to this already. 

You find the shoes in the bottom of the garment bag. You sit on the closed toilet and put on the heels. You haven't worn those since Joey's graduation. You don't miss the painful arch. 

You stand and tidy up your clothes. You fold them and stop before the door. You contemplate the other side before you open it. 

You step out and find Nick waiting.  He comes close and you watch him senselessly. He takes the clothes from you and sets them on the bench near the wall. 

He returns and offers his arm. His mouth is slanted in a silent taunt. Your lips pinch and you put your hand in the crook of your arm. 

He guides you down the hall and into the entry way. You feel as if you're making the walk down a plank, about to jump to your fate. Earlier when you pulled up to see your husband, you couldn't predict any of this. 

"You look good, by the way," Nick says as you reach the door. "Really good." 

Your cheek twitches. You get it. You know what he's doing. He's reminding you that he's in charge. 

"Thank you, Nick." 

He opens the door and angles you through. You focus on your feet, on not letting your ankles bend. That small task is much simpler than the unknown you find yourself wandering into. 

🔷

You enter the room of finely dressed people. Despite the new attire, the price tag that made your stomach drop, you feel out of place. The men are in ties and brocade and velvet, the women in satin and silk. The latter are all at least a decade younger than you and many sizes smaller than you. 

Nick touches the middle of your back and drags his hand down. He slips around your hips and pulls you against him, urging you across the room. A man greets him, beckoning him over with a wave of his large hand. 

You catch his stare, the question mark in his forehead as you approach. He's taller than Nick, broader too. His jaw is speckled in dark stubble and a thick line of hair covers his upper lip. He's handsome with his bold blue eyes and cleft chin. 

"Walker," Nick greets him. You glance at the woman with curly black hair on the man's arm. She's gorgeous and sips daintily from a stemmed glass. 

"Fowler. Late. Again." 

"Always here exactly when I'm needed," Nick banters. 

"Sure, we'll see what Pine says about that." 

"Pine's head is so far up his ass, I doubt he'll notice," Nicky rolls his eyes. "Aliana," he turns to the woman, "I still don't see a ring." 

"Fowler," Walker warns. 

"Forgive me. You'll get there, in time. Like me," he winks. "Oh, and this is..." 

He introduces you and reminds you that you're more than just a spectator. You force a smile.  

"Hello, nice to meet you." 

"August," Nick gestures to the larger man the the woman, "Aliana." 

The woman flutters her lashes. You sense the judgement in her gaze. It's nothing cruel, only reality. She no doubt sees your ages and is asking the same questions you would. If this was real... 

"You finally brought a date to one of these things. Might get Abnesti to shut up." 

"I'm not worried about what he has to say. Not as worried as some people should be about leaving their drinks unattended near the guy." 

They laugh and you suppress a frown at the insinuation. You had that talk with Joey. You can never be too safe. 

"He thinks he's playing spy games," August snorts. 

"Anyway, I should make the rounds," Nick says. "Act like I want to be here." 

He ushers you onward. His name comes from your back and you nearly twist your ankle as he pulls you with him. You turn and face a slender blonde man grey slacks and a checkered jacket. His features are sharp but elegant. 

"There you are. I thought you might play hooky, as you American's say." 

"I told you, I had a thing," Nick counters. "Jonathan," he offers his hand and they shake firmly. He pulls free and gestures to you, reciting your name. 

"Nice to meet you," you say and accept his hand as he holds it out. 

"A pleasure," he turns your hand and kisses your knuckles. "I must say that colour is immaculate." 

You look down and nearly flinch at the sight of your bulging bosom. You want to cover up but that would only make it more obvious. Your face burns. You're not the sort for this. You're too old, too boring. You'd rather be at home with your book. That pairs better with wine than whatever this is. 

"Krissalyn is around somewhere. She was unhappy with the rose so likely she's pestering some poor server," he drawls dully. "Stubborn, though she might let some of that go for a bit of grace." He doesn't look away from you even as he speaks to Nick, "I must ask how you met. He never mentioned a lady." 

"Oh, uh..." you peek over at Nick. 

"She likes to read. We met at a bookstore," he lies seamlessly. "She recommended a good book. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a smarty pants." 

"Ah, and what was the recommendation? I can always go for a new addition to my library," Jonathan says. 

You blink as you stare back at his expectant eyes. His irises are somewhere between jade and aquamarine. Are all Nick's acquaintances this perfect?  

"Oh nothing special, I think it was Odd Thomas," you say. You're not as convincing as Nick. 

"Dean Koontz? Yes, I've read that one. Very unique," he praises. "I am disappointed in his more recent publications." 

"Yeah, I stuck with Odd series," you reply, comfortable to stay on a topic you know well. "Did you read all of it?" 

"A few but I think I've lost track of the story," he replies. 

Nick clears his throat, "if you don't mind, I'll just be stealing my date back. I see Turner's here." 

"I didn't think you were fond of him," Jonathan remarks. 

"Not really but who's really fond of who in this room," he leads you away. 

He approaches another man. This one is flustered as he tugs at a lock of his sandy brown hair. His blues eyes rove over the room frantically. 

"Turner," Nick calls to him. "You didn't bring another mole, did you?" 

"She wasn't a mole." 

"She stole your clearance pass," Nick retorts. 

The other man huffs, "please, I don't want to hear it." 

You feel bad for the man. Nick's teasing doesn't seem in good nature.

"Hi," you interject and introduce yourself. "You work with Nick?" 

"Cole," he smooths his hair then fumbles with his suit button before offering his hand. "Uhh, pleased to meet you." 

"Of course. There's so many people here," you peer around. "I don't think I was prepared for this." 

"Me either," his shoulders lose a bit of tension. 

"I'm the kinda person to find a quiet corner, you know?" You say. "Let everyone else get distracted." 

Nick's fingers curl into your hip. Is he trying to rein you in? Well, he didn't really give you guidelines. 

"Yeah, uh, reminds me of a family reunion," he chuckles nervously. 

"Oh, I don't miss those," you smile. "My husband's family was so judgy. I couldn't even make jello without a full critique." 

"We should keep moving," Nick says. 

"Oh, sorry, I don't want to keep you," Cole says apologetically, "Nick, sorry. I didn't mean to." 

Nick grunts and leads you away. You stop and make him do the same. "You're not very nice to your coworkers," you say. 

He snickers, "oh, I'm not." 

"Well, not really, but I hope you don't mind if I try to be." 

"You do whatever you like, sweetheart," he pets your arm and you wince. Your bag vibrates. Again. You've been ignoring the jittering, hoping it's just your nerves. 

"I'd like to know why you brought me here," you say. 

His grin stays firmly in place, "I told you that. You're my plus one." 

You swallow down his reply. He's not going to say it. He's going to draw this out and make you squirm. 

"Nick, might you point me to the ladies?" 

He squints and his cheek dimples. He points past you, "down there. I can show you--" 

"I'm sure I can find my way," you pat his hand as it lingers on your arm and you step out of his reach. 

You turn and walk away. You just need a moment to catch your breath and to figure out why Joey's still calling. It has to be something important. 

You find the restroom and lock the door. You pull out your phone. Another call comes in as you unlock the screen. You answer and quickly put it to your ear. 

"Hi? Josephine?" 

The speaker scuffs, then it sounds like the phone falls. You turn up the volume. You cup your hand over your other ear and listen. 

"Mr. Barber," Joey's voice is shrill and wobbly, "I think I should--" 

"Shh, shh, shh," the low scratching hushes barely reach you. "It's okay, Josie," the deep voice cooes, "you're doing fine. Have I told you that?" 

"Thanks, but I think... sir, please, sir..." she begs as you hear the struggle in her tone. "Can you just..." 

"It's okay. I just want you to know how much I appreciate you," he purrs. "You're a very smart girl, huh?" 

"Mr. Barber," her words crack. 

"Call me Andy, baby," you hear a kissing noise. "It's okay, just relax." 

"No, no," she grits her teeth. "I'm-- don't, please." 

"I'm not hurting you, am I? I'm being nice, baby." 

You stare into your own eyes as you glare at the mirror, in disbelief and horror of what you're hearing. Barber. Andy Barber. That man she told you about from her internship. Her boss. And you don't need to be able to see to know what he's doing. To your daughter. 

"I'm coming, Joey," you hiss and keep the phone to your ear. 

You twist around and storm through the door. You stride out and through the room full of babbling guests and clinking glasses. Your name comes from behind you but you don't turn back. 

"Where are you going?" Nick latches onto your elbow and spins you around. You have to keep from slapping him as your eyes fill with tear. Josephine is crying. She's crying for you. 

"Mom..." 

His eyes search your face and he wraps his hand around yours. He pulls the phone to his ear and listens. He doesn't look away. His jaw ticks. 

He keeps a hold of your hand and forces the phone away from his ear.  He yanks you after him as he charges for the door. 

"Let's go," he snarls. 

[captain-hawks]

HUZZAH!!! nice i didn't miss it! how about narumi + pink !

gen narumi x reader

c: "flirting", ...gum sharing, i apologize in advance what you're about to read!!!!, gen "who's going to match my freak" narumi

“Platoon Leader.”

You jump slightly at the sound of Captain Gen Narumi’s voice, his tone pitched low as his hot breath skirts the shell of your ear, and the rifle shudders in your hands, your perfectly-framed target lost as the scope jolts with you.

Turning to glare at the man crouched down beside you, you inhale sharply when you realize how close he is, your noses brushing before you nearly stumble backward onto your ass. 

Narumi’s right hand shoots out to steady you, fingers treading along the side of your jacket, skirting dangerously close to your hip as you rock back onto your feet. 

“Yes?” you ask as you catch your breath, annoyed.

He smiles, head tilted to the side as he leans his cheek against a gloved palm. Narumi stares at you for a moment before tapping his closed lips twice with his pointer finger.

Eyes widening, you snap in a hushed whisper, “What the fuck?”

The back of your neck burns as you blink at him, incredulous. Sure, the two of you have been flirting like your lives depend on it for the past couple of months. 

And yeah, if Captain Narumi wanted to call it a day for today’s training session, sending everyone else inside before finally ravishing you right here on this rooftop, you certainly wouldn’t object. 

But you’ve never actually explicitly acknowledged any of this with him directly, not by a longshot.

And you would have thought his style would be more along the lines of pinning you up against the wall in a deserted hallway inside of the base mid-argument with his mouth against yours.

Not…whatever the fuck is happening right now.

He shakes his head, eyes flicking to your mouth for a moment as your jaw flexes. “You’re chewing gum.”

Oh.

Hot, mortifying embarrassment begins to set in. Earlier this year, gum was banned from the training grounds after a new recruit choked on a piece of it in the middle of an exercise. As a platoon leader, you certainly know better, but by the time you realized you’d forgotten to spit it out today, there was nowhere to dispose of it. 

“Well, I don’t suppose you have a tissue or a napkin, do you?” you ask dryly. 

Narumi shakes his head, offering you an open palm instead, his hand hovering near your mouth.

You blink at him several times until he finally says, “Go ahead.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

He doesn’t reply, just calmly stares at you, waiting. Sighing, you open your mouth, gently spitting the sticky pink wad into his hand.

And to your absolute fucking surprise with not a single word of warning, Captain Narumi pops the piece of gum into his mouth and resumes chewing it. 

“What the fuck,” you mutter to yourself again after he walks away. 

Two hours later, freshly showered, Captain Narumi finds you alone in the hall outside of your quarters, once again scaring you nearly half to death as he taps your shoulder the exact moment you begin to twist the door handle.

Spinning around, you find him standing right in front of you as you lean back against the door. Your heart thrums an unsteady rhythm as you subtly suck down a slow, steady breath. 

“Nice job today,” he says, eyes glinting with a hint of pride that matches the warm swell in your chest at his words. 

Well, you had smoked the rest of your team once you recovered from The Gum Incident (recovered being a very loose, vague term for the strange mix of feelings still squirming in your chest). 

“Thanks.”

You try to ignore the hot, insistent reaction that stirs in your gut at the sight of his messy, sweaty hair. He’s still in his suit, though it’s unzipped a few inches down at the neck, where his mask hangs loosely. Narumi slowly places a hand on the surface of the door beside your head, and the foam soles of your shower shoes protest against the linoleum floor as your toes tightly curl against them. 

“I have something for you,” he says in a hushed tone, shifting to close the gap between your face and his. 

Anticipation sears your nerves and rattles your bones. Thankful to be leaning against something for the sake of your weak knees, your eyes fall shut, and he gently runs a bare thumb along your bottom lip.

“Open,” Captain Narumi murmurs. 

Confused, you comply, lips parting as he hooks his pointer finger beneath your chin, your eyes following suit of their own accord to meet his determined gaze. 

And then Narumi’s mouth grazes yours in the ghost of a kiss before he spits a piece of gum into your mouth.

What the fuck. 

His fingers briefly feather against your jawline as he pulls away, straightening up. 

“Sorry, I didn’t have any bubblegum flavor to replace yours,” he shrugs and grins, though he really doesn’t look sorry at all as you tentatively bite down and taste peppermint. “See you in the mess hall, Platoon Leader.”