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

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Eleven

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Boarding School Era is over after this chapter. Are we going to miss it? *Everyone drops to their knees and starts wailing*

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

It starts like this.

Harper Grace Whiatt is half an hour into her English Literature exam when the cramps start.

She frowns, drinks some water, and glances around anxiously at her classmates. Heads down, full focus. Pens flying. The low, scratchy murmur of papers turning.

She looks down at her stomach, round and heavy on her thighs, and thinks, No. There's no way.

It's probably Braxton Hicks again. It has to be. She's been getting them on and off for weeks. The nurse and her midwife said it was normal. Said it was her body preparing and practicing.

But twenty minutes later, when she's halfway through the third question—something about dramatic irony in Macbeth, which she's managed to write exactly two and a half paragraphs on—it happens.

It's not like in the movies. No gasping, no screaming, no dramatic splash of water across the floor. Just... a slow, horrible trickle. Warm and humiliating and sudden. It puddles under her, darkening the plastic seat beneath her uniform skirt.

She freezes. Blinks.

And then the next cramp hits.

This one is different. Sharp, low, deep. Her whole body folds with it, involuntary. Her hands fist around the metal sides of her desk, her pen clatters to the floor, and—

Yep. She's crying.

The invigilator is already standing. Someone's chair scrapes back. Everyone is staring.

And then Oscar is there.

Up from his seat across the exam hall, papers forgotten, stepping over bags and chairs like none of it matters. He's kneeling beside her desk before the invigilator even manages to speak.

"Hey. Harp." His voice is tight. Controlled. He's trying not to panic, and failing. "You okay?"

She can't answer. She just shakes her head, because the pain's ramping up now, another contraction building low in her spine. She clutches the underside of her belly with one hand and his forearm with the other.

Oscar looks up. His eyes are wide and he's breathing fast. But he sounds steady when he says, "She needs an ambulance. Now."

"Out of the exam, both of you—" the invigilator starts, flustered.

"I don't give a shit about the exam!" He snaps, louder than anyone's ever heard him. "She's having a baby."

Someone swears.

Sam stands up from the back row, nearly knocking over his chair. "What? Now?"

"She's thirty-five weeks," Oscar says through his teeth, arm already around her shoulder, helping her stand even as she leans into him. "It's early but it's happening."

"Matt, get the nurse!" Someone yells.

Jane's already halfway down the row, pushing past a stunned Alfie and hauling Harper's bag up off the floor.

The whole room blurs.

But Oscar holds steady. He keeps one hand flat on Harper's lower back, the other gripping hers like a lifeline, and he says quietly, just to her:

"I've got you. You're okay. We're okay."

And somehow, through the tears and pain and mortification, Harper believes him.

—

The ambulance lights blur red and white against the stone front of Haileybury as the doors slam shut behind them.

Harper is strapped onto the stretcher, still in her school blouse, damp and wrinkled and stuck to her back. Her skirt's bunched under the curve of her bump, and there's dried tears on her cheeks. Oscar sits beside her, gripping the side rail with white knuckles. His tie is askew and one of his shoes is half-on, like he didn't have time to fix it when he sprinted from the exam hall.

He hadn't.

The paramedics are talking in a calm, professional blur—"thirty-five weeks... irregular contractions... possible rupture..."—but it all sounds like background noise.

Oscar fumbles for his phone. His hands are shaking. His voice cracks on the first ring.

"Dad—"

Chris' voice comes through immediately, sharp with concern. "What is it? What's happened?"

"It's Harper. She's in labour. Her water broke—during the exam, we're—we're in the ambulance. I don't—" He cuts himself off. His throat is too tight.

"Okay, okay—fucking hell. Listen to me, son. We're in Barcelona—Oscar, breathe, alright? We're getting the next flight over. Me and your mum, we'll be there as soon as we can. Just stay with her. Don't you dare leave her side, Oscar Jack Piastri. You hear me?"

Oscar just nods even though his dad can't see him. "Okay."

He looks at Harper. She's gripping his fingers in both hands now, her face pale and pinched, her breaths going tight again as another wave of pain hits.

"Hurts," she whispers. "I want it to stop."

"I know." He presses a kiss to her knuckles, helpless. "You're doing so good, Harp. Just hang on. We're nearly there."

—

The hospital is all bright lights and sharp corners and words they don't understand.

She's whisked into a room. Oscar stays beside her, even when a nurse tells him to wait. "No. I'm staying. I'm her—" he stumbles on the word. What was he? Boyfriend? Partner? Father of her child? He'd only turned sixteen last week. "I'm staying," he repeats, and no one stops him.

There are too many people. Too many hands. Too many questions.

"How far along did you say she is?"

"Thirty-five weeks, four days."

There's a hundred people surrounding them suddenly. Harper's skirt is cut off, her tights too, and then there's another flurry of movement.

"She's breech."

"Baby's presenting bottom-first. That's not ideal, given mum's small stature."

"She's how old?"

"Fifteen."

"Oh, Christ."

Harper is shaking. One of the nurses places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We're going to take care of you, sweetheart. But we need to move quickly. Your baby girl isn't in the right position, and your contractions aren't doing their job right now."

"I don't—" she gasps. "I don't know what they're supposed to do."

One of the doctors crouches down to their level. "Okay, here's the deal. We need to deliver your little girl and we need to do it soon. Right now, given your size and age, the safest way is a caesarean section. It's surgery, but you'll be awake the entire time, and we'll be right here with you. Do you understand?"

Harper looks at Oscar, then back at the doctor. "But I didn't even pack anything," she says weakly. "I didn't bring anything with me."

Oscar wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "We'll get it after. It doesn't matter. I promise it doesn't matter."

"Okay. Harper, darling, you're going to be fine. You're both going to be fine," the doctor says gently. "We just need to get a move on."

"Can he come?" Harper asks, voice small.

The nurse nods. "He's dad?"

Oscar nods. So does Harper.

"Then of course can come. Dad, let's scrub you up."

They wheel her out. Oscar walks beside the gurney like he's not entirely sure where his feet are taking him. He's barely heard the words "breach" or "c-section" before today. He still had an hour left on his exam. Somehow, he's only wearing one shoe.

None of that matters.

The fluorescent lights blur overhead, and he holds her hand the whole way.

—

Oscar's never known this kind of silence before. Not even on the grid, not even at the start of a race when every nerve is coiled and waiting.

This is different. The air is sharp with antiseptic and adrenaline, and the lights above the operating table buzz faintly, almost drowned out by the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the low hum of voices murmuring things like "scalpel" and "next layer."

He's sitting on a stool next to Harper's head, hidden behind the curtain that separates them from the surgery. She's pale and half-dazed, the drugs making her eyes heavy, her fingers curling weakly in his hand.

"You're doing good," he whispers, even though he's not sure she can really hear him. "You're so brave, Harp. I swear, I've never seen anyone braver."

And then one of the nurses says something quietly—"we're ready"—and the stillness breaks.

There's a sudden shift in the room, a new focus. Oscar hears the surgeon say something about "gentle traction" and "legs first." And then:

"Here she comes."

Oscar stands, just enough to peek over the curtain. And there—

There she is.

Tiny. Pink. Furious.

There's blood, and there's motion, and she's slippery and folded up like she was curled into a puzzle piece—but she's alive. She's squirming, kicking, red-faced and loud.

Oscar's mouth drops open. His whole body goes still.

Then she cries.

A shrieking, furious wail that pierces right through him.

And he's crying before he even realises it.

"Oh my god," he whispers, voice cracking hard. "Oh my god, she's—"

The midwife glances at him, softening. "She's got lungs, this one."

Another nurse is already wrapping the baby in a towel, suctioning her nose gently, checking her fingers, her toes, everything so careful and practised.

"Do you want to cut the cord?" One asks.

He doesn't answer—just nods, stumbling forward on shaking legs. They guide his hand to the scissors, show him where to snip.

His hands are trembling so hard he misses the first time.

"Easy," the nurse says gently. "There you go."

He cuts.

And just like that—she's theirs.

Someone brings her over, naked and still squalling, and lays her down on Harper's chest.

Harper is crying now too, dazed and exhausted and blinking like she can't quite make sense of it all. Her hand comes up, instinctive, resting on the baby's back.

"She's so small," she whispers, her voice cracking like wet paper. "She's so small, Oscar."

"I know," he says.

He's still crying.

He crouches beside the bed, resting his forehead against Harper's arm, one hand on his daughter's tiny spine, the other still clutching Harper's fingers.

No one tells them what to do. No one says anything at all for a while.

And for a second they can pretend that it's just the three of them.

—

The recovery room was quiet. Too quiet, almost. The kind that made Oscar's ears ring with the silence.

Harper was asleep, her head turned slightly to the side, pale against the white hospital pillow. She hadn't said much since they'd moved her out of surgery — just held their daughter to her chest until she'd drifted off, finally, like her body couldn't handle being awake a second longer.

Their baby — their actual baby — was in the little heated bassinet beside the bed. Still tiny. Still pink. Still real.

Oscar sat in the chair pulled up close, one hand resting on the plastic side of the crib like he couldn't quite stop touching something that proved all of this wasn't a dream.

He hadn't slept. Didn't even know what time it was.

But then the door cracked open, and a nurse poked her head in.

"Are you Oscar?" She asked gently. "There's... well. There's kind of a group of teenagers, your age, I suppose, downstairs. Insisting they're all somehow your next of kin."

Oscar blinked. "Wait—what?"

"They're being very persistent. One of them's threatening to call Ofsted — although I'm not sure what they think that would do."

Oscar let out a tired, stunned breath. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

⸻

The moment he stepped into the corridor outside reception, he heard them before he saw them.

Sam. "You think I won't scale that fucking desk?"

Jane, sharply. "Obviously we're family. Can't you tell? We're quadruplets!"

Matt. "Sam, don't—okay, Sam's climbing the desk—"

Alfie. "Christ. You're all going to get us kicked out."

"Oi!" Oscar called across the room, humiliated and warm all at once.

The four of them turned in unison.

Oscar barely got a word out before Jane had practically launched herself at him.

He caught her, stumbling back a little, and then the rest of them joined in — Alfie clapping his back too hard, Matt wrapping an arm around his neck, Sam hovering awkwardly until Oscar yanked him into the circle too.

For a second, just a second, Oscar let himself lean into it.

Just stood there in the middle of a huddle of teenage arms and deodorant and half-tied ties, and let himself feel.

When he pulled back, his cheeks were wet and he hadn't even realised he was crying again.

"She's okay," he said thickly. "They're both okay. The baby... she's really small, but she's okay. They said her lungs are strong. She—she cried. She was loud. Harper's asleep now. She's okay too."

"Jesus," Matt muttered. "Did it all go alright?"

Oscar gave a weak, crooked smile. "They cut her open. Like—she didn't have to push or anything. A C-section. They didn't even let us wait. She's—Harper's so small, and she was in so much pain, and I didn't—I couldn't do anything."

Sam looked at him for a second. Then just pulled him into another hug, wordlessly.

Jane leaned her head on Oscar's shoulder. "You did exactly what you were supposed to, Osc. You got her here. You stayed with her. You held it together."

He didn't say anything. Just nodded, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes.

Matt cleared his throat. "So... can we meet her?"

Oscar shook his head. "Not yet. She's... she came early, and they don't want too many people near her while her immune system's still new. But—soon. You will. She's got this frowny face, like Harper. It's mad."

Alfie grinned. "Glad she didn't inherit your ugly mug."

"I bet she's gorgeous," Jane added.

Oscar looked at them all, his ridiculous, chaotic, loyal little found family. "Thanks for coming," he mumbled.

"Don't be stupid," Jane said. "Where else would we be?"

They stayed until the nurse kicked them out.

—

Harper woke slowly.

Not all at once, the way she did from nightmares or Oscar's too-early alarm. This was foggy and sore and strange — her body aching in places she didn't even have names for.

The lights were low in the hospital room. The air smelled of antiseptic and warm baby skin.

And her daughter, her daughter, was curled against her chest in a bundle of soft blankets and quiet huffing breaths.

Oscar sat beside her on the bed, one knee pulled up, his fingers gently stroking the baby's back. He looked up when he saw her stir.

"Hey," he whispered, voice thick with softness.

Harper blinked slowly. "Hey."

"Sorry. I just— put her on you. She was crying and she's already been fed, so I think she just wanted to be with you," he stumbled, and the relief in his face almost too much to look at.

She shifted slightly, wincing. Her stomach felt heavy and wrong and tight, like it had been sewn back together with fishing line.

"I can't remember it," she murmured.

"What?"

"The birth," she said. "The—surgery. Everything's blurry. I remember pain, and crying, and being so scared. And then... nothing. Just waking up here."

Oscar nodded. "You were... out of it. They gave you something once they decided to go for the C-section."

Her hand trembled slightly as she adjusted the baby. Oscar reached out, steadying her.

"You were amazing," he said. "I know you don't remember it. But you were so brave."

She shook her head. "I was terrified."

"I know." He swallowed. "So was I."

He hesitated, then told her everything — how the nurses had run with her down the corridor, how he'd had to stop at the surgery doors and wait in scrubs, alone, cold with fear. How he'd been shaking when they finally let him in, when they raised the curtain and let him sit beside her head and hold her hand.

"You kept asking if she was okay," he said. "You don't remember that?"

Harper blinked hard. "No."

"You were half-asleep, but every few minutes you'd whisper, 'Is she okay? Is she okay?'"

He paused.

"And then... they pulled her out. And she cried. Loud. Screamed, actually."

Harper gave a broken little laugh, her free hand brushing at her cheeks. "That's my girl."

"They put her on your chest, and you smiled," he said. "You were still sort of out of it, but you smiled. I cut the cord. My hands were shaking so bad."

"I wish I remembered," Harper whispered.

"I remember enough for both of us," Oscar said softly.

There was a pause. Harper looked down at the baby, at her tiny scrunched-up face and her head of soft downy hair.

And then—loud footsteps. A voice.

"Oscar!"

It was his mum.

Nicole burst into the room first, Chris a step behind her, both of them breathless from the corridor. Oscar barely had time to turn before his mum was pulling him into her arms, hugging him tight, stroking his hair like he was five years old again.

"Oh my god, sweetheart," she said. "Oh my god."

He let himself go limp in her arms, the tension pouring out of him all at once. A full-body exhale.

"Is she okay?" Nicole said, already moving toward the bed, eyes wide and glassy. "Is Harper—"

"I'm fine," Harper said weakly. "A bit... sliced open. But fine."

Nicole was already at her side, brushing Harper's hair off her forehead, looking down at the baby with wide, reverent eyes. "She's beautiful. Oh, sweetheart. You did it."

And Chris — always more reserved — stood at the end of the bed and gave a slow, stunned shake of his head. "Jesus, Oscar," he murmured. "You're a dad."

Oscar gave a dazed, lopsided grin. "Yeah."

Chris clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"

He nodded. Then swallowed. "Now that you're here."

Harper blinked up at them. At Nicole. Her bottom lip trembled. "Thank you for coming."

Nicole squeezed her hand. Leaned down and kissed her forehead. "You're our babies. I'm just sorry we couldn't be here sooner."

—

The hospital room was dark, save for the low yellow glow of the lamp near the cot. Outside, the corridors were quiet, the world hushed and sleeping.

Inside, Harper sat upright in the narrow hospital bed, her legs stretched out stiffly under the thin blanket, her daughter nestled in the crook of one arm and a bottle in the other. Oscar sat behind her, his chest pressed to her back, arms wrapped gently around her — like if he let go, she might come apart.

The baby suckled softly at the bottle, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling near her face. The only sounds were her quiet drinking and Harper's occasional, sniffling breaths.

"I'm sorry," Harper whispered.

Oscar shook his head against the back of hers. "Don't be."

"I just— I couldn't do it. I tried. I really tried. The nurse kept saying I was doing it wrong, and then she latched wrong and it hurt, and then she just— screamed and screamed and— I just want her to eat. I don't care if it's not my body feeding her, I just— she was hungry and I couldn't— I didn't—" Her voice cracked, her whole body trembling against his.

Oscar tightened his arms around her, leaning in closer. "She's eating now," he said quietly. "She's fine. Look at her. She's okay."

"She deserves better," Harper whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Oscar sat there silently for a moment, his hands splayed protectively over her ribs, one of them gently stroking up and down her arm.

"You're seventeen hours out of major surgery," he murmured. "You're holding her. You're feeding her."

"I just wanted to do it right."

"She's eating. That's all that matters."

Harper wiped at her cheek with the sleeve of her hospital gown, sniffling again. "Do you think she'll hate me?"

Oscar let out the smallest, broken sound. He pressed his lips to her shoulder. "No. No, Harp. Never."

The bottle clicked as the baby finished the last of the formula. Harper tipped it gently away, cradling her daughter tighter, staring down at her flushed, soft face.

"I think she looks like you," she whispered.

Oscar smiled faintly. "She's got your hands."

They sat like that for a while — in borrowed pyjamas and rumpled clothes, huddled together in a too-small hospital bed, holding this impossibly small person who had turned their whole world inside out.

"She's so little," Harper whispered, voice cracking again.

"So are we."

She let out a soft laugh that was really more of a sob, and Oscar buried his face in her neck.

Neither of them said it — how scared they were, how much it hurt to feel like they weren't enough, how wildly, madly they loved this baby they barely knew. But it was all there, in the way Oscar kept holding her even after their daughter had been gentle burped and promptly fallen asleep. In the way Harper didn't flinch when he took the bottle from her hands and leaned forward to kiss the top of their daughter's head.

It was 5:47 a.m., and they were still just kids.

But their baby girl was warm and full and safe.

And that was enough.

—

Clementine Grace Piastri was born on the day the rest of England's Year 11 students sat their English Literature GCSE.

Oscar and Harper both failed the exam, having missed most of the questions — for fairly obvious reasons.

Their friends sat the paper in the aftermath and passed with flying colours; even Matt. 

Jane and Sam were given the honour of being Clementine's "godparents", a title they took far too seriously far too quickly.

And when Harper received a text from her mother asking for a photo of her granddaughter, she didn't hesitate.

She blocked the number.

[winkofcharm]

Spinning, Spinning, Spun - Chapter 2

I wanted more for this chapter, but apparently I'm travelling this weekend so it's all I could do.

batfamily x reader {platonic}

[first] [previous]

Alfred thinks he may rival any of The Flashes in how quickly he moves. Any aching joints or stiff knees that may slow him down are forgotten in his hurry. He does not call Stephanie back to inform her, throwing all his attention into getting into the Batcave as soon as he can.  There is no time to waste, for if Stephanie is right - you haven’t been heard from in at least a week, a week too long. If the laughter at the end of your voicemail is real, then you’re not just missing, you’ve been taken.

‘It’s all too familiar’, Alfred thinks, punching in the access code before stepping into the elevator. ‘It’s happened again, another child - gone’. The past replays in his mind, over and over again. Jason, gone, dead, killed by the same grotesque creature that now holds you. 

Alfred is forced to wipe his eyes, clear away his forming tears, so that the retina scanner works. And as soon as he is able, the emergency alert goes out. He knows it will wake Bruce and Tim, and he knows it may take a few minutes for Dick and Barbara to join virtually - but sure enough, his family fills the cave. 

Batman, Robin, Red Robin, Batgirl and Spoiler are all gathered within a half hour. Nightwing’s and Oracle’s faces each on a monitor. Spoiler, Stephanie, is pale, her face twisted into a look of guilt, eyes staring into Alfred’s as he begins to speak. 

The words are slow to form, and choke him as he forces them out-

“I was made aware not long ago that,” Alfred pauses, not purposely, but long enough to give a shuddering sigh, “The young master has -” His eyes settle on Stephanie, who has yet to divert her eyes from him. It is a slight movement, but her head is shaking, back and forth, a silent prayer for him to not finish. “Has been taken.” He finishes. 

Stephanie shrinks into herself, it was not the answer she wanted, but the one she received nonetheless. Alfred shuts his eyes, refuses to look upon the others as he provides more information, the only information he had. He forces the words out, as if speaking them is carving them into stone. He knows he will have to say them, no matter how little he wishes to. He will have to open his eyes, and bear witness to a world in which you most certainly have been harmed. 

He tells them all he knows.

He tells them how Stephanie had noticed your lack of online presence, how she had reached out to him, and he had tried to contact you, and how your voicemail had been…altered. How the laugh at the end could belong to only one person. He finishes, and silence takes over. The only sound he hears is his own heart pounding in his ears - waiting for someone, anyone, to tell him that he was wrong. That you were in fact safe and sound, that you were upstairs in your room, wrapped tightly in blankets and securely asleep. 

Barbara is the first to speak, her voice coming from the speakers, bouncing around the cave with a slight echo. 

“They failed to check in with me today, but they did yesterday. It’s unlikely they’ve been gone that long - “ she explains, Alfred can hear the tap-tap-tap of her keyboard through the surround sound system. She remotely takes control of the computer, various screenshots of conversations popping up as she does. The very latest is dated yesterday, 5:15pm for its final message. 

The picture above your final message (‘Your last words’ Alfred thinks) is cut off, but he catches the end of a runway, and the top of your seated legs.

K. 

That’s it. 

5:15pm: K.

“According to their schedule, they should be in Milan for fashion week - huh. Strange -” Barbara stops mid-sentence. Her brow furrowing as she types rapidly, “But the jet’s in New York, and has been for-” she cuts herself off again. Typing getting faster, a frown overtaking her expression. “Three weeks - what? They’ve been sending pictures from all over the place?” 

Stephanie’s eyes widen, and she steps forward. 

“That picture is from last year,” She pulls out her phone and pulls up profile, scrolling back through a years worth of content, “See! It’s the same one!” She claims. She sends it wirelessly to the computer, and it pops up squished between Babara and Dick’s faces. 

Even from what little he could see of your messages from Barbara, he can tell it’s the truth. The lights are the same, the runway and laying in your lap are identical, down to the tiniest of stains on the knee of your pants. 

Barbara proceeds to pull up more and more of the pictures you have supposedly sent her these last few days, and sure enough - each one is a duplicate to an earlier post. Panic and fear bubble in Stephanie’s chest as she confirms each one, and Alfred watches as the rest of his family begin to realize - 

You were gone.

Someone had your phone.

That someone had been pretending to be you.

If the laugh at the end of your voicemail was any indication - 

Joker had you, had had you for a week, at least. 

And no one had noticed. 

It’s only when Bruce steps forward, that Barbara and Stephanie fall silent, and back into line. His eyes are steel, cold and hard,  flickering over all the presented information. 

“Nightwing, come back to Gotham, you and I will focus on the Red Hood case. Spoiler and Robin, I need you to investigate the Jet, check it over, see if anything is out of place,” He pauses, deep in thought before continuing, “Oracle, track their digital movements. Phone records, previous posts - everything. Red Robin, Batgirl, try and see if they have any enemies. Anyone who may have wanted them hurt, or wanted to hurt the Wayne family.” 

Bruce stops, and looks over his team, his family, as he gives his instruction. Splitting their attention at a time like this, with a new violent vigilante on the loose in his city, wasn’t ideal. He would make it work - he had to. Red Hood was targeting the Robins, Red Robin in particular, this gave him both an excuse to get Tim off the Red Hood case, and onto your disappearance. He hopes they aren’t connected, and hopes he can keep the rest of them from realizing they might be. 

It would be easier for him to take Red Hood on with Dick alone; and if it means letting the rest think Joker - who is still firmly locked in Arkham - took you, then so be it. 

Bruce dismisses his team, his family, his children, and watches them all flit off into the night. Oracle signs off with a flourish, but Dick remains behind - the computer automatically adjusts so that his face, and his face alone takes up the entire monitor. Bruce is turned away from the monitor, and despite the distance between them, he can feel his son's eyes burn into his back. He knows that Dick is frowning, knows what he will say when he turns to face him. He lets out a sigh, there is no preventing what is to come, his shoulders fall slack, and he finally turns to face what he knows is coming - as if he is the son to be scolded by his father. 

Dick is angry, is disappointed, and frustrated. He may not have been as close to you as he could have been, but you were still part of his family. He was once told that keeping you at arms length meant keeping you safe, but he learned long ago that was a lie. 

He was already Nightwing by the time he had met you, but he had known of you for far longer. He learned of you from bits and pieces, crumbs dropped by those who barely let a thing slide. Written reports on a desk that he was technically forbidden from reading, early morning phone calls between Alfred and some secret stranger - everything pointed to a secret, and Dick was really, really good at figuring out people's secrets.

He discovered you, and then, to his regret, left you alone. He was gone by the time you finally came home, and with Jason arriving nearly the same day to replace him - his attention was diverted to the most pressing matter. He did visit occasionally, and met you through those visits. 

You didn’t know about the Batman thing, and he was fine keeping that from you. He also didn’t think he had to make sure Jason knew about keeping the Batman thing secret from you, but maybe he should have. There was such a clear divide between you pre-knowing, and post-knowing. 

Dick can’t help but think that if he had tried just a bit more, things may have been different. He appreciates all that you do, really he does - it’s just, he doesn’t know you the way he knows everyone else. Doesn’t know what makes you happy or sad, doesn’t know your favourite foods, favourite colours, or even who your friends are ( do you even have any, outside of those you work with?). Now it may be too late, he thinks. If Joker has you, and you’ve really been gone for as long as they think - it’s Jason all over again. He wonders if he’ll see you too, in the dark corners of his mind. If an apparition of you, molded by his own mind, will taunt his failures as Jason’s ghost does. 

It’s not even the first time you’ve been kidnapped. They all have, at some point or another, but they all had training to get themselves out. You hadn’t, and yes, most of the time it was some low ranking organization or crook looking for a quick buck, thinking you an easy target (and you were an easy target), it didn’t change the fact that it’d happened. 

Didn’t change the fact that after the first time, Dick had promised he’d spend more time with you (and then didn’t). Then it happened again, and this time you weren’t even rescued by a family member, by a familiar face. Maybe it was one of the Supers? Or maybe a Flash? You were brought home by a Green Lantern once (twice). Each time he’d promise himself, he’d treat you better, each time he promised you’d be safer and it wouldn’t happen again - and then it did. 

It ate at him, how you’d shrug off each incident without a word. Perhaps, he thinks, he convinced himself that it didn’t affect you, that even if you were snatched up, you’d be saved in the end, so the fact that it happened didn’t matter. But it did matter, it did. He swears it did, and staring down at your shared Father, who had swore time and time again that you’d be kept safe (and being proven wrong, time and time again) it sinks in that this may be the last time.  That those promises he made to himself were never going to be kept, that he was a liar, that for all his bravado about being the best big brother , he was possibly one of the worst. 

“Bruce,” he forces out, words dancing on the tip of his tongue, “You said this wouldn’t happen again.” 

‘This’ being either you being kidnapped again, or having another of his siblings taken away by the clown prince of crime. He isn’t sure which one he means, or maybe he means both - and judging from the look on Bruce’s face, he takes it as both. 

“It hasn’t, “ Bruce starts, and Dick thinks he may have finally lost it. You definitely were taken again, and a good chance it was - “He’s still locked up.” 

What?

“Joker’s still in Arkham, the others will figure that out soon enough,” He continues, and Dick stares open-mouthed at him. If Joker is still in Arkham, then who? Who has you? Harley? Is it an attempt to bust Joker out? To continue his work while he cannot? Dick can’t help but wonder what is worse, thinking Joker or Harley may have you, or not knowing who does. He runs over all the possibilities in his mind, for surely this must be one of their known enemies. Someone who wants to target them, because there was never a reason to target you specifically. 

But there’s a new player on the board, isn’t there? One that’s started cropping up everywhere they look. 

“Bruce, you don’t think it’s him do you?” Dick waits for an answer, and all he gets is the slightest nod of Bruce’s head. “I see. I’ll be back in Gotham by the morning, and then, we’re tracking Red Hood down.” With that, Dick dismisses himself, logging off and finally Bruce is alone. 

He is not a good father. He knows this. He has never pretended otherwise, despite what some may say. They may say he did his best, he did all that he could. They praise him for the way his children have turned out, the ones that survived, as if he is the reason they did so. He knows he is not, especially not when it comes to you. 

There is nothing he has done right for you, not once, except perhaps try to set you free from the darkness. But even that, he thinks, he has done wrong. To let you grow in the sun, he severed your roots. Refused to let them take hold, that someday you might leave him, and his shadows behind, and start anew. Yet he sought to tie you to him, that you might never find that sun, may see it, but never feel its warmth for yourself. 

He is a selfish man, who drags those around him down, he poisons the well from which you drink long before you could find another. In wanting to keep you close, he has driven you away. In wanting to drive you away, he may have killed you. 

You are his first born, one that he did not want, but was no less dear to him. He has never shown you this, never let you know, and now that may be another great failure atop the pile of other great failures. 

He was not there when you were born, didn’t even know you were to be, but when the hospital called, he felt his heart swell. A family, a father in a way that Dick didn’t really need him to be. He didn’t rush, couldn’t rush. It wouldn’t be the first time he was declared the father of an illegitimate child. He pushed for tests, just in case, and when they came back and you were his, he felt himself hope. 

Hope is a fickle mistress, and he found it lacking soon after. He had you placed in his childhood room, the nursery, the one in which all Wayne children had resided in at some point or another. He thought he could keep up with raising a child and being The Batman. He was young, he was capable, he was, he was doing so very very wrong by you.

A baby was different from a preteen, he soon learned. Dick was easy, because for the most part, he could care for himself. He did not need someone to watch him at all hours, didn’t need nappies changed and bottles warmed. It was not care he nor Alfred could give. 

He did what he thought was best, and though it haunted him, he sent you away, and promised he would bring you back when you were older, when it would be better, easier. 

A better time, an easier time, never came. Something always came up, always held him back on bringing you home. He didn’t think that time would ever come, doesn’t know if it truly had. But you came home, the woman he had personally hired to raise you was retiring, and he figured it was the only chance he had to bring you in. 

The date slipped his mind, and on the day you came home, he found Jason. Instead of greeting you, welcoming you, embracing you, he opened his arms to another, letting you slip into the manor like a phantom. 

You were finally home and despite all that you may have needed - Jason needed more. He passed you in the hallways, sometimes at meals, never really stopping to connect with you the way he should have. He learned of you indirectly, through Jason. 

How glad he was, that you held no animosity towards the boy he had taken in. You never gave any inclination towards the idea he may have stolen your place, even if Jason sometimes thought he had. The boy was sensitive, empathetic to a degree Bruce hadn’t known before. And Bruce, for the moment, encouraged it.

Until you found out about Batman. 

He had done what he could to keep you separate. To keep your life and light safe from the dark and dirt that encompassed all he did. It was Jason’s mistake, and Jason would be punished accordingly. But that left you - sitting alone in the study, eyes cast aside until he began to speak and you looked up and oh- 

Your eyes. 

His mothers eyes. 

He had never looked you in the eyes before, never noticed, how could he not notice? You had her eyes. Your eyes, looking upon him in fear, reminding him so clearly of his mothers eyes on that night.  His mothers eyes, frightened of him. 

He panicked. Lashed out, locked you out of the loop and threw away the key. If it meant you hated him, feared him, so be it. He would keep you safe, he would do all he could to keep those eyes in his life. 

And then he failed. Again. He thought by letting you go into the world slowly, he could at least try to keep you safe and content. 

Again, and again, and again, and again. He watched you suffer as he failed you. Then when you finally seem to be escaping his failure, leaving behind all his mistakes, he refuses to let you go. Forces you to play pretend, to put a metaphorical mask on and lie to the world about how perfect he is -

Sometimes he lets himself believe it, lets himself get lost in the fairy tale, that you are a happy child and he is a good father, that he has never abandoned you, that you and he are a team, taking on the world together. He pretends that he has never missed a ceremony or award, that ‘family night’ includes you, that he doesn’t see only your back walking away from him, that he has never walked away from you. 

‘This is the last time,’ Bruce thinks, going back over all your accounts, comparing the recent ones to the timeline of Red Hood showing up in Gotham. ‘After this, I will let them go.’ 

He knows this is another lie, and chooses to believe it anyway. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Next chapter - Red Hood vs Batman,

and finally, a check in with Reader-tan

@holybatflapexpert @electricgg @xoyumiqls @holderoflostmemories @sleeptimes @galaxypurplerose @sassam @pearlyribbons @bellelamoon @fortunatelydifferentqueen

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man i'm hopin these tags work

[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���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. follow up.

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.

[tranquilreign]

hi can i request a female reader x jk angst? the plot is jk's wife passed away like a year~2 years ago but he never moved on bcs he loves her so much maybe she's his first love?? but he's a well-known ceo so his family cant afford public seeing jk weak or it will affect their business, so they arranged his marriage with reader, a daughter of their business partner. jk always ignore her in their marriage but she never stops trying, but at one point jk did something that hurts her so she ran away and plan to divorce.. thats when jk realise how bad he's been treating her.. sorry for being too specific, u can change anything as u like 😭🙏🏻 i'm hoping for a happy ending but after jk has suffered LMAO anyways thank u so much in advance if u could write this request 🥹🫶🏻

without you | requested oneshot

- © tranquilreign - all rights reserved | DO NOT STEAL, TAKE, or COPY any of MY WORK without MY PERMISSION.

🗒 details

pairing; jungkook/reader genre: angst, fluff, arranged marriage au! ceo au! warnings: loss, swearing, slight neglect, arranged marriage word count: 4.2k

🖋 synopsis

without (pre.) wuh·thowt in the absence of

when jungkook's image begins to crumble due to the loss of his wife, his family force him into an arranged marriage to keep their strong influence.

🖇links

jungkook masterlist main masterlist request | request rules prompt list

Jeon Jungkook. CEO of Golden Closet Corporations. A powerful, wealthy man. But broken. The news of his wife's death spread like wildfire when it was confirmed. He couldn't escape the images of his wife's face. She was everywhere he looked.

Being who he was, Jungkook couldn't properly grieve. Maintaining the perfect, pristine image as CEO. Though months passed by, Jungkook stayed the same. Stoic, unhappy. His employees had noticed the cracks first.

The way he would stay in his office for hours, claiming he was working, when in fact he was weeks behind. Lashing out at employees and even trashing his own office at one point.

Rumours quickly spread throughout the building, then into the press about Jungkook's behaviour. Contracts were cut, and new connections were declined due to Jungkooks state.

Eventually, his family had to get involved, turning up unannounced one evening at his home. Jungkook reluctantly let them in, letting them walk into the living room to sit down.

The house wasn't as clean as it used to be. Dirty dishes sat piled in the sink with the dishwasher open, showing clean dishes that hadn't been put away. The lights and table surfaces were dusty, something which Jungkook typically hated. It made his parents cringe at his lack of hygiene.

"Son," Jungkook's father began, leaning forward on the couch, elbows resting on his knees.

His eyes were stern, disapproving of his son's behaviour. Jungkook would usually shrink at his father's gaze, but he was numb. No amount of dissatisfaction he felt from his father fazed him. His own disappointment in himself clouded that.

"Kookie," his mother spoke faintly, moving to place her hand on his knee.

He looked at her, his eyes filled with nothing. Empty. She squeezed his knee reassuringly, but the look in her eyes told a different story. She was looking at him apologetically, which confused Jungkook. His eyes moved back to his father.

"Your past actions are having a severe impact on the company. On us," Jungkook's father explained.

Jungkook scoffed.

"Is that what you are here to talk to me about? My reputation. Your reputation," Jungkook snapped. "In case you've forgotten, my wife-" he paused, feeling the lump in his throat.

"Yes, we know. Your wife died... a year and a half ago," his father brushed off.

"What your father means to say-" his mother responded quickly. "Is that we know you are going through a difficult time, but lashing out at your employees isn't helping you."

Jungkook huffed, leaning back in his seat, looking out the window, staring at the city skyline. He remembered how he would sit with his wife, watching the sunset together as he held her close. He would whisper sweet nothings into her ear, embracing her in a long, loving kiss, as the sun sank behind the skyscrapers.

"You're getting married."

Jungkook's head shot round, now glaring at his father. How could he be expected to remarry when he hadn't even been given the chance to properly grieve his wife?

"No."

The two men stared at one another, silently challenging each other. Their gazes were intense, the atmosphere making Jungkook's mother shift in her seat uncomfortably. Jungkook's jaw clenched at his father, who wasn't backing down.

"If you don't remarry-" his father paused, "we'll take everything away from you. Your position, your home. We'll take every memory you have with your wife out of this house away from you."

Jungkook's eyes softened. He had built a life with the woman he loved in this home. It was their dream house, exactly how they wanted it. He couldn't give it up, letting go of all those memories. He would never see her again in his dreams, the only time he felt truly at peace.

"That's what I thought," his father spoke, tone low. Jungkook's head hung, staring at the floor.

His mother made a move to comfort him, but was stopped by her husband. They stood, making a move to leave the house.

"Will you at least tell me whom I am to marry?" Jungkook asked, looking up at his parents.

His father turned around, his grip on his wife's hand loosened, letting it drop to her side. She looked at her son with sorrowful eyes, wishing nothing more than to see her son happy again.

"Her name is Y/n L/n. She is the daughter of a rival company, but through this marriage, we will unite under one name."

His father walked out of the apartment, leaving Jungkook's mother as she looked at her helpless son.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," she soothed. "I know this isn't what you wanted, or what you'd ever want. But please, at least try."

Jungkook's eyes stung from the tears that rolled down his cheeks. His mother's heart broke at the sight, wanting nothing more than to embrace her son and reassure him that everything would be okay.

With one final goodbye, she left, leaving him completely and utterly alone.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ───���── ⊰

Jungkook stood silently at the altar, the crowd muttering amongst themselves as they waited for the ceremony to start. The CEO unknowingly fiddled with his watch, feeling exposed. His father had made sure to make this a large, extravagant wedding, which was against Jungkook's wishes.

"It's to make a statement, Jungkook. Showing the world that we've made peace with our rivals."

At that moment, the crowd quietened down as the music picked up. Jungkook looked at the double doors at the back of the room. His mind wandered back to the day when his wife walked through similar doors, her face hidden by her veil. But he knew she would be beautiful. She always was.

He smiled slightly, expecting his wife to be behind the doors. Knowing it was too good to be true, his smile faltered back into his stoic expression. The doors opened, revealing a woman.

In her hands, she held a stunning arrangement of white tulips and roses, elegantly spaced among each other. Her dress was beautiful, featuring off-the-shoulder sleeves that showcased her radiant skin. It struck the perfect balance between lace and silk. Small rhinestones adorned the dress, creating an ombre effect that cascaded from the bodice to the floor.

Her face was not hidden behind a veil; instead, her hair was styled delicately, with a few curled strands falling down the sides and framing her face. Her chest rose and fell quickly, clearly indicating her nervousness.

Jungkook locked eyes with you, noting your innocence. But you still smiled at him, appreciating his presence. Jungkook hesitantly held out his hand to you when you reached the altar, which you gladly took.

Gracefully, you lifted your dress, making sure not to tread on the expensive fabrics as you ascended the stairs. You stood in front of Jungkook now, looking between him and the priest to your left.

Jungkook stood, imagining it was his deceased wife in front of him, hoping there was some escape in this nightmare.

"Mr. Jeon?" the priest asked.

The man looked at the priest, then at you. You were looking around, biting your lip nervously.

"Do you take Y/n to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Jungkook hesitated for a moment, the tension in the room growing thicker as the silence continued. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

"Yes. I do," he replied dryly.

You let out the breath you didn't realise you had been holding. You had responded immediately to the priest's question, smiling reassuringly at Jungkook.

"You may now kiss the bride."

Jungkook didn't hesitate, wanting this to be over with. He pulled you in by the waist and kissed you. It was short, with no passion lingering in his touch. He pulled away, both of you turning to the guests who clapped excitedly for you.

You tried to slide your hand into his, but he retracted. He had eventually moved it into yours as he escorted you out of the hall and into the street, which was bustling with reporters and paparazzi.

All questions were ignored as he guided you to the limousine, opening the door and indicating for you to get in. You compiled, the flashing of the cameras beginning to bother your eyes. Jungkook moved around to the other side, quickly getting in. The vehicle sped off, leaving the reporters and guests behind.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

The after party was uneventful, parents and friends giving speeches, dancing and drinking. You and Jungkook hadn't had anything to drink, growing uncomfortable in the growing silence between the two of you.

When you had made it back to his place, Jungkook tugged his tie off and threw his jacket onto the couch. He sighed, his head falling back, the realisation finally sinking in. You had been arranged to live with him.

"Take the bed, I'll sleep on the couch," he muttered.

Jungkook didn't want to disrespect the loving nights he shared with his past wife. It was their bed, and he wouldn't ruin those memories by having another woman beside him.

"Are you sure? I can take the couch instead," you suggested.

You were well aware of Jungkook's loss. Having seen the rumours in the news about his behaviour and coldness. You knew he would never love you and that there would be no way you could replace his previous wife. But you wanted to try and make things as easy for him as possible.

"No. What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you sleep on the couch?"

You hummed in response, bowing a quick thank you to him, then disappeared into the bathroom. Your belongings had been moved in the previous day, while you and Jungkook's families were sorting the final few details of the wedding.

You gently took off your makeup and did your regular skin-care routine. Sliding your dress off your body, you changed into pyjamas and draped your wedding dress over your left arm.

Leaving the bathroom, you took notice of Jungkook, who was still in his suit, shoes now kicked off, lying down on the couch, watching as the sun set. You slowly approached him, sitting down on the chair to his left and looked out at the city.

"I'm sorry," you spoke softly.

Jungkook didn't look at you, making no movement or sound to indicate that he acknowledged your words. You continued nonetheless.

"I know this isn't what you wanted. And I am deeply sorry for the loss of your wife."

Jungkook stiffened at your words. No one had given him an ounce of sympathy since she had passed. It felt strange, unnatural, now receiving that comfort.

"I also know I will never be her. And I won't try to be her either," you paused. "But please know, I will do my best to make your life comfortable and happy."

For the first time since the ceremony, he looked at you. He said nothing, eyes almost empty. You caught a slight sliver of appreciation for your words. He then moved, lying on his back and closing his eyes. You took that as your cue to leave.

"Good night," you whispered, standing up and making your way over to the bedroom.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

A few months had passed since you had been wed. Not much had changed; Jungkook was still quiet and barely acknowledged your presence. But he showed his appreciation for you being there for him in small ways.

Whether it was bringing home take-out for both of you when you'd had a long day. Or when he would silently run a bath for you when he had noticed you rubbing your shoulders in discomfort.

The awkwardness had eased between you, but sometimes it was still there. You never knew what exactly to say to him. He wore the same stoic expression, never once smiling or becoming angry.

You had awoken early one morning, yawning and climbing out of bed, and groggily walking into the kitchen. You glanced at the clock ticking away quietly on the tiled wall. 5:00 am.

Jungkook slept peacefully on the couch, still refusing to share a room with you. Yet you had often caught him in your supposed shared bedroom. He would gently graze the bedsheets with his fingertips, memories of his passed wife easing into his mind. It was the only time you'd truly see him at peace.

Jungkook inhaled the sweet scent of bacon, the aroma waking him up from his slumber. He groaned slightly, sitting up on the couch and looking around the room. Turning in his seat, he looked at you, his eyes still foggy.

"Good morning," you mused, giving him a gentle smile.

"Mina?"

Your smile faltered, turning back around to flip the bacon in the pan. Jungkook stood up, rubbing his eyes. Realisation came to him when he finally saw it was you in the kitchen, not the woman he loved so dearly. He cursed under his breath.

"Sorry."

"It's fine," you mumbled in response. "Like I said, I will never be her, or try to be her. I have no expectations from you."

Your words, for some reason, hurt Jungkook's heart. He was confused by the feeling growing in his chest. Shaking it off, he shuffled over to the island table in the kitchen and sat down at one of the seats.

"Mina used to make me this," he sighed, looking at the display before him.

Pancakes sat in the middle of the table, with an assortment of fruits and nuts, all in separate bowls. A glass jug of orange juice sat to his left, which Jungkook made a grab for immediately. He poured himself a glass, then looked around for yours.

"Are you not eating?" he asked.

"Hmm?" you asked, in a moment of confusion. "Oh, no. I'm not hungry."

Jungkook eyed you warily, watching you closely. You turned around, scooping the bacon out of the pan and placing it on his plate. He looked down, and it was exactly how he liked it.

"Thank you."

"It's alright. I won't make it again, though, if it was something Mina did. I don't want you to think-"

"No," Jungkook suddenly responded, taking both of you aback. "I appreciate you doing this for me. Please don't stop, if it's something you enjoy making."

A gentle smile graced your features as you sat down opposite him. You watched him eat, looking at his messy hair and baggy t-shirt. As time passed, with you and Jungkook living together, you had slowly begun to develop feelings for him.

You would never act on those feelings, however. Knowing Jungkook would never accept you. The loss of his wife still affected him so deeply to the point he still dreamt of her, and even envisioned her in the house.

You stretched, stepped out of your seat. Jungkook looked up from his food and couldn't help but stare at the way your t-shirt rode up, exposing a little bit of your stomach. He swallowed and looked away, scolding himself for his wandering eyes.

"Do you have any plans today?" you asked suddenly, moving out from the kitchen and to the living room, picking up the discarded pillows on the floor.

"No," Jungkook responded blankly. "You?"

"I was planning on doing some cleaning," you responded, fluffing the pillows that now sat on the couch. "I typically do it while you are at work, but I was so tired yesterday..." you trailed off, a slight blush spreading across your cheeks.

"Do you want me to help?"

You were surprised by his offer, not expecting him to want to help. You shook your head, holding up your hands and waving them in the air.

"No, no. It's alright, you just relax. I shouldn't be too long anyway," you explained sheepishly.

Jungkook finished the last of his food and picked up the empty plates. He moved over to the sink on the other side of the island, turning on the tap.

"At least let me do the dishes. It's the least I can do for you, making me breakfast," he spoke, his tone soft.

It was the first time he had sounded... human. It was surprising. You smiled at him and nodded, confirming his request.

"I'll start in the bedroom. If you need anything, just give me a shout," you said. "Excuse me."

You walked in behind him, trying to squeeze past him. You accidentally tripped, stumbling over your feet. Jungkook was quick to react, his arms wrapped around your waist, halting your fall. You jerked at the sudden stop, turning your head to look at him. Both of you held eye contact for a moment until he let out a grunt, helping you stand back upright.

"Thank you. Sorry."

"It's fine," Jungkook muttered shyly.

You bent down next to him, opening the bottom cupboard door and grabbing the feather duster. Instead of trying to squeeze past him again, you walked in the opposite direction around the island and into the bedroom.

Quietly, you hummed to yourself, dusting away and moving anything that could get in the way or get knocked over. You silently cursed to yourself when you had elbowed a small box off the bookshelf.

You bent down to pick it up, stopping when you noticed the contents had spilt out. A beautiful emerald ring encased in silver glittered against the sunlight. Carefully, you picked it up and examined it. It was beautiful.

You moved to pick up the box, and you placed it onto the set of drawers in front of the bed. Looking at it one more time, you were about to put it back in its box when Jungkook's voice boomed throughout the room.

"What the fuck are you doing!?"

You spun on the spot, stunned by his sudden tone. He was angry. With no hesitation, he stormed over to you and snatched the box and ring from you.

"I-I'm sorry," you stuttered out. "I accidentally knocked-"

"Shut the fuck up."

You fell silent. His glare didn't once leave you as he pocketed the box, ring now inside. He grabbed you by the arms tightly. You winced.

"Jungkook, you're hurting me."

"You will never touch that again. Do you hear me?!" he spat, his grip continuing to tighten until a scream escaped your lips.

In that moment, Jungkook felt his world crash down around him. He panicked, letting you go. You fell to the ground, holding your arms, trying to ease the pain.

"Fuck... Y/n, I'm so sorry," he went to move towards you, but you slid away from him, fear evident in your eyes.

Tears fell down your cheeks as you moved as far away as you could from him, your back hitting the wall when you could move no further. He ran both of his hands through his hair, fear and frustration clouding his mind.

He hurt you.

"I'm- I'm sorry," he breathed, backing away. "So... so sorry."

He ran for it, grabbing his jacket and leaving the house, the door creating a loud slam as he did so.

You sat back flush against the wall, exhaling in relief. You had never seen Jungkook so angry, and it terrified you. Based on his reaction, it must have been Mina's engagement ring, something which was clearly precious to Jungkook.

"That's gonna bruise," you muttered, examining your arms as you slowly stood up.

Grabbing the discarded feather duster, you shuffled back into the kitchen, putting it away. The ache in your arms was still evident, and in that moment, you decided that a bath was probably the best way to ease the pain.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

Jungkook continued to run, the hard rain hitting against his face. He couldn't believe what he had just done. He put his hands on you. To hurt you. He wanted to hurt you. Because you had touched something precious to him. Something you weren't allowed to touch.

He stopped, catching his breath. He cried, not knowing what to do. Jungkook knew you weren't going to do anything with the ring. But the sight of you looking at it had him see red.

He leaned against the railings in the park, staring out at the pond, its usually still water disturbed by the pattering of the rain. Thunder crashed as the sky continued to darken, Jungkook's already soaked hair beginning to stick to his neck and face.

Jungkook had to make this right. He pushed himself off the railing and sprinted back to the apartment, praying you weren't already packing your things to leave him.

He pushed himself, lungs burning as they begged for breath, but he didn't stop. Turning the last corner to the street where you lived, he slid. He lost his breath, pitching forward and catching himself with his hands on the ground. He stumbled forward, eventually balancing out when he regained himself.

He barged into the apartment, not caring that he was leaving water all over the floor. He glanced around the room, looking for any sight of you. Running to the bedroom, his eyes widened when he saw the suitcase that sat on the bed, with clothes laid out.

"Y/n!" he shouted, between panting breaths.

No response. Without thinking, he turned to the bathroom, starting his search for you there.

You let out a high-pitched scream when Jungkook suddenly burst through the door. You move to cover yourself with your hands, trying to hide the most desirable parts of you.

"What the hell, Jungkook," you squeaked.

Your head was resting on your knees, which were tucked up against your chest. You were looking right at him, eyes blown wide at the circumstance you both were now in.

The sight before Jungkook didn't bother him. Instead, he dropped to his knees and shuffled towards you. He plunged his hand into the hot water, pulling your hand out and holding it in his.

"Please, don't leave Y/n," he begged, his head bowed as he did so.

"What-"

"Please. I don't know what I would do if you weren't here. You've helped me through so much. You have shown me kindness and that you care about me."

You were dumbstruck, unsure of the situation at hand. Had Jungkook hit his head while he was out? You didn't know, but you were more confused than ever.

"Jungkook, who said I was leaving?" you asked, lifting your head up.

Jungkook's head shot up, looking at you with tears in his eyes. He stuttered over his words, trying to find a way to explain his thought process. He stopped when his eyes wandered to your arm, a bruise beginning to form from where he grabbed you.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed, lifting your arm closer to him.

He planted a soft kiss against the bruise, his actions taking you by surprise. Jungkook pulled away, gently running his thumb over the injury, ashamed of his actions. He promised himself, from then on, that he would love and protect you. Forever.

In that moment, it was as if Jungkook had an epiphany. In the recent days of your relationship, whenever he closed his eyes, he thought he saw Mina. The love of his life.

Instead, he was seeing you. Smiling and holding out your hand for him to take. As if Jungkook was dreaming, he looked behind him, seeing Mina holding his other hand, caressing his knuckles lovingly.

"Go to her," Mina whispered. "Be happy again."

For the first time, after so long, Jungkook smiled, looking up at you. You raised an eyebrow, confused at his sudden reaction, but your heart warmed at his smile.

Jungkook moved his hands to cup your face. You stared at him, unsure of what he was doing. He didn't think, moving forward and pulling you into a soft, gentle kiss.

You immediately melted into him, closing your eyes, manoeuvring around in the bath so you faced him. His touch was warm, moving from your face to your jaw, holding you delicately, passion exploding between the two of you.

You were the first to pull away, moving your arm back around to cover your chest. Jungkook kept his eyes shut, panting softly. He felt warm, happy, something he had yearned for, for so long.

"It's taken me so long to realise," Jungkook whispered.

He placed his forehead against yours, opening his eyes and looking at you lovingly.

"That you are what I needed. Who I needed. You've helped me see, helped me realise that Mina wouldn't want me to grieve. To push everyone away."

You smiled at his words, moving away from him. He took your free hand in his, running his thumb over the back of your hand softly.

"I love you, Y/n," he breathed.

It was as if the world had stopped spinning. You looked at Jungkook, whose eyes held every emotion he had seemed to have forgotten long ago. Tears welled in your eyes, your hand squeezing his reassuringly.

"I love you, too."

hello guys! hope you enjoyed! this one felt rather long so i am sorry for that! and to the lovely person who requested. thank you so much!! you are the first to have requested and I really appreciate you doing so!

this was so much fun to write, despite it being sad, but it truly was a blast! i do hope this is what you had in mind when you requested. when I saw your ask this type of story immediately came to mind! i do hope that is okay!

tranquilreign~

[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.

[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.

[paucubarsisimp]

Can you please do more something for Gavi where everyone is at a team barbecue for dinner at raphas and Keyne, miles, Gael, Anna and Laura etc. are all there playing together and Gavi basically has major baby fever the whole time!

baby fever

pairing: pablo gavi x reader

summary: in which pablo gets baby fever watching you play with his teammate's kids

warnings: none!

a/n: i couldn't stop myself from writing the little bonus part and i also have baby fever now...

the sun melts like honey across the grass.

it’s late afternoon, the kind of lazy golden hour that makes everything feel slow and a little unreal. the sky is blushed with heat, music drips soft and low from the speaker tucked near the pool, and the air smells like sunscreen, charcoal, and someone’s cologne carried in the breeze.

you’re stretched across a blanket under a wide tree, warm skin pressed against the earth, surrounded by chaos in miniature form.

gael is curled against your hip like a sleepy kitten, sticky fingers wrapped tight around your dress. miles is in your lap, chewing on something that might’ve once been a cracker, humming a nonsense tune while you stroke his hair. keyne is spinning in circles just beside you, dizzy and giggling, arms outstretched like he’s about to fly.

you can feel the sun on your collarbone. your drink is sweating in your hand. mikky, taia, and laura are lounging beside you, soft and content, the kind of calm that only comes when the kids are entertained and no one’s currently crying.

"you’ve got a fan," mikky murmurs, glancing over the rim of her sunglasses.

you hum, not really listening.

"no," taia adds, grinning, "you’ve got a worshipper."

you follow their gaze across the yard, past the grill and the long table full of empty plates and laughter, to where pablo is standing with his beer half-forgotten in one hand, head tilted, eyes soft and full and stuck on you.

he’s not even pretending to be subtle.

he’s standing there, shirt a little wrinkled, curls slightly damp from the pool, sun touching the line of his jaw—and he’s looking at you like you’re something holy. like you hung the stars, then bent down and kissed the tops of three toddlers’ heads just for fun.

your lips curve. “he’s staring.”

“he’s in love,” laura sings, low and amused.

“he’s having a full mental breakdown,” mikky whispers, watching him blink slowly, totally unaware of the teasing happening in real time.

from across the yard, ferran catches pablo’s expression and nearly chokes on his drink.

“hermano, breathe.”

lamine’s already laughing. “he’s thinking of baby names already”

“he’s gone,” frenkie says, clapping him on the shoulder. “like… wedding ring in the pocket gone.”

pablo doesn’t say anything. he just keeps watching you, arms full of sunlight and someone else’s baby, laughing softly at something keyne said that made no sense at all. the kind of laugh that makes your shoulders shake gently, that makes miles look up at you with wide, adoring eyes.

it’s stupid. and simple. and it knocks the wind right out of his lungs.

he comes over eventually, barefoot and flustered and acting like he just happened to be passing by, even though everyone knows he’s been waiting for an excuse to get closer.

he drops down onto the blanket beside you, all warm limbs and quiet awe, and lets miles climb instantly into his lap like it’s muscle memory.

“hi,” you say, soft and teasing, brushing a leaf out of his hair.

“hi,” he breathes back, eyes locked on yours. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you raise a brow. “because i’m covered in applesauce?”

“because you look like this,” he says, voice like warm velvet. “like you were made for it.”

your fingers curl gently around his. “for what?”

“this,” he whispers, eyes flicking down to where miles is dozing against his chest. “you. little ones. sunshine. soft days. i want it all with you.”

your throat catches. the kids are babbling again. someone starts the playlist over. and still—his words sit heavy and sweet in your stomach like honey.

“you’ve got baby fever,” you say softly, biting back a smile.

“no,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you fever.”

you blink. then laugh, head tipped back, the sound like wind chimes in the summer.

pablo leans in, lazy and golden and glowing, his mouth brushing the curve of your shoulder. “say the word and i’ll build you a nursery tomorrow.”

you hum. “what if i just want a nap and a snack?”

“that can be step one,” he grins, nuzzling into your neck.

miles shifts slightly in his arms. keyne plops down beside you with a dramatic sigh. gael’s small hand finds yours and curls around it, sticky and warm.

and suddenly, the world feels a little slower. a little softer.

you look at pablo—so full of something tender you don’t have a name for—and press your forehead to his.

“you’d be a good dad,” you whisper.

his lashes flutter. “say it again.”

“you’d be a really good dad, pablo.”

he smiles then—crooked and glowing, like you just gave him the moon.

and somewhere across the yard, fermin yells, “you two making babies over there or just planning it?”

you don’t even flinch. pablo just kisses your cheek.

and you—cradling sunshine and chaos and a boy who’s already halfway yours—just smile.

bonus:

the house is quiet now.

not silent—never that, not with three under-fives asleep (or almost asleep) somewhere in the vicinity—but quiet in the way that feels full. like something soft breathing under your skin.

the team barbecue faded hours ago. the sun dipped behind the trees, and slowly the backyard laughter gave way to yawns, half-finished desserts, and sleepy kisses goodbye. the others left one by one, until it was just you, pablo, and three very overstimulated toddlers crashing from their sugar highs.

somehow, you offered to stay the night and babysit. somehow, pablo said yes before you even finished the sentence.

now you’re both sitting on the living room floor—barefoot and pajama-soft—amid a nest of pillows and crumpled blankets, half-buried in baby wipes, storybooks, and a plastic sippy cup that no one can seem to locate.

miles is curled against pablo’s chest, thumb in his mouth, breathing slow and heavy. pablo’s shirt is slightly damp from a bottle incident, but he doesn’t seem to care. he’s swaying gently, back pressed against the couch, whispering something low and sweet in spanish that you can’t quite make out.

“you’re doing so well,” you murmur, kneeling beside him, brushing curls off his forehead.

he looks up at you, and god—his eyes are sleepy, golden, full of something so tender it makes your throat ache.

“he’s perfect,” pablo whispers, like it’s a secret. “they all are.”

you glance over. keyne is finally asleep in the playpen you dragged into the room, one sock off, a toy car clutched in his fist. gael is draped across the loveseat, one leg hanging dramatically over the armrest like a tiny exhausted king.

you sink onto the floor beside pablo, leaning your head on his shoulder. his arm shifts, settles around you without needing to think. miles stirs, sighs, settles.

“i don’t know how mikky and taia do this every night,” you whisper.

pablo hums. “they’re superheroes.”

you’re quiet for a beat. the lamp in the corner casts everything in gold. the air smells like lavender bubble bath and faint traces of barbecue smoke from the open kitchen window.

“you think we could do it?” you ask, almost too soft to hear.

he doesn’t even hesitate. “yes.”

your breath catches. “you didn’t even let me finish the question.”

“didn’t have to.” he turns slightly, careful not to wake miles. “you mean us. this. babies and bottles and falling asleep in the middle of the living room.”

you nod, throat tight.

“yeah,” he says again, quieter now. “i want that with you.”

his fingers find yours under the blanket. slow. warm. familiar.

“you sure?” you tease gently. “what if they all end up like keyne? he made me eat a leaf this morning.”

pablo grins, lazy and full of adoration. “then we’ll eat leaves together.”

you laugh, muffled into his shoulder. “you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m yours,” he corrects, lips brushing your temple.

and it’s true. in every sleepy, sticky, love-drenched way that counts—he is. completely. without question.

outside, the wind shifts through the trees. inside, the soft sounds of breathing, the warmth of pablo’s hand, the steady weight of miles tucked between you like he belongs there.

maybe he does. maybe someday, a few more little ones that do belong there. that are part of you both.

but for now—just this.

just pablo’s heartbeat under your cheek, the quiet hum of the night, the almost-whispered promise in the way he holds you close.

like he already knows.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted lmk if you want to be added!

[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.

[hapuchika]

Hungry Hotties

Summary: Her entire life as a vampire, Reader has successfully drank animal blood to sustain herself. What happens when her body craves the blood of a particular witch?

Warnings: Blood (it's a vampire fic.. there's gonna be blood.), graphic violence, smut, angst/fluff, lil hurt/comfort, thigh riding, magic strap on, soul bond, all the vampire warning things.

Relationship: Wanda Maximoff x Vampire!Reader

A/N: this was an absolute brainrot fic that I wrote cause I was sleep deprived and horny.

Words: 8,925

Main Masterlist

X--X--X--X--X

In all honesty, you could’ve been a lot nicer. You did need help after all. But you just had possibly the worst day of your “immortal” life.

Which led you to right now. Avengers Compound. The lounging room. With guns, repulsers, and… wiggly red fingers aimed at you.

“Wait, I come in peace!” You yelped, raising your hand and dropping the milkshake onto what is probably a pretty expensive rug.

“We just had that cleaned..” Black Widow mumbled to herself.

“You have five seconds. Explain.” Iron Man said, his repulsors charging up.

Your eyes widened as you looked at the repulsors on his hands “Wait, wait, five seconds is not nearly eno-“

“Three seconds.” He warned..

“I’m being hunted by the vampire hunter who killed all my family and friends, " you yelled, squeezing your eyes shut.

The silence and lack of pain implied either that you were atomised so quickly you didn’t even realise it.. or they didn’t shoot.

You braved to open one eye and were met with eyes filled with confusion, suspicion, and of course, Iron Man’s mask.

“You’re… a vampire?” Captain America asked hesitantly.

You nodded slowly, taking your time to lower your hands. You tensed at the feeling of someone’s consciousness against yours.

Your eyes flit to the Scarlet Witch, who was looking at you with a slight frown. You let out a soft sigh and lowered your mental barriers, allowing her to see.

-

Your mothers’ 803rd wedding anniversary.

All the guests and friends.

The sole man dressed in all black.

The burning. The horrific smell and screams.

Both your moms staring at you, apologising as they pushed you off the cliff.

Your scream as the Ebony Blade cuts them both in half.

-

You blinked away the tears as the memory faded, only to find equally watery eyes right in front of you.

“She’s telling the truth. She’s not dangerous.. to us.” Wanda said, with a slight hoarseness in her voice.

You felt her hand gently squeeze your knee.

” I’m so sorry, sweetie.” 

You don’t flinch at her voice in your head. It was the first nice thing anyone had said in the past seventy-two hours.

“This will be a fun dinner party.” You heard Tony’s voice, breaking the silence.

X—X—X—X—X

When Mr. Stark mentioned a dinner party, you should have expected this.

No, this was absolutely, one hundred per cent on you.

You stared at the tens of people in the hall. All of whom were either avengers or friends and family.

“Like the view, quackula?” Came Tony’s voice from behind.

You grimaced, “You do realise the last party I went to, everyone I love-loved ended up dead, right?”

Tony’s face fell.

“What..” He asked.

You frowned, “That dickbag hunter come to my moms’ wedding anniversary.”

He looked at you for a moment in disbelief before he turned around, muttering to himself.

“Goddamn witch and her silence treatment. FRIDAY, tell Happy to stop the guests from coming. Only Avengers. Yes. Ask them to come to the third-floor lounge.”

You looked at him, stunned, before calling out to him, “Wait. Mr. Stark- Mr. Stark?”

He was too far away for him to hear you, so you simply walked quickly and stood in front of him.

“Mr. Stark wa-“

“JESUS CHRIST, " he yelped, his eyes widening as he flinched backwards.

You frown, confused.

He rubbed his temples and took a deep breath.

“So I take it vampire speed is real.” He said, glaring at you.

You give him a sheepish nod. Honestly, being surrounded by vampires your whole life, you’d kind of forgotten humans can't do that.

“Also. Call me Tony.” He said as the two of you walked to the door. “Mr. Stark was my father. Plus, I’m sure you’re nearly as old as Sparkles.”

You give him a nervous laugh, “Actually, I-“

“Alright, here we go.” He interrupted, walking into the lounge.

You could feel yourself tense as you entered a room with fifteen or so people, all of whom stopped what they were doing to stare at you. Only to resume the conversations moments later.

You must have been standing at the entrance for too long because Wanda walked up to you and bumped her shoulder against yours.

“Hey.” She said softly.

You gave her an embarrassed smile. “Hi.” You say with equal softness.

“Is it too much?” She asked.

You simply shake your head, “I’m just.. It’s been a few days.. Yet somehow, it feels both like it just happened and that it happened decades ago.”

She gave you an understanding nod, “I know what that’s like. It… doesn’t really change with time.. at least not for me.”

“Hey, quackula,” you hear Tony call you from the bar. “Want a Bloody Mary?”

You and Wanda burst into giggles as you walk to the bar.

“Quackula?” Wanda asked as the two of you sat on stools.

You shrugged, pulling your jeans up a little, exposing your socks that were covered in ducklings.

The laugh Wanda let out at the sight practically had you melting.

You needed to hear that laugh. For the rest of your hopefully very long life.

You saw a plate of canapés nearby and let out an excited squeal. Wanda looked at you, amused, and tried to follow your line of sight.

Her eyes widened as you disappeared right in front of her with a gust of wind, appearing in front of the poor, frightened server.

“Oh my god, can I have some, please?” You asked him excitedly.

“Y-yes ma’am..” He said, his hands trembling.

Your smile fell when you saw his terrified expression.

“Are you okay? Your heart’s beating really fast.” You ask, taking a step towards him, freezing when he takes a few steps back.

“I-Yes. I’m so sorry. I..” He stammers before letting out a whisper. “Please don’t eat me.”

Before you could react, you felt Natasha casually slide up next to you.

“You doing okay, Gibby?” She asked.

The man visibly relaxed at the sight of her, nodding as he let out a deep exhale.

“Why don’t you head to the bar, Gib?” The spy said, taking the plate from him with practised ease. “You’ve earned a drink.”

He nodded all too eagerly and scampered off.

You stare at the space where he was standing moments ago, your eyes looking far away. You’re only brought back to the present when you feel a hand on your shoulder.

Natasha looks at you with a gentle smile, the plate of Canapés in her hand.

“Want some?” She asks.

You take a deep breath in, not because you needed it, but because the simple act of breathing helped clear your mind.

You open your eyes and smile, nodding.

You grab one and are about to eat when you hear Sam Wilson’s voice.

“Wait, that has garlic.”

Natasha doesn’t move fast enough; you’ve already chomped down on a handful of them with a pleased expression.

Sam comes jogging up to you, ignoring the looks from strangers.

“Are you okay? That had garlic..” He said, concerned.

You look at him confused, “Yes..?”

He freezes for a second, “Is.. garlic not.. fatal?”

You tilt your head in confusion, “Like, am I allergic? No. I’m not really allergic to anything.”

“No, that’s not.. You know what, never mind.” He says, looking particularly embarrassed.

Natasha said nothing, watching the entire interaction with amusement.

The three of you continued to talk (you, in particular, asking about the Avengers) until Wanda joined the conversation.

“You forgot this,” Wanda said, holding a glass filled with a Bloody Mary.

You snickered, taking the drink into your hand and were about to take a sip when you noticed the three of them very obviously staring at you, or rather, your mouth.

Self-conscious, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

“What?” You asked, eyes darting between the three of them. “Do I have something on my mouth?”

They had the decency to look embarrassed.

“It’s not that, kravyshka,” Wanda said, her ears burning.

You glanced at Natasha, who was looking at Wanda with a raised eyebrow and a teasing smirk.

“We.. We were wondering if you had fangs… like in the movies.” Wanda finished, her face pink.

You giggled, finding a flustered Wanda an adorable Wanda.

It wasn’t soon that the four of you were pulled into a circle where the game of truth and dare started.

You giggled, “I didn’t know Avengers played high school party games.”

Many cracked smiles at that.

“Alright, Quackula. Truth or dare? This game is for us to get to know you and you us.”

You smiled, “Truth.”

A few cheers were heard. Even Wanda smiled. Tony grinned satisfactorily.

“Alright then. A question everyone is dying to know. Do you, or vampires in general, consume blood?”

You nod immediately, “Yes. But, not human. Well, not unless they’re your.. partner.”

Tony looked intrigued. “Explain?”

Your eyes flitted to Wanda’s curious ones.

Clearing your throat, you began. “Well.. you see, the thing is. We don’t really produce blood on our own. And we need it for.. actually, I’m not sure, cause it’s like some science and magic stuff, but basically we need blood to survive. But most of us use animal blood that’s delivered to us.”

You see some pouts and smile reassuringly,

“Don’t worry. These animals are having the time of their life. It’s like a blood donation from them. Enough that they don’t really feel it, but also we have plenty. As for human blood.. well, I’ve been told consuming human blood has.. Um.. strong effects for both vampire and human. Our venom kind of creates.. um..”

You were definitely blushing right now, one glance at Wanda told you that she knew exactly what you were talking about.

“It’s like vampires in kingdom of immortal lovers..” Natasha asked.

You looked at her, stunned.

“By Ruby Roe?” She clarified.

You nodded slowly, gulping.

“Um.. yeah. Something like that.”

While some nodded in understanding (based on their smirks), the rest were left more confused than when the game started.

You cleared your throat, “Okay, um.. my turn.”

Your gaze automatically flits to Wanda.

“Wanda, truth or dare?” You ask gently.

Unbeknownst to the two of you, the rest of the group collectively rolled their eyes and smirked at the scene.

“Truth.” She said, not breaking eye contact.

You gulped again, feeling your face heat up at a simple glance.

“Um.. Are- are you single?” You ask, face practically on fire.

Your embarrassment flares exponentially when the group begins to laugh and whistle at your question.

Wanda gives you a smirk as she nods, “Yep. I am not currently in a relationship.”

“Good to know.” You whisper, staring down at your now-empty plate of what used to have canapés.

The game continued, Wanda asking Sam, Sam daring Steve, Steve daring Tony, Tony asking Bruce, Bruce asking Natasha, Natasha daring Sam.

When Sam’s dare of giving the ex-winter soldier a lap dance ended, he sat back on the couch and looked at you with a smirk.

“Dare or dare?” He asked you.

You giggled, pretending to think.

“I guess dare?” You say teasingly.

“Fangs,” he said confidently. “Show ‘em.”

If you weren’t embarrassed before, you certainly were now. “I.. I can't.” You said.

Bruce frowned. “Do vampires not have fangs?”

You nodded, “They do... but um... they’re hard to control if you don’t have experience.”

“What do you mean by experience?” Steve asked in a polite tone.

“So the thing is, you have to be over three hundred to be able to control your fangs properly…”

Natasha leaned forward, intrigued. “How old are you, then?”

You smiled sweetly, “I turned twenty-six two months ago.”

“Oh my god, you’re a baby,” Tony said, shocked.

You snorted, “Technically, I’m a legal adult.”

“Barely,” Steve said, frowning.

“Okay, okay, but we still want to see the fangs,” Sam said, his smirk remaining the entire time.

You looked at him confused, “but.. I can't control them.”

“That’s okay, when do they come out naturally?” Bruce asked inquisitively.

“Oh, um, when things get intense, like anger, near-starvation, and um… yeah, that’s it”, you said, cutting yourself off.

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“You sure that’s all?” She asked teasingly.

You nodded frantically, “Yep. That’s it. Starving and Angry.”

The spy hummed, her eyes twinkling.

“Wanda, Sam, come here for a second.” She says.

The two walk to her, intrigued. They huddle together before Wanda pauses for a second and turns to you.

You were innocently sipping your Bloody Mary (which annoyingly didn’t have blood or alcohol) when she called out to you.

“Detka, you wouldn’t happen to have super hearing, would you?” She asks sweetly.

You should probably have applied more sunblock to your face, considering how much it was heating up.

“Um.. maybe?” You say shyly.

“Hmm. Just to be safe, then.” She turns, linking Natasha and Sam telepathically to her.

They discussed for a moment before Wanda let out a chuckle, looking at you with a smirk.

Your curiosity got the best of you, and you leaned towards Bucky, who was initially suspicious, but seemed to have changed his mind once you gave your age.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” You whispered to him.

He looked at you, huffing out a breath with a slight smirk. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough, kiddo.”

You sat back, pouting.

”Patience, detka. We’re almost done.”

Hearing Wanda’s voice in your head nearly made you jump. When you glanced at her, the look she gave you made your tummy flutter and something.. deeper inside you tingle.

The conversation was apparently over because the three nodded and sat back in their seats, except for Wanda, who began walking over to you.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Sam announced theatrically, “Who’s ready to potentially see vampire fangs?”

You frown, about to call out, but that’s when Wanda sits beside you.

“Detka,” she says softly. “I’d like to kiss your cheek and maybe your neck if that’s okay with you?”

You had to wait. You told yourself you had to wait long enough that you didn’t seem desperate. Given Wanda’s smirk at your frantic nodding, it didn’t work.

Your eyes flit nervously to the group, only to find all of them smirking and cupping their hands over their eyes.

All except for Natasha, who was smirking at you, arms folded over her chest.

“You ready?” Wanda asked softly.

“Yes, please.” You breathed.

“Good girl.” She said with a smile, leaning in and placing her lips gently on your cheek.

It was a good thing you were sitting because the mere feeling of Wanda’s lips on your skin sent a shockwave down your body, making your legs and most of your body feel like jelly.

She placed her hand on your thigh for balance as she proceeded to make her way down to your neck. The goosebumps that made their way across your skin left tingles in their wake.

When Wanda’s lips brushed against a particular spot on your neck, you inhaled sharply, chastising yourself since you didn’t even need to breathe.

Wanda seemed to appreciate the sound because her grip on your thigh tightened, and she bit that area lightly, making you gasp.

It was enough to make your insides clench and feel a sudden burst of pressure on your gums.

Wanda must have felt you tense because she pulled back, almost pulling a whine from you with her.

Her eyes flitted down to your open mouth, her gaze darkening as she let out a slow, breathy ’fuck’.

You stared at her, unaware of anything other than her. The sweet vanilla perfume. The thrumming of her pulse. The sound of her heartbeat made you dizzy. You could feel it. The hunger. Not just for blood. For Wanda.

The movement of Wanda’s lips brought you back to the present.

“..me? Detka?” She said softly.

You blinked a few times before returning your gaze to her.

“You okay?” She asked softly.

You tried to give a reassuring smile but winced when your fangs cut through your lower lip.

A whistle made you look around.

“Those babies are sharp”, Sam commented.

You licked the blood off your lower lip, the wounds healing within seconds.

“When will they retract?” Bucky asked, concerned.

You gestured ‘around five minutes’ with your hand.

You turned to Wanda and froze; her heated gaze was locked on your lower lip, where your tongue had been seconds ago.

You reached for Wanda’s hand, snapping her out of her daze and looking at you with a reassuring smile.

She sat beside you, making you hyper aware of every point of contact as the next round of the game continued.

Eventually, you took out your phone and began scrolling through the food delivery app.

“Hey, Mr. St- Um, Tony. What should I put in for this place's address? I need to order food.” You said.

Tony frowned, “We have a fully stocked pantry here, why- oh.”

You nodded, “Yep.” You said, popping the P.

“Wait, you can order blood from your phone?” Steve asked, intrigued.

You nodded, “Yeah, there’s an app for it.”

“What’s it called? The app?” He asked.

“Uh.. Uber Eats..” You said, confused.

“They give blood??” Sam asked, laughing.

You nodded sheepishly, thanking Tony when he gave you the address.

When the blood arrived, you were grateful nobody was staring at you directly, even though you knew everyone’s attention was on you.

The blood had been delivered in a flask, and you were currently making a proper Bloody Mary.

You had made two glasses worth and were walking back to the couch. Wanda smiled at you as you sat down and eyed the two glasses with intrigue.

“You wanna try?” You offered the first glass.

She hesitated before nodding.

“What should I expect? What kind of.. blood is in it? What does it taste like?” She asked, looking at you nervously.

“It won’t taste bad.” You promised, “I asked for pig’s blood from one that had been fed honey-based treats. So the blood itself should be sweet. Although you shouldn’t be able to really taste the blood since your palate isn’t built for it.”

Wanda nodded, breathing deeply and then took a sip.

You looked around to see that the small group was staring at Wanda, waiting for a reaction.

The witch’s eyebrows shot up, and she gulped.

“Well..? How was it?” Natasha asked.

“It was.. sweet.” Wanda said, “Like.. It just tasted like a slightly sweeter Bloody Mary.”

She turned to you, eyes wide. “Wait, does this mean I could be turning into a vampire?”

You giggled, shaking your head. 

“No, Wanda. It just means I’m an amazing mixologist.”

Wanda gave you a shy smile and nodded, “Right.”

“Okay. Witchy is alive.” Tony declared, then eyed the drink. “Hand it over. I want to have a go.”

It was a good thing you made a spare because it turned out that everybody wanted to try the vampire diet.

When the glass was returned to you, it was almost empty, and you hadn’t even begun. There was a strange hunger in you that you didn’t want to risk expanding.

You took a sip and hummed at the rich flavour that exploded on your tongue only for it to dissapate fairly quickly.

You frowned, finished the drink and drank the second glass. The hunger wasn’t abated.

“Is something wrong?” Wanda asked.

“I’m.. not sure. I think so?” You said hesitantly, downing the second drink too.

“What is it, detka?” Wanda asked, placing her hand on your thigh.

You tensed as the hunger intensified, the sound of Wanda’s pulse got louder, and her scent became stronger.

Oh.

X—X—X—X—X

It had been three weeks since the party. Three weeks of avoiding Wanda Maximoff. The moment you figured out that she was the source of your hunger, you stood up and said you had to head in for the night.

You had been consuming ordered blood almost as often as humans drank water. Which is to say, nearly every other hour or so.

It came to the point that by the seventh day, Tony had spoken to the company that sourced the blood and gotten a weekly shipment of a truck full of blood.

You knew Wanda knew you were avoiding her. You weren’t subtle about it. You would use your speed to run off the moment she entered the room. It made training an embarrassing affair.

Speaking of, that was another thing you started. Physical training. While you were leagues and bounds ahead of even the super soldiers, you were simply a 26-year-old girl by vampire standards.

Since nobody currently on the team (except the Hulk) could match your speed and strength, Tony had suggested using hard-light holograms and the Iron Legion for your sparring while Natasha worked on your actual stances and form.

Meanwhile, Bruce and Tony had been gathering information about vampires from you that was necessary.

-

Sun? Manageable with sunblock. Won’t die, but you get sunburn pretty easily.

Garlic? Tasty.

Stake to the heart? Hurts like a bitch but not fatal.

Decapitation? Surprisingly, not fatal.

Thrown into the sun? Well, who wouldn’t that kill.. not vampires, but still not recommended.

Healing factor? Near instantaneous.

Holy Water? Yeah no.

Silver bullet? Hurts as much as a lead one.

Heart? Stopped beating at twenty-three.

For all intents and purposes, vampires were immortal unless facing particular magic or cursed weapons.

-

You were smiling at Natasha, who was telling you about how Bruce used some of the thicker blood in the fridge instead of ketchup and not realising it as he ate his fries. In his defence, his return from the Hulk transformation always left him in a terrible state. Since then, despite everyone’s insistence, you started keeping the blood in your brand-new room’s pantry.

You thought you were getting better at hiding. Given that Wanda was knocking on your door at 3 a.m. proved otherwise.

By the sound of the witch’s heartbeat, you could tell she was feeling some kind of intense emotion. Given your behaviour, you were pretty sure it was frustration.

You barely opened the door when Wanda stormed in and sat on your bed, wearing an oversized tee and distractingly short shorts.

“Explain,” Wanda demanded, folding her arms.

You gulped. Grabbing a bottle of sleeping cow’s blood to calm your undead nerves and stave your hunger, you sat down on the other side of the room.

“The letter-“ you began.

“Yes, yes,” Wanda said impatiently, summoning the letter in her hand. “Dear Wanda,” she began reading aloud.

“I know you must be wondering about the reason behind my absence. I know it must feel like I’m avoiding you.

That’s because I am 

The reason is that I am undergoing some vampire stuff that makes me a danger to you. I promise you, I do not feel any negative emotion towards you. I simply need to figure out a way to cope with what's going on with me. Once that is done. I promise to spend as much time as I, and hopefully you, want to with each other.

Thank you for understanding <3”

You look at her confused, “Which part of that was not un-“

“All of it,” Wanda complained.

She took a deep breath and looked at you, her expression softening.

“Sweetie, I need you to tell me if I am hurting you in some way.” She pleads.

“N-No, it’s not that..” You stammer. “Then what?” She asks, desperation lacing her tone.

“I crave you..” You said, finally breaking.

Wanda froze, “W-what?”

You sighed, using your vampire speed to sit next to her. You place your trembling hand on hers.

“I.. crave you, Wanda. Ever since the party.. My body.. it feels this.. hunger that I can't extinguish no matter how much blood I consume..”

You look at her with a helpless expression, then run your hands through your hair and stare at the ground.

“Then take it.”

Your head snaps to her, eyes wide.

“Take it.” She repeats, “Drink my blood. Cause that craving? I feel it too.”

You shake your head, “No, Wa-“

“Do you like me?” She asks, grabbing your hands and pulling you closer.

You nod, your gaze flitting to her lips and back to her stunning eyes.

“Do you want me?” She whispers, leaning infinitely closer to your face.

“More than you could fathom.” You whisper back, her face so close that you could feel her breath on your skin.

“Then take my blood, detka.

She could feel you stiffen. You let out a sigh, resting your forehead on hers. “It’s not that simple… if.. if I were to drink your blood, it would bond me to you.” You whispered, your voice cracking. “I.. I would be bonded to you forever. Animal blood wouldn’t work anymore. I would be yours for the rest of eternity.”

“How can you be sure?” She whispered.

“Because,” you said with a sad smile. “That’s how it was for my moms.”

X—X—X—X—X

“So… you ready for your first mission?” Natasha asks you, sitting beside you on the quinjet.

It had been a little over a month since the party. A few days since the confession and the decision that you and Wanda would take it slow. Very slow.

You nodded, looking at the ground through the window.

A simple mission. ‘A girls' trip’, as Natasha called it. Just you, Wanda, and Natasha. The three of you were meant to enter the Hydra base, collect information, and destroy it.

To be honest, it was more of a test for you. Since the vampire hunter hadn’t surfaced for a month, it was kept on the back burner.

You were sipping on your third bottle of blood. At this point, you didn’t care about the flavour. Wanda looked at you and gave you a sad smile, one you reciprocated.

When the quinjet began to creak as it landed, you had to cover your ears. It was when Natasha turned the Quinjet off that you were able to let out a sigh of relief.

Natasha gave you a sympathetic look, “I’ll ask Tony to make you some vampire-grade noise-cancelling headphones when we get back, okay?” She said comfortingly.

You nodded, standing up and stretching a little as you admired your ‘superhero outfit’.

Given Tony’s sense of humour, he gave you an outfit similar to Wanda’s. The difference was that it was (to Wanda’s annoyance) far less booby and completely black with blood red accents. On your sternum was a ruby red symbol of vampire fangs.

“Nice costume,” Wanda commented, appreciating how the fabric hugged your figure.

You simply blushed, giving a soft thanks and practically ran outside the quinjet.

In hindsight, it was a good thing that you were the first one out because the bullet that ripped through your abdomen would’ve proven fatal to the other two.

“OW.” You yelled, falling to your knees.

“Detka!” You heard Wanda cry out, running to you.

“FRIDAY, barricade!” You yelled as you watched the bulletproof door of the quinjet slam shut.

You stood, the bullet popping out as the wound healed itself. You barely made it another step when another one pierced your shoulder, ripping chunks of flesh as it went through you.

Growling, you used your vampire senses to find the shooter, spotting him almost immediately.

He may have been wearing white to match the snow, but you could smell him from a mile away. That and the smell of gunpowder clung to him.

You sped to him, not giving him time to react, and punched him in the face, just as Natasha had taught you.

You hadn’t, however, accounted for your vampiric strength. Eyes widening as your fist simply went through his face, splattering blood and brain on the tree behind.

The sight of his blood on your hand made you freeze. Then, the smell hit you. Your vision blurred, and your knees buckled as ravenous hunger shot through your body, your fangs pushing out.

You didn’t move when the door of the quinjet blasted open, standing unnaturally still. You didn’t move when you heard Wanda call your name, nor when she ran up to you.

“Oh.. detka, I’m so sorry.” She said as she took in the sight before her, kneeling in front of you.

“I-I killed him..” You whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”

Your eyes moved to Wanda’s sympathetic ones.

“I didn’t mean to.” You repeated, your tone more frantic. “Wanda, I swear I didn’t mean to kill him. I was just doing what Natasha- I-oh my god I’m going to be sick.”

You ripped yourself away from Wanda, standing a little ways away as you once again fell to your knees.

You heaved, nothing coming out.

“Baby.. I believe you. I promise.” Said the witch, gently caressing your back.

“I’m sorry..” You said between heaves. “The smell..”

Wand immediately knelt next to you, put a hand on your shoulder. From the corner of your eye, you saw a red bubble form around the two of you, and the scents and sounds of outside the bubble vanished.

Simultaneously, the blood and brain matter on your hand burned away, leaving you as fresh as when you stepped out.

You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to feel Wanda’s embrace, her scent, the feel of her pulse under your fingers. Your mouth watered as you inhaled deeply.

“…Detka, I need you to open your eyes,” Wanda said, her voice a lot closer than you previously heard.

When you did, you realised that Wanda was in your arms, your face was nuzzling her neck, nose millimetres from her pulse point.

You yanked yourself back, scrambling to get away. Wanda slowly approached you, her voice more reassuring than anything.

“You’re okay krasyvaya. I promise. You didn’t do anything wrong. Then or now. I could have pushed you away if I wanted.” She said gently.

You nodded, forcibly trying to retract your fangs but whining when they refused to budge.

“I know, detka. Give it time, okay?” She says gently, caressing your knuckles.

You nod again, and the two of you walk back to the quinjet where Natasha stands, waiting.

“You okay, utyónok? (Duckling)” Natasha asked, frowning as she took in your demeanour.

You nod, “I, uh.. I accidentally killed the guy who shot at us.”

“Ah, I see.” She says in understanding.

The spy approached you and gently held your hand.

“I know you don’t need to, but I want you to breathe with me and repeat what I say, okay?” She says.

You nod and mimic her breath.

“I am safe.”

“I am safe.”

“It was an accident.”

“I-It was.. an ac-accident.”

“I am okay.”

“I am okay.”

“I am loved.”

“…I.. I am loved.”

Nat smiles as the two of you finish.

“Now,” she says gently. “Would you like to stay, or are you okay to continue?”

Your eyes flit to Wanda, who simply gives you a comforting smile.

“I’d like to continue.. um.. just.. can we avoid the blood? It.. It makes me feel a little weird right now.” You say hesitantly.

The two women nod.

“Of course, utyónok,” Natasha says reassuringly.

-

Turns out, the Hydra base had been expecting the three of you. There were twice as many guards as initially intended.

The scene was a hailstorm of bullets, magic shots, punches and sirens. In the midst of it all, you ran as fast as you could, grabbing guns and weapons away from unsuspecting agents and pushing aggressors as gently as you could. Even though they still flew backwards and hit the wall, crumpling to the ground completely unconscious, they were alive.

Somehow, the three of you made it to the main room to gather intel unharmed. You and Wanda stayed near the door while Natasha accessed the mainframe.

“So, how are you finding this mission so far?” Wanda asked, eyes monitoring the corridor.

Your gaze flicked to her before returning to monitoring.

“The beginning was a little rough..”

You bumped your shoulder with hers.

“…But I’m enjoying it now.” You said with a smile.

“How’s the hunger?” She asked softly.

Your smile faded. You could feel your veins screaming at you, tightening at the lack of blood.

“Much more than before.” You admitted.

“Well, at least you’re not hungry enough to fang out.” She supplied.

You smirked, “It’ll take a lot more for me to ‘fang out’ than this level of hunger… although I’m getting a little too close to it for comfort.”

Wanda looks at you, reflecting your smirk.

“I’m considering making you fang out for completely different reasons.” She said huskily.

You snapped your head to her, the hunger in your expression nearly made the witch falter.

“If you two are done flirting, how about we get out of here?” Natasha asked right behind you, making the two of you jump.

You nodded sheepishly. Your face fell when you were about to move. Taking a sharp sniff, you began coughing.

“Trouble?” Natasha asked, taking her guns out of the holster.

“Yes. Different.. Weird.” You said, exhaling sharply from your nose so the scent doesn’t linger.

“Enhanced?” Wanda asked, summoning her magic. “Must be because I can’t sense anybody.”

You shrugged, trying not to get distracted by a magic-wielding Wanda. “I can't tell the specifics. I just know there’s a handful of.. things nearby.”

The three of you cautiously made your way out of the suspiciously empty building. Even the unconscious people were nowhere to be found. Natasha stated that whatever was waiting for them must be outside, perhaps even near the quinjet.

Given that you were more durable than the other two, you opted to open the door. The only reason Wanda was okay with it was because you agreed to her using a magic shield just in case.

When you kicked the door open, you saw three men standing there, two of whom were holding what appeared to be unusual guns.

You got into a fight position, but none of them moved. You could feel Wanda linked to your consciousness, allowing her to see what you were seeing.

The man in the centre began to move his hands, making weird symbols appear. You were confused before Wand and Natasha burst past you, pushing you out of the way.

“Detka, Watch out!” Wanda said before the symbols the man was conjuring exploded, creating a shockwave that echoed around all of you.

“No magic, Scarlet Witch.” The man sneered.

The man on the right fired thrice, shooting a weird device that attached to your neck. The man on the left holding a shotgun aimed at you, hitting you dead centre in the chest.

You collapsed on the ground in pain, writhing in pain. The collars began beeping on you and Wanda. “No more enhanced powers, mutants”, the man spat.

Natasha was fighting another man, they seemed evenly matched to the point that Natasha couldn’t fire her guns even if she wanted to.

That was when the man in the middle took out a remote and pressed a few buttons. Natasha and Wanda crumpled, and you felt electricity coursing through your body.

“Toss them into the truck.”

The bigger guy walked to you, ignoring Wanda. The witch grabbed his ankle, attempting to stop him from reaching you.

“Get off me, Mutie.” He snarled, kicked her in the face and broke her nose.

Then the smell hit you. What you had been craving for a month now. Wanda’s blood.

The feeling was unlike any you had ever experienced. Rage and hunger overcame you, but instead of clouding your vision, it sharpened it.

You stood up, glaring at the man. Your fangs announced themselves as you snarled at him.

“What the fuck are you?” He said, shocked, pulling out a remote and increasing the intensity of the electricity on your collar.

You glared at him, unflinching. Reaching for the collar, you grabbed it with one hand and pulled. The metal warped and snapped with little to no effort.

“That shouldn’t be possible.” He breathed. He turned to aim the remote at Wanda but found you standing right in front of him.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” He shrieked.

You grabbed his wrist, hard. You ignored the sound of his yells and his bones cracking under your fingertips.

“Shut up.” You growl, ignoring your fangs cutting into your lips and claw at him, ripping his head from his body.

You heard his teammates approach.

“Hey what the fuck..” Said one guy, looking at two passed-out women and a headless friend.

His eyes widen as he registers what’s going on, but it's too late. Before he could blink, you were behind him, your fist poking through his chest.

You let out another snarl as you ripped him in half. The scent of their blood no longer fazed you. 

Once you disposed of the last man, you sped your way to Natasha, who was breathing heavily, trying to move but unable to because of the collar.

You use both your hands to rip the collar off and let her gasp for breath. When she looked at you, her eyes widened.

“Utyónok (duckling).. are you..” She breathed.

“I’m okay,” you reassured, your voice tense.

She nodded, exhaling in relief.

“Natasha.. I.. I need you to free Wanda. I can’t.. her blood.” You strained, your muscles taut.

Natasha nodded, scrambling to stand. 

“Yes, of course. It’s okay. How about you go to the quinjet? I’ll bring her.” She suggested.

You speed off without a word, reaching the quinjet. You stare at your blood-soaked reflection, watching your hands. They’re perfectly still. But your head? It’s screaming.

Your hunger is pulsating, your veins constricting. After changing and wiping off the blood, you began drinking all of the blood storage in the quinjet. Including the emergency stash.

That’s when you heard FRIDAY’s voice.

Mr. Stark wishes to speak with you. May I let him through?

When you give the affirmative, you hear his voice through the speakers.

“Hey kiddo,” he says casually. “Nat just told me what happened. Wanda’s okay, the collar just knocked her out, okay?”

You feel your body sag in relief.

“Thank you, Tony..” You whisper.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Now tell me about you, Nat said that you were hungry?”

You nodded, “Yeah, it's.. I’m craving, um, human blood. It’s..”

You cut off, another pulse of hunger.

“It’s really strong, Mr. Stark.” You whisper, gritting your teeth.

“Hey, do you remember the contingencies we kept in place for occasions like this?” He asked suddenly.

You nodded before realising he couldn’t see you. “Um.. yes, sorry.”

“Alright, so Bruce kept an emergency sedative that should keep you calm for a few hours. Once you come back, we’ll set up a quarantine for a few days, okay?”

You take out the syringe and plunge it into your chest. The effect was immediate; your hunger abated, but nowhere nearly enough.

You began to tremble, “Tony, it-it’s not working. I.. I’m still hungry..”

You hear him swear under his breath, “Fuck okay. Natasha and Wanda are almost there. Do you think you’ll be okay with Wanda in the quinjet with you?”

“I-I think so.. It’s just three hours, right?” You ask timidly.

You hear him huff out a laugh.

“I think we can do better than that, kiddo. The quinjet can go hypersonic, so you should be home in a little over an hour.”

“Okay..” You said, holding yourself still. “Thank you, Tony,” you whispered, “And I’m really sorry.”

“No need for apologies. Trust me, you’re a delight to have around.. unlike the big guy here.”

You hear some scuffling before you hear Bruce’s voice.

“Hey, kid.” He says.

You’re about to say hi, but Wanda and Natasha enter the quinjet at that moment, the witch’s scent making you freeze.

You were so focused on Wanda that you didn’t hear Bruce or Natasha calling you for almost an entire minute.

When you do snap out of it, you turn to Natasha.

“I need you to restrain me.” You tell her honestly.

Natasha blinks, nodding.

While she searched for high-strength tension cables, you saw red mist surround you, binding your hands and feet.

“Only I get to tie you up, detka”

Your head jerked to where Wanda was sitting. She looked at you with a dark gaze.

“I’m sorry for running away..” you think.

Her face softens, ”I know why you did it, baby. I understand. How can I help?”

You try to shrug, but her binds keep you in place. Despite the situation, you can’t help but feel a spark of thrill at the act. The same thrill intensified your hunger tenfold.

When your fangs made their appearance, Wanda looked at you sadly.

“Wanda..” You gritted out. “I need you to-“

“I know, detka.” She said softly, walking to you and cupping your face. “Rest now.”

You closed your eyes and passed out as the scent of vanilla took over your senses.

X—X—X—X—X

Two days. Two. Fucking. Days. You finished a month’s worth of blood in 48 hours.

Your quarantine was meant to be a day long, but with your hunger unable to be satiated, you decided to extend it.

It was late at night when you finished the supply in your room, sighing to yourself. You needed more. The only reason you risked going to the pantry in the kitchen was because everyone was out, either on a mission or at a party.

You could not have been more wrong. You took one step into the kitchen and found Tony, Natasha, Bucky, Sam, and Wanda.

Oh god.

Wanda called out to you, but it was too late; you had rushed back to your room, closed the door and went to the farthest corner of the room possible.

There was a knock on the door, the sound making you flinch. You knew who it was. Of course you did.

You didn’t need to open the door, Scarlet Magic encased it, and Wanda just walked through it.

“Wanda, you-“ you pleaded.

“Okay, sweetie. I need you to listen to me, okay?” She said, slowly taking a step further.

You nodded slowly.

She sighed in relief. “Okay, whatever is going on with you. I can no longer just sit and watch. If you need my blood, then take it. I promise you it’s okay.”

“But-“

“No buts.” Wanda insisted.

She floated to you, sitting on your lap. She let out a sharp inhale when you grabbed her waist.

“You’re my good girl, aren't you?” She asked huskily, leaning closer to your face.

You nodded, eyes flickering to her lips and back.

“Then drink.” She whispered.

You frowned, freezing when the scent of her blood hit you. She raised her hand, a cut on her palm, a few droplets of blood made their way down her wrist.

Unlike before, you barely felt your fangs protrude, eyes glued to the claret drops. You looked at her once to make sure she was certain.

She brought her palm closer to your mouth. If you weren’t drooling before, you certainly are now. You gently held her arm with shaking hands and brought your mouth closer.

“Do it,” she breathed. “Please..”

You licked the drop of blood tentatively.

The effect was immediate.

Flavour bursts on your tongue. The very essence of Wanda made its way into your system, making you practically euphoric.

You let out a moan, licking up the droplets and began sucking from the source. You heard Wanda’s breathy whimper, her pants, her pounding heart.

You looked into her eyes as you licked the wound, your body buzzing and heating up underneath hers.

Wanda was similarly affected. The sight of you tasting her blood turned her on to no end. And when your tongue touched the entrance of the wound, a shockwave of pleasure echoed through her, making her arch her back.

Wanda looked at you with hooded eyes as she felt her insides clench around nothing.

“Baby,” she panted. “I need you.. now.”

You nodded frantically, cupping her face and kissing her hard.

It was everything you dreamed it would be. Wanda’s hands went into your hair, gripping tight, making you moan.

You felt your body heat up; your core fluttered as Wanda’s blood spread through your system. You felt her begin to grind on your thigh, groaning in frustration when she wasn’t able to get enough friction.

“Clothes,” she gasped, as you kissed your way down her neck. Her head lolled back when you kissed her pulse point. “Off. Now.”

You didn’t need to be told twice; with little to no patience, you grabbed her t-shirt and pulled, easily ripping the fabric. Her jeans and underwear received the same punishment.

You gasped when you felt her core directly on your thigh. The sneaky witch had poofed your clothes away at the same time.

You grabbed her hips and began moving her back and forth against your thigh. Your core clenched when she gasped out an ‘oh fuck’.

Her hands moved to grip your shoulder as you continued kissing down her neck, across her clavicle.

“Baby.. fuck” she whimpered when you flicked your tongue against her nipple.

You sped up the movement of her hips, making her cry out and arch her back.

“Fuck,” she moaned. “That feels so good, don’t stop.”

Mindful of your fangs, you began flicking your tongue against her hard nipple. Groaning at how much of a mess the witch was making on your thigh.

“Can I go faster?” You asked affectedly.

She nodded, her head falling on your shoulder, crying out a long moan when you increased to an almost superhuman pace. With how wet she was, you didn’t need to worry about her getting hurt.

“Baby- fuck.. fuck.. I-oh my god… I-I’m close.” She panted between moans.

Your mouth began working on the other nipple as you kept up the pace, her moans increasing in pitch and frequency.

“Fuck fuck fuck Imgonnacum oh fuck baby baby” she cried out, her hands gripping your shoulder so tight they would have pierced the skin had you been human.

You stop your assault on her nipple for a moment so you can whisper in her ear, “Cum for me, Wanda.”

Wanda tenses, her mouth open in a silent moan as her orgasm crashes into her. The witch’s eyes roll back as you slow down the movement of her hips, making sure you don’t completely stop to prolong her orgasm.

She jerks forward with a gasp as she suddenly becomes oversensitive, her legs shaking with effort.

She collapses onto the bed, panting, giggling.

“You’re still hungry, aren't you?” She asked with a smirk.

You nodded wordlessly, now that you’d tasted Wanda’s blood. You knew instinctively that no other blood on the planet would do it for you.

Her expression softened as she looked at you.

“I wouldn’t want you to settle for less anyway.” She said.

You frowned for a moment before realising what had happened. The bond. You and Wanda were now linked for the rest of existence. Being an empathic witch, Wanda could turn the bond into a two-way street instead of just you being bonded to her. She tested it and gasped, suddenly able to feel your hunger. “Oh.. baby, is this how you’ve been feeling?” She asked, strained.

You nodded, leaning over her. “I need you, please.” You whispered.

Wanda grinned mischievously, “Since you’ve been such a good girl. Here’s a little gift for you.”

You frowned before arching your back at a sudden sensation in your core.

“Oh my god,” you moaned, pleasure licking up your spine.

Wanda grinned, “Look down, baby.”

When you did, your eyes widened. You were sporting a deep red, pulsating strap. One that Wanda was rubbing her slick over.

You shivered when she spread more, gasping at the way she gripped it. You could feel everything.

“Now,” Wanda said lowly. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to fuck me. You’re not going to stop fucking me until you can’t move. And everytime either you or I cum? You’re going to feed from me. You’re not going to worry because I can use my powers to replenish as much blood as I need, okay?”

You nod.

“Any questions?” She asks.

“I.. uh.. I’ve never actually.. done this. I don’t know if I’ll be any good.” You said softly.

Wanda cupped your face with one hand, smiling as you nuzzled into it.

“My sweet girl, you just rocked my world two minutes ago. By pure instinct. All I’m asking is for you to do it again and again. There’s no getting it wrong, okay? We’ll take it slow, and if one of us doesn’t like something, we’ll just change it, okay?”

You nod, determined to make her feel good. When she nodded in return, you slowly pushed the head of the strap into her. Both of you inhale sharply at the feeling of you filling her up.

“You’re so tight. Fuck, it feels so good.” You said, screwing your eyes shut and trying not to cum immediately.

Wanda doesn’t respond; she was experiencing something similar. It had been a while since anything felt this good.

You almost collapse on top of her when you’re all the way in. You and Wanda stare at each other with wide eyes, neither of you moving an inch. The sheer proximity, her breath against yours, her moulding to yours. All of it felt so.. right.

Slowly, much too slowly for Wanda’s liking, you began to move. Your hands were framing her head, fingers already pierced the pillow as you held in your desire.

“Detka, move.” She said.

That was all it took; you snapped your hips, shoving the entire length into her suddenly, making her arch her back and cry out.

You rolled your hips, faster and faster, harder and harder. The bed creaked at the sheer force.

Wanda had given up all pretence of composure; her mouth was agape as moans flowed freely. Her nails dug into your back as you leaned closer to her, your fangs practically throbbing as much as your insides were.

You were one big nerve ending; every single movement sent molten pleasure through your body. You knew at the back of your mind that this was the result of Wanda’s pleasure echoing through the partial bond. You needed more of her blood. From the source.

Your speed intensified, as did her moans. The way she clenched around you told you that she was close, with the way your pleasure was building to an overwhelming degree, you weren’t far behind.

“Fuck. Fuck. Baby, I’m going to come. Feed from me. Now.”

She exposed her neck, shutting her eyes tight as the pleasure crescendoed. Unable to hold yourself back, you clamped down on her neck as soon as you came.

The two of you shattered the boundaries of time and space as you came. Wanda was sent hurtling through an orgasm so intense she lost her grip on reality. Then you sucked, the simple act of you sucking her blood made her cum again, making the witch scream.

This continued for a while, each time you sucked in more blood, your fangs released more venom, and each time, Wanda came harder than she ever had before. Her screams turned into hoarse groans until she lost her voice, and all she could do was tremble limply as another wave of pleasure took over her frayed senses.

When you withdrew your fangs, they retreated automatically. You rest your head against Wanda’s chest, freezing when you notice how shallow her breathing is.

You looked up frantically to see Wanda’s glossy eyes as she stared off into nothing. Her skin was scarily pale.

“Wanda?” You whispered, panicking. “Baby, please.”

Remembering the one time your mothers had briefly told you about vampire blood, you summoned your fangs and cut into your wrist.

You placed the cut above her mouth and watched the blood drip into her mouth. You jolted when Wanda clenched around the length of your strap inside her.

She grabbed your wrist and sucked blood, moaning as she drank more. You sighed as a hazy pleasure took over you, and the bond between you two strengthened as it began to naturally flow both ways without Wanda’s magic.

The colour in Wanda’s skin returned, and she let go of your wrist, and you two stared at each other.

“I.. I feel it.” She whispered.

You nodded, “I wasn’t sure, but I remember my moms had mentioned something about a two-way bond.”

Her eyes glistened with the weight of her emotions. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

You nodded with a smile, “You’re mine just as much as I am yours.. for the rest of eternity. Once your mortal body dies, you’ll emerge as a vampire.”

Wanda gulped at the sheer intensity of love she felt for you, grabbing your face and kissing you hard.

The movement made you shift deeper inside her, making you both moan in surprise.

You two stared at each other and grinned.

“Wanna-“

“Absolutely.”

You two began kissing again as you flipped her over and she rode you with fervour.

-

Tony sighed, checking his watch.

“It’s been almost two weeks..” He muttered incredulously. “They’ve been at it for two weeks.”

Natasha smirked as another loud crash sounded on the floor above them.

“I’m telling you, Tony…

Vampires be fucking.” X—X—X—X—X

Please let me know your thoughts in the comments <3

[sonicallysos]

Jack was supposed to be alone on the roof. All he wanted was a minute alone with the sunrise and silence before handoff with Robby. But when he climbs the stairs (huffing slightly because his leg’s been digging into his skin for the past 3 hours) and finally gets to the roof, he finds you already there.

In his spot.

And panic shoots through him for a second because no one else ever goes past the railings. Not Robby, not the doordasher, certainly not you.

You don’t move an inch when he closes the door behind him, the lock clicking as he turns it. Robby can eat shit.

“I’ve thought about it too, y’know?”

He can just barely catch your eyes opening, gaze lowering to stare out at the orange-red horizon blooming over the city.

“‘bout what?”

You try to sound calm but there’s a slight unsteadiness to your voice. It’s barely noticeable but Jack catches it.

It’s you, of course he does.

“About what it would be like to let go. To forget about the injuries and the screams and the blood and just take a step or two forward. About how it’d feel to have free air replace the concrete under your feet and have the weight lifted off your chest for just a second. To find a moment of tranquility within the chaos.”

He sees your jaw clench, chest rise and fall as you take in a breath.

“Yeah,” you let out breathlessly and even with your back turned to him, he can picture the tired smile on your face. The one he thinks about a little too much to admit, “Sounds pretty damn nice, doesn’t it?”

He closes the gap between you, white-knuckled hands planted on the railing separating you from him.

His voice is low, quiet and gentle in a way you’ve come to associate with Jack Abbot, “But it won’t last as long as you hope. Never worth the disappointment of reality.”

The silence is thick, heavy. More deafening than the fireworks that make Jack flinch, a rare occurrence that melt his stone-cold facade. The same fireworks that made you cover his hand with yours one new year’s eve on the park bench. The half-drunk beer cans beside you lukewarm and long forgotten. He’s reminded of the way you squeezed his hand lightly and how he’s been chasing the warmth of your skin against his ever since.

A moment passes before you turn your head to face him, eyes finding the unyielding gaze already locked in to you.

“Your therapist teach you that?”

Then he’s back to Dr Abbot again, face flat and voice devoid of emotion.

“No. But yours should.”

Jack can’t tell if the noise you let out is a laugh or a scoff, “I don’t have therapist.”

He makes a similar sound.

“Fuckin’ figures.”

[uunoia]

Romantic Feelings? Ehh Cringe

Summery: Technoblade tries cheering you up with a greek myth

The cabin was quiet.

Not peaceful. Not comfortable. Just quiet.

You sat at the wooden table, hands wrapped around a half-finished cup of tea that had long since gone cold. You weren’t drinking it. You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting here, staring at the knots in the wood grain, listening to the wind howl outside. It had been hours, probably. Maybe less. Maybe more.

It didn’t matter.

Somewhere behind you, Techno sat in his chair by the fire, pretending to read. You could feel his eyes on you—subtle, watchful. He wasn’t obvious about it, but you knew him well enough by now. He had noticed the way you barely spoke today, how you moved slower, how the usual sharpness in your eyes had dulled into something distant and hollow.

You took a slow breath, trying to push past the weight in your chest. It didn't work.

Your fingers trembled. You clenched them into fists. Your thoughts were spiraling and you knew they were. The war, you almost dying, all the good people who got hurt.

Then—before you could stop it—the first tear fell, hitting the table with a barely audible pat.

Shit.

You inhaled sharply, willing yourself to stop, to push it down, to not do this right now. But your body didn’t listen. Your breath hitched. Your shoulders tensed as another tear slipped free, then another.

Behind you, the sound of a page turning stopped.

Techno had noticed.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heel of your palm against them. You hated this. Hated crying like this—weak, quiet, with no control over it. You had been fine for so long. You needed to be fine.

You heard the chair creak as Techno shifted. Then, his voice—low, uncertain.

“You uhh…You want me to leave?”

You flinched slightly, shaking your head, voice hoarse.

“No—” A pause. Then, quieter, “No. Just… don’t say anything.”

A beat of silence.

“…Alright.”

And he didn’t.

For a while, there was nothing but the crackling of the fire, the muffled howl of wind against the windows, and the occasional sound of Techno shifting in his seat. He wasn’t reading anymore. Just there. Not saying anything. Not leaving, either.

You sniffled, rubbing at your eyes.

Then, out of nowhere—

“... Pygmalion and Galatea. Ever heard of them?” 

Your brow furrowed. You blinked, wiping your sleeve over your red and puffy face as you turned slightly toward him. “…What?”

As if this were the most natural segue in the world. His tone was casual, unaffected. "Some sculptor guy from ancient Greece— I've forgotten where exactly. He was kinda a loner. Didn't wanna deal with real people, especially women— Guy spent ages on this one statue. Carving, supposedly, the perfect woman out of ivory. Like, obsessed over it. Chiseled every little detail, made her perfect in his eyes. And then, uh—he kinda just…fell in love with her." He paused, shifting slightly in his chair. 

You blinked at him.

“It was like his life’s work or whatever…” He suddenly found it hard to look in your general direction. “Dude looked at real women and was like, ‘Nahhh, y’all suck, I’ll just make my own instead.’ So, yeah. He starts treating this statue like a real person. Talks to it, gives it gifts, probably took it on dates—I dunno, weird guy behavior. And then, get this—he begs Aphrodite to make her real.” Techno paused, shifting in his chair, gaze flickering away for half a second before he cleared his throat.

“She, uh…actually does it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “She what?”

“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Aphrodite, for some reason, sees all this and goes, ‘Wow, that’s so romantic,’ and just—bam—brings the statue to life. No questions asked. No ‘bro, you good?’ Just—instant dream girl. And then in some versions they have a kid or something, I’ve forgotten.” He suddenly found it hard to look into your general direction.

A beat of silence. Then, in a flat voice, you muttered, “He chose a statue over a real person?” You paused again, “That’s… the most depressing shit i've ever heard.”

Techno huffed a quiet chuckle. “I know right? Isn't it great?” His smile quirked upwards a little as his arms crossed, nudging you with his elbow.

Despite yourself, despite the exhaustion and the weight of everything pressing down on you, a small, tired laugh slipped from your lips. You shook your head, rubbing at your eyes again. “That’s your idea of cheering me up?”

“I mean, it’s a good story.” Techno shrugged, leaning back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Figured I’d tell it ‘cause… it kinda reminded me of uhh…” He trailed off, his voice tapering into silence. His gaze flickered away, almost like he had lost his train of thought.  He suddenly found his book a whole lot more interesting.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Of…?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear the color in his face deepened just a shade.

“...uhhh—” He cleared his throat, suddenly finding the fire very interesting. “I mean, y’know. It’s, uh… a classic tale! Dedication. Mastery in art. Real inspiring, all that.”

You stared at him. He was so full of shit.

“…Right.” You dragged out the word, tilting your head, a slow smirk creeping onto your lips. “That’s totally why you told it.” 

His ears twitched, his jaw tightening. “Hey, don't make fun of me.”

That only made you grin harder. You exhaled through your nose, something almost like amusement breaking through the sadness. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Another pause. You took a breath, deeper this time. The lump in your throat was still there, but… lighter. A little easier to bear.

Then, to your surprise, Techno stood. You expected him to walk away, to give you space, but instead, he grabbed something from the back of his chair—his red cloak.

Before you could question it, he stepped over and draped it over your shoulders.

The fabric was warm, heavy, smelling like smoke and steel and something distinctly him. Even if it was just the cloak, it held the weight, smell and looked as if he were giving you a hug. Your fingers curled around the edges instinctively. You blinked up at him.

Techno just crossed his arms. “Try not to cry on it. It’s my only one.”

You scoffed lightly, a breathy, half-hearted sound. “No promises.”

He hummed, stepping back toward his chair. Before he sat, he hesitated—then, reaching out, he gave your shoulder a firm squeeze. Just once. Just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then he plopped back down, flipping open his book.

The fire crackled. The storm raged outside.

You tugged his cloak tighter around yourself, eyes dropping to your cold, untouched tea.

“…Thanks,” you murmured after a long pause.

Techno didn’t look up.

“Don’t mention it.”

[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.

[1982grapejuiceblues]

Just For You

Official Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Stranger Lanes Part 6

Summary: As the group sets out on one of their annual summer hikes, Y/N and Harry fall into step with each other in a way no one can ignore. What begins with playfulness and banter slowly deepens into something quieter and more private, drawing them closer over the course of the day. They tease, they laugh, they push boundaries—both physical and emotional—and by the time they slip away for a moment alone, their connection has fully shifted. In the stillness of the woods, they don’t rush. They don’t define anything. But something between them clicks into place, and when they return to the group, it’s clear to everyone: something has changed. As night falls, they find comfort in the quiet spaces between the chaos, carving out something entirely their own.

Warnings: Lingering tension between characters due to shared romantic history | Emotional vulnerability and personal reflection | Playful but physical interactions | Flirtation, banter, and light innuendo | Light jealousy and subtle group dynamics shifting | References to betrayal and complicated past relationships | Physical closeness and quiet intimacy | Conversations around family dynamics

A/N: I have no words, I just love them. As always, comment or reblog to be added to the taglist! Love ya <3

Word Count: 13.7k

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The morning didn’t start all at once. It crept in slowly, stretching itself over every room of the lake house like a film of soft light, glancing off mugs of half-finished coffee and sleep-mussed curls and the creak of bare feet on old wooden floors. Someone upstairs had opened a window too early, letting in the sound of birdsong and lake wind and the far-off splash of oars hitting water. Somewhere else, music was playing low through a speaker left forgotten the night before, a playlist shuffling with the kind of lazy shyness that seemed to understand no one was ready for volume just yet. The whole house felt like it was breathing deeply for the first time—exhaling the tension of travel, of accidental arrivals, of shared spaces, of lingering stares and internal recalibrations. And for the first time since they arrived, Y/N could feel something close to rhythm settle into her bones.

She stood on the edge of the hallway near the stairs, one hand curled loosely around a chipped mug, still warm from the kettle. The smell of lemon tea drifted upward with the steam, though she hadn’t taken a sip. Her eyes followed the faint lines of sunlight streaming in from the living room’s east-facing windows, already starting to cast long slants across the floor. Below, voices murmured—quiet enough that she couldn’t make out words, but familiar enough to tug something calm loose in her chest. It was the sound of her friends becoming themselves again. No longer negotiating rooms or posturing around exes. Just easing into the weightless hours of a day with no plans.

She exhaled slowly and took a sip.

The first taste was sharp, citrusy, sweet.

Downstairs, Harry laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even directed at her. But it struck something square behind her ribs—the memory of his voice against her shoulder the night before, the smell of coffee and soap and worn cotton, the hush of breath as he’d curled unconsciously closer in his sleep. The shift between them had been subtle, yes, but now, after everything, it no longer felt small. It felt like a step had been taken, silently but without question. As if the ground between them had closed itself overnight, the friction replaced by something warmer, something threaded with a quiet want neither of them had dared speak yet. She wasn’t rushing to name it. She didn’t need to. Not when it was living so clearly in her body, humming beneath her skin, making her want to lean closer even when they were already side-by-side.

By the time she came down the stairs, the kitchen had bloomed with motion. Ali was holding a carton of eggs like it was her life’s work, instructing Eli and Claire on pancake ratios with the steady command of someone who’d taken charge of group meals since college. Jules sat cross-legged on the counter, peeling a banana with deliberate slowness as she flipped lazily through the playlist queue. And Harry—Harry was leaning against the far end of the sink, half-dressed in sleepwear and sunshine, curls damp at the edges, sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He looked good. Effortlessly good. But more than that, he looked at home. Like the tension that used to keep him standing just outside the room had lifted sometime in the early morning light, and now he was all in—quietly, calmly, without demand.

His eyes met hers the second she stepped into view. The corner of his mouth tipped up, slow and private, like something he’d kept waiting just for her. She didn’t smile back—not immediately—but something inside her chest did. Something unspooling and warm and a little bit unsteady. She moved past the table without a word and brushed her hand against his as she reached for the jam.

It wasn’t a test. It wasn’t performative. It was just a touch. Just a soft, I know you’re here.

And he let his fingers curl just slightly toward hers before she pulled away.

No one said anything. But she didn’t miss the way Ali’s head tilted.

After a while, Eli called for a vote on which hike they should do first, and everyone made exaggerated groaning noises about elevation and sweat and sunburns. The group’s usual chaos resumed. Plans were tossed around, misheard, repeated louder. There was talk of swimsuits and sunscreen, of who needed to borrow a daypack and whether the cooler had enough sparkling water. It was the kind of kinetic buzz Y/N usually loved, the dizzy rush of the day lifting off. But this time, she didn’t feel the need to lead it. She let herself hang back, just a little, and watched Harry instead—how he listened without interrupting, how he offered to carry the cooler before anyone asked, how he kept glancing over at her like they were still sharing something unspoken.

Because they were.

They hadn’t named it. They hadn’t touched anything beyond shoulders and shared breath. But everything had changed. She could feel it in her hands, in the shift of her balance when he stood near her, in the way her smile tugged a little more easily into place when he looked her way. It wasn’t just playful anymore. It was slow. Careful. Steady in its unfolding.

And she didn’t want it to stop.

-

The trail cut wide and slow through the woods behind the lake, dappled in morning light that filtered in and out with every step. It wasn’t difficult—not in elevation or distance—but it was long enough to demand intention. No one could be half-present on this trail. You had to commit to it. To the breath, the movement, the hum of insects buzzing around your ankles. You had to let your legs find their own rhythm and your lungs learn the shape of effort again.

And for once, Y/N didn’t mind being breathless.

The group stretched into their usual patterns—Ali leading with a clipboard and trail app and Eli following close behind, narrating imaginary documentaries about local squirrels. Jules drifted between conversations, sunglasses oversized and commitment to cardio minimal. Claire and Ben hung back, too close and too quiet, like their closeness had to be seen to be believed. And somewhere near the center—steadily orbiting beside her—was Harry.

She didn’t look at him much. Not directly. But she felt him. Felt the way his stride matched hers with an ease that was either practice or instinct. Felt the way he kept slightly behind her on the inclines, like he was waiting to offer help without saying it. Felt the way his presence didn’t fill the space, but settled into it—quiet, grounding, constant.

They didn’t speak at first. Not really. There wasn’t much to say. The hike filled the air with enough sound—the crunch of boots on dirt, the wind through the trees, the rise and fall of someone’s laughter echoing off the canopy. But the silence wasn’t empty. It was… charged. Not tense, not uncomfortable. Just full of something waiting.

It wasn’t until they hit the first bend in the trail, the sun splashing gold across the rocks, that he spoke.

“You good back there?”

She glanced sideways, breathing steady. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I’m just checking in on your cardio. All those blueberries haven’t exactly screamed stamina.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, biting back a grin. “Says the man who almost passed out in the cereal aisle because he couldn’t decide between granola or frosted flakes.”

“That was a life-altering decision.”

“It was a breakfast decision.”

“Same thing.”

She laughed—light, easy, without hesitation—and it shocked her how good it felt. How safe. The woods echoed it back at her, soft and slow, and Harry smiled like he’d waited all morning to hear it again.

They kept walking.

-

Later, when the group stopped at a lookout point—halfway up the ridge, perched high over the lake—Y/N found herself settling near a wide stretch of rock beneath the trees, shaded and cool. She dropped her backpack beside her, pulled her water bottle free, and stretched out her legs with a low sigh. Her calves ached in a good way. Her chest was flushed with sunlight and something warm that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Harry sat down beside her a minute later. Not close. Not touching. But close enough.

She didn’t lean in. Not yet. But she let the silence between them stretch again. Let the energy swirl quietly until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“You hike often?”

Harry shook his head, twisting the cap off his water. “Not really. But I do enjoy pretending I’m the kind of person who owns a CamelBak.”

She smiled into her bottle. “You’re doing great.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it with my whole chest.”

He tilted his head toward her, one brow lifted. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’m growing.”

They sat in the hush after that, trees rustling overhead, Ali’s voice carrying softly through the trees as she explained how glacial movement had carved the edge of the lake. Y/N could hear Ben and Claire bickering again near the overlook, just loud enough to annoy, just quiet enough to pretend it wasn’t happening. And for once, she didn’t care. She didn’t feel dragged into it. She didn’t feel folded under by the weight of what they’d done.

Because she wasn’t sitting next to them.

She was here. Next to him.

And that changed everything.

-

The hike back down was supposed to be easier.

Gravity handled most of it. The group’s energy had shifted—less organized, more loose-limbed and sun-warmed. Someone had started a playlist on a tiny speaker. Ali let her clipboard droop under one arm and stopped pretending the map mattered. Eli threw a stick into the woods and dared everyone to guess if it was poisonous. The air had gone syrupy with heat and laughter and the kind of softness that always followed a view that took your breath away.

But Harry wasn’t thinking about the incline anymore.

He was thinking about her.

Y/N walked just ahead of him, loose ponytail bouncing with every step, shoulders swaying with the same kind of ease she’d had that night in the kitchen when she’d leaned into him without saying a word. She wasn’t flirting. Not exactly. But she wasn’t not flirting either.

She turned back once—just briefly—to check the path, and her eyes caught his, bright and amused like she already knew the punchline to a joke he hadn’t told yet. He couldn’t help it—his mouth curved in that slow, too-easy way that always got him in trouble. She didn’t blink. She just raised one brow like oh, you think you’re charming? and then turned back around.

He followed. Of course he did.

-

They fell behind the group just slightly, not enough to make a scene, but enough to feel like the air belonged to them. The space between their steps narrowed. Their voices dropped. There was a kind of hush to it—not silence, just something softer. Something unspoken but crackling just beneath the skin.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said eventually, adjusting her backpack strap with one hand, not looking at him.

“Just enjoying the view.”

Her head tilted, skeptical.

He let it hang there for a beat.

“Not the trees,” he added, voice low.

She rolled her eyes, but the color in her cheeks deepened just slightly, and he counted that as a win.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to come up with a proper insult.”

“You say that like you didn’t spend the last mile dragging your feet on purpose so I’d walk behind you.”

She glanced at him, smirking. “You think I did that on purpose?”

“I think you know what you’re doing.”

She snorted softly. “If I wanted your attention, I’d be way more creative than that.”

He grinned. “Don’t sell yourself short. It’s working.”

She made a strangled noise and shook her head, but her laugh floated back to him, light and unguarded. He wanted to pocket the sound. Bury it somewhere deep for when this trip ended and the world crept back in.

-

A low branch dipped across the trail, and she ducked beneath it with the grace of someone who’d hiked this path before. Harry followed, but not quite as smoothly—his backpack caught on the edge and yanked him backward slightly.

“Need help?” she asked, not even bothering to hide her smile now.

He tugged the strap free and fixed his curls, letting his ego recover with a dramatic sigh. “No, I’ve got it. But thank you for your overwhelming concern.”

“I’m just saying, it’s good to know who the liability is if someone rolls an ankle.”

“I’m not the one hiking in Converse.”

She looked down at her shoes like she’d forgotten what she was wearing, then shrugged. “Style over safety.”

“An icon.”

They rounded another curve, sunlight bursting through the trees, the lake visible again in flashes through the leaves. The air smelled like moss and woodsmoke and sun on damp earth. The kind of scent that made everything feel a little slower, a little fuller.

He didn’t reach for her hand. Not yet. Not with the others just ahead. But he walked close enough that his arm brushed hers every few steps. And when she didn’t pull away—when she stepped closer instead—he felt something settle in his chest.

Not a decision.

A knowing.

-

The trail opened up again near the bottom of the ridge, flattening into a wide clearing that buzzed with the kind of midday heat that turned every breeze into a blessing. The lake glinted just beyond the trees, its stillness a promise of shade and coolness and temporary escape. The others had pulled ahead, clustered near the trailhead’s wooden signpost and debating whether to swim first or eat, their voices tangled in heat-heavy laughter.

Y/N lingered in the last patch of shade before the clearing, her hands on her hips and her breath just slightly unsteady—not from exertion, not really. Just from him.

Harry had stayed close the whole way down, orbiting without asking, matching her pace without needing to be asked. Every step, every bump of shoulders, every sarcastic comment and quiet laugh—it had all added up. Layer by layer. Breath by breath. Until now, as the trail eased into open space, her body felt wound tight with the effort of not leaning closer.

He caught up to her where she stood, one hand pushing his curls back from his forehead, the other holding his water bottle like a prop.

“We made it,” he said, voice low, breath just a little ragged.

“Barely,” she teased, her eyes still trained on the shimmering sliver of lake beyond the brush. “I was about two minutes from leaving you behind.”

“Oh, please. You’ve been drafting off my effort the whole way down.”

She turned to face him, her grin blooming slow. “You don’t even know what that means.”

“I do. It’s a cycling term.”

“Then you definitely don’t know what it means.”

He laughed, sharp and delighted, and before she could react, he bumped her shoulder with his. Not lightly. Not gently. Not the casual nudge they’d passed back and forth all morning.

This one had weight to it.

Playful. Yes.

But intentional.

She stumbled half a step to the side, then turned on him.

“Oh, really? That’s how we’re doing this?”

He widened his eyes innocently, already stepping back. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You just—”

“Gently encouraged your stride?”

“That was a full-body check.”

He shrugged. “You looked like you needed motivation.”

She narrowed her eyes. Took one small step toward him. “You wanna go?”

His grin turned feral. “Always.”

And before she could respond—before she could even calculate what the hell was happening—he bolted.

Right past her.

Laughing.

And it hit her: he was running. Full sprint. Toward the lake. Like he’d been waiting for an excuse to go all morning.

Her heart flipped.

And then she took off after him.

-

The clearing blurred under her feet. Grass kicked up behind her. The sun beat down on the back of her neck as she followed the sound of his laughter, his footfalls heavy but quick, his silhouette cutting ahead through a line of tall trees. They reached the lakeshore in a burst of movement—sand and sun and the screech of seagulls overhead—and by the time she caught up, she was breathless with laughter.

He stopped just at the edge of the dock, spinning to face her, hands on his hips.

She slowed to a halt a few feet away, panting, eyes bright.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

She bent over, catching her breath. “You cheated.”

“Fair and square.”

“You shoved me.”

“Gently guided.”

She lunged forward—not to hit him, not to shove him, but to tag him, like they were eight years old and high on too much sun. He darted back with a laugh, and she chased again, and then they were circling, wide and laughing and glowing.

And then—

He caught her wrist.

Soft. But sure.

Her body stopped on instinct. Not because she was startled. But because the touch froze her.

He was holding her wrist.

Not tightly. Not possessively.

Just… holding it.

And looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that existed.

Her breath hitched. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. Her skin felt like it had been lit from the inside.

Neither of them said a word.

The laughter between them hadn’t died—but it had changed. Slowed. Deepened.

Turned into something else.

She didn’t pull away.

He didn’t let go.

-

His hand didn’t move. Not right away.

It was still on her wrist, fingers light, just enough pressure to let her know he was there. And she hadn’t stepped back. Not an inch. Not even as the others’ voices started drifting closer—Ali shouting something about sandwiches, Eli laughing from across the trees. The group was coming. The moment was going to break.

But she didn’t care.

Not yet.

Because Harry’s eyes hadn’t left hers.

Not for a second.

And in that split second of stillness, in the low press of his hand and the way her own pulse thrummed under his fingers, everything between them dropped into place. Not explained. Not declared. But known.

She should’ve said something. Teased him. Brushed it off. But her body refused to move in that direction. Her muscles locked in the hum of whatever this was, whatever it was becoming. And she didn’t want to break it with a joke.

So she took a breath—just one—and then moved.

Fast.

She twisted slightly and shoved his shoulder. Not hard. But enough to jolt him backward two steps on the dock, enough to say I see you. I’m not just going to let you win.

His mouth opened in mock offense. “You’re dangerous.”

“You were asking for it.”

“Was I?”

She arched a brow. “Every second.”

He stepped closer. Close enough to invade her space. But not close enough to touch.

“And what exactly do you think you’re gonna do about it?”

She didn’t answer.

She darted past him.

And that was the end of the standoff.

-

He didn’t think.

He chased.

His feet pounded the wood of the dock, his breath catching in his chest—not from the run, but from the sound of her laughter breaking just ahead of him. She’d flung her arms out like wings, sprinting for the end of the dock, hair trailing like a ribbon behind her. She looked free. Sunlit. Barefoot and completely unguarded.

And he had never wanted anything more than to be the reason she kept laughing like that.

He caught up just before the edge—one long stride closing the distance—and grabbed her waist, spinning her in a blur of limbs and laughter and sun.

She gasped—one bright, breathless noise—and he lifted her off the dock.

Just for a second.

Just enough.

Her hands clutched his shoulders, and her head tipped back, laughter spilling straight into the open sky.

“You wouldn’t dare—” she half-screamed.

He spun again. “You don’t think I will?”

“I will take you down with me, Styles.”

“You’d drown before you won.”

“I have no pride. I will cannonball us both.”

He laughed so hard he nearly dropped her.

She shrieked, flailed, elbowed him in the side—then wriggled free and landed with a thud on the dock.

And the second her feet hit the wood, she launched herself at him.

-

They wrestled.

It was absurd.

Two fully grown adults on the sun-warmed edge of a dock, tangled in limbs and laughter and breathlessness, half-heartedly trying to pin each other without falling into the lake. It was all hands and arms and no strategy. Her fingers curled in the hem of his shirt. His arms locked loosely around her waist. Her knee knocked into his thigh. He twisted to avoid the jab and accidentally pulled her into him.

And then—somehow—they stopped.

Still tangled.

Still laughing.

But stopped.

Because she was in his arms.

Her chest against his.

His hand on the small of her back.

And her face tilted up to his, mouth parted, breath short, eyes impossibly wide and full of something that hit him like a freight train.

The laughter was gone.

What was left was silence.

And want.

-

They didn’t kiss.

Not here.

Not yet.

But they could have.

They were close enough.

Her body wasn’t shaking from the run anymore. It was shaking from him. From the way he’d held her, from the way her hands had found his shoulders like they belonged there, from the way his breath was hitting her cheek like something meant.

She didn’t move.

He didn’t move.

And then—someone shouted their names from the trees.

They stepped apart.

Slowly.

Gently.

But not regretfully.

Harry didn’t look away as she stepped back. He didn’t laugh again. He didn’t break the tension with a joke.

He just nodded.

One small, devastating nod.

And she nodded back.

-

They walked back in step, neither of them talking, neither of them touching, but somehow still together in a way that had become undeniable.

It was in the way their arms swung just a little closer than necessary. In the way their shoulders brushed and neither pulled away. In the way Y/N looked straight ahead, calm and unflinching, like she was too busy feeling the weight of something new to entertain any pretense of small talk.

Harry felt it too. Felt it in the sweat at the back of his neck, in the buzz still humming beneath his skin. His hands twitched with the memory of her laugh curling against his chest. Her hands on his shoulders. The scramble of limbs and warmth and closeness that had felt like something between a wrestling match and a dance.

And now they were walking back through the trees like none of it had happened. Like it was just another hike. Just another run to the dock. Just another moment.

But it wasn’t.

And the group saw it before either of them could pretend otherwise.

-

Ali was the first to spot them. She paused mid-sentence, her mouth still open from whatever she’d been saying to Eli, her brow lifting slowly like she couldn’t believe she was witnessing this in real time. She didn’t say anything. Just exchanged a look with Jules, who followed her gaze and bit the inside of her cheek trying not to smirk.

Claire didn’t look up. But Ben did. His expression went flat. Cold, almost. Y/N didn’t return it.

Harry could feel every flick of attention as he followed her into the clearing. The way the air quieted. The way the others’ eyes trailed over his shirt—wrinkled, damp, one sleeve stretched where she’d grabbed him. The way Y/N’s hair was half-falling out of its tie, cheeks still flushed, eyes bright.

They were trying to play it cool.

They weren’t succeeding.

-

She dropped down onto the edge of the picnic bench with slow control, like her legs were still half-tuned to motion and the rest of her hadn’t caught up. Her pulse hadn’t returned to normal. Her skin was still warm in places that had nothing to do with the sun. And the others—her friends—were all watching her like something had been confirmed.

She met Ali’s eyes across the table.

Ali blinked once. Tilted her head. Smiled.

Nothing was said, but everything was said.

Harry sat down beside her, not close enough to be obvious, but close enough to make it clear that he was choosing this seat. That he wasn’t backing off or shying away or pretending like the tension wasn’t laced through every second of the last half hour.

Eli tried to break the silence. “You two look like you just ran from the cops.”

“We ran to the dock,” Harry said, casually grabbing a water bottle and twisting the cap with one hand. “And maybe chased each other a bit.”

Y/N leaned forward, voice calm. “Friendly sprint.”

“Did you trip? Why’s your hair doing that thing?”

She blinked. Shrugged. “Wind.”

Ali raised a brow. “Violent wind?”

Jules raised an eyebrow. “That explains the grass in your hair.”

Y/N reached up automatically and pulled out a small leaf.

Harry took a long sip of water.

Jules chimed in again, lazy and sly: “It’s funny how neither of you wants to explain why your shirts look like they’ve been in a tug-of-war.”

Claire finally spoke.

“We heard you,” she said.

Her tone was clipped. Tight.

Y/N looked at her slowly. “Heard what?”

“The shouting.”

Harry didn’t even flinch. “It’s called laughter.”

Ben snorted under his breath. “Right.” Then cleared his throat. “So… are you guys a thing now, or what?”

The silence after that was heavy.

Claire shifted in her seat.

Y/N didn’t look at either of them. She just tilted her head toward Harry and let the smallest smile pull at her lips.

“You okay with letting the answer speak for itself?” she asked him quietly.

Harry looked at her for a second—soft, steady—and nodded.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I am.”

No one pushed further.

They didn’t need to.

Because the way Y/N and Harry looked at each other said more than any admission could have.

-

Lunch happened in pieces.

The group fell into the kind of gentle midday lull that always came after exertion and sun—sandwiches pulled from coolers, fruit passed around in mismatched Tupperware, the crunch of chips mixing with soft background music and someone’s half-committed attempt to make a playlist. Ali and Jules sat cross-legged under the trees with their water bottles tucked against their thighs, debating the difference between “tired” and “burnt out.” Eli was still insisting someone try the off-brand peach soda he’d packed from the gas station four days ago. Claire lingered on the edge of things, sunglasses too large and unreadable. Ben had disappeared entirely.

And through it all, Y/N sat at the far end of the picnic bench with her legs curled beneath her and a plum in her hand, her thumb running absent little circles along the smooth skin.

Harry was just behind her, sitting on the edge of the dock with his feet swinging over the water. He hadn’t said much since they returned. Hadn’t done anything dramatic or obvious. But she could feel him there, close enough that her pulse didn’t know how to rest.

The food was good. The shade was cool. The group was mellow in that rare, fleeting way—when everyone was too full and too sun-warmed to try too hard. There was a softness to everything. A golden hum in the air. And even though her shoulders had relaxed, her chest hadn’t stopped aching.

Because she wanted to be next to him again.

Not because it was expected. Not because the group was watching. Just because being near him felt easier than being anywhere else. Like something in her body moved better in his orbit.

And she knew—without needing to look—that he felt the same.

-

She rose quietly and crossed the distance.

No one said anything. No one even blinked.

She sat beside him, her shoulder brushing his, and let her feet dangle over the edge of the dock just like his. Their knees bumped. Neither of them shifted.

Harry glanced at her but didn’t speak.

She held out the plum wordlessly.

He took it. Bit into it. Passed it back.

The silence between them wasn’t charged this time. It wasn’t pulsing with tension or jokes or anything they needed to prove. It was just still. Easy. A slow kind of gravity that pulled them into each other without having to try.

They watched the ripples on the water.

They breathed in the same rhythm.

And in that moment, Y/N realized something that made her throat tighten.

She hadn’t thought about Ben in hours.

Not once.

Not even when Claire’s voice sharpened or when a song played that reminded her of late drives and too-long summers.

Not even when Harry smiled at her the way he had—like she was something new.

She hadn’t compared.

She hadn’t second-guessed.

She’d just been in it.

With him.

And she wanted to stay.

-

The group moved like a slow wave, lifting in motion but never quite breaking. Sandwich wrappers were folded up and tucked back into canvas bags. Water bottles were recapped, backpacks zipped, sunglasses slid into place like shields against the inevitable heat of the walk back. Someone yawned. Someone else started humming. The energy was still soft, but it was no longer sleepy—it had shifted into that familiar stretch of late afternoon, where the air starts to carry the echo of what’s been shared.

Harry stood from the dock first and turned to offer Y/N his hand.

She looked up at him with a brow raised, amused. But she took it.

Her fingers slid into his easily. Her weight shifted forward, her sandals gripped the dock edge, and when she was on her feet again, she didn’t let go right away.

Neither did he.

It wasn’t a moment that asked for an announcement. No one around them gasped or stared. But Ali saw it. Jules too. Even Eli—bless him—let out a little whistle under his breath that made Claire glance up from her sunglasses and then immediately look away again.

It didn’t matter.

Because Harry had no intention of stepping back now.

He let go when she was steady, sure. But he stayed close. Close enough that his shoulder brushed hers as they followed the others toward the tree line. Close enough that her arm swayed into his on every third step. Close enough that when Jules cracked a joke about “group dynamics shifting in the humidity,” Harry didn’t even blink.

He just smiled.

Because yeah. Things had shifted.

-

It was almost funny how differently everyone moved now.

There was no official declaration. She and Harry hadn’t made any kind of show of it. And yet, the jokes came faster now—softer, but sharp-edged with curiosity. The glances were longer, less guarded. The teasing had evolved into something else. Not mean. Not even probing. But full of recognition.

Everyone could see it.

She could hear it in the way Ali said “How’s the couple at the back doing?” without even turning around. In the way Eli offered to trade hiking partners like it was a school dance. In the way Jules asked what snacks Harry had “picked for her” and didn’t bother clarifying who her was.

She could feel it too.

In the way Harry kept adjusting his pace to match hers. In the way his fingers brushed hers now and then—always casually, never gripping, but lingering. In the way her body leaned toward his like it had stopped asking for permission.

And it was all so easy.

That was the strange part.

It didn’t feel like a new beginning.

It felt like a return.

Like they’d been circling this version of each other for longer than either of them had realized. Like all the noise between them—everything that used to keep their eyes narrowed and their walls high—had finally gone quiet. And what was left was this.

Warm. Open. Quietly certain.

Y/N didn’t need to look back to know Ben and Claire were walking somewhere behind them.

She didn’t need to glance over her shoulder. Didn’t need to listen for them.

Because they weren’t what mattered anymore.

What mattered was the trail ahead. The sunlight pooling between trees. The way Harry’s voice dropped when he leaned closer to say something only she could hear.

And the way it made her smile without even trying.

-

The house came into view like a mirage—low-roofed and sunbaked, its windows glinting against the haze of the afternoon heat. The trail thinned behind them as the group shuffled up the drive in loose clusters, every step slower than the last. Shoes scraped against the gravel. Water bottles swung at half-hearts. Someone let out a long, theatrical groan as they reached the porch steps, and someone else laughed just loudly enough to disguise the sound of another foot catching a loose plank on the deck.

Y/N reached the front door first, her hand resting on the knob while she fumbled for the key Ali had handed her before the hike. Her other hand still buzzed faintly from the quiet moment just five minutes earlier—Harry’s fingers brushing hers one last time as they’d turned onto the path. It hadn’t been an accident. It hadn’t lasted long. But it had sent a warm thrum all the way up her arm that hadn’t quite faded.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside first.

The cool rush of indoor air made her eyes sting. The temperature difference was sharp and immediate, and the stillness inside felt oddly sacred after the noise of the trail. For a moment, all she could do was stand in the entryway and let her lungs adjust. It smelled like old wood and lemony cleaner and the faint, familiar whisper of yesterday’s coffee.

Behind her, the door creaked open again.

Harry stepped in second.

Of course he did.

And with a quiet clatter of bottles and bags, the others followed.

-

It didn’t take long for the house to fill again—with chatter, with footfalls, with that familiar summer energy that only settled into a place once everyone had made it theirs. Shoes were kicked off. Backpacks dropped. Someone turned on a fan in the corner of the living room that whirred like it had something to prove. Claire opened the fridge with a dramatic sigh and announced that they were “critically low” on something she didn’t bother to finish naming. Eli immediately volunteered to eat “whatever’s expired.” Jules collapsed onto the couch and demanded someone feed her grapes.

And Y/N?

Y/N drifted into the kitchen, not because she had a plan, but because her legs carried her there.

She opened the fridge and stared into the cool light like it held some kind of answer. Her fingers found a jug of water, her other hand fumbling for glasses without looking.

A moment later, Harry appeared beside her.

Again.

No fanfare. No commentary. Just a quiet arrival. A shared breath.

His hand brushed hers when he reached for the second glass.

She looked at him then—not long, not pointedly, but long enough.

Long enough that she didn’t have to say anything when she poured the water and nudged the glass toward him.

He took it.

Their fingers grazed again.

And neither of them moved away.

-

The others were scattered now—drifting toward bedrooms, couches, bathrooms, anywhere with airflow and a horizontal surface. A few half-hearted attempts at planning the rest of the day floated across the room, but no one really grabbed onto them. They were all in the slow exhale after movement. The kind of quiet that settled in the ribs, content to just be.

But even in that stillness, he felt it.

The way the others’ eyes flicked toward him and Y/N more often now. Not staring. Not interrogating. But curious.

There was a new rhythm to the house, and they were the tempo now.

He didn’t mind.

He took a sip of water and leaned against the counter. Y/N stood beside him, half-lit by the sunlight pushing through the open window above the sink, her skin glowing, her cheeks pink, her eyes soft.

She looked at peace.

And he wanted to keep her that way.

She glanced at him then, lips curving gently. “Thanks for not dropping me in the lake earlier.”

He chuckled. “Thought about it.”

“Not sure you could’ve handled the splashback.”

“You’re underestimating my core strength.”

She smiled, and it reached all the way into him.

He didn’t say anything else.

He just stood there.

Next to her.

Right where he wanted to be.

-

They moved through the house like a secret.

Not trying to hide. Not putting on a show. Just existing in a kind of new, quiet rhythm that made the rest of the group feel like background noise—not unimportant, not invisible, just… less in focus.

The kitchen had emptied by now. Jules had migrated to the porch with a book. Eli and Ali were arguing softly over who got control of the Bluetooth speaker. Ben was still absent. Claire had retreated to the upstairs bathroom under the pretense of a sun-induced migraine. And in the quiet between those moving parts, Y/N leaned against the countertop next to Harry and let the silence hold.

Her skin still felt warm from earlier. Not the sun—though the sun had done its part—but from him. From his voice, his laugh, his arms around her on the dock, the way they hadn’t let go fast enough. The memory of it sat heavy in her chest now. Not heavy like burdened. Heavy like full. Like something new had settled just under the surface and didn’t want to leave.

Harry opened the freezer, pulled out two popsicles—one red, one purple—and wordlessly held them up like a bartender offering a drink list.

She pointed to the red.

He handed it over.

They unwrapped them in sync, the plastic snapping in that sharp, familiar way, and leaned against opposite ends of the counter like they hadn’t just spent the last half hour tangled in each other’s space.

But they had.

And it was still all over her skin.

-

The popsicle dripped down his thumb, and he didn’t care.

Y/N licked hers like she wasn’t thinking about it, but he could tell she was. Her mouth curved every time her tongue caught the melting juice at the corner, and she smiled when she noticed him watching.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t even pretend to.

Something had shifted since this morning—not snapped, not sparked, but warmed. Like someone had left a window open in the middle of the house and now the air inside was changing whether they wanted it to or not.

He liked it.

Liked her.

Liked the ease. The tilt of her voice when she said his name. The curve of her back when she laughed and didn’t bother to look over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

She knew he was.

She knew.

-

“What now?” she asked eventually, around a mouthful of cherry ice.

“Swim?”

“Too hot.”

“Movie?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Feels wrong to sit in the dark on a day like this.”

“Board game?”

“You just want revenge after I beat you at trivia.”

“I want balance restored to the universe.”

She laughed, and it came out light and easy, like it belonged in the air.

Then she glanced sideways at him and said, “Want to go for a walk?”

He blinked. “Didn’t we just do eight miles?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Different kind of walk.”

“What kind is that?”

She met his eyes.

“The kind where no one else comes.”

And just like that, his breath caught.

She didn’t mean it suggestively. She didn’t say it with weight or flirtation or anything even close to a smirk. But it hit him anyway—deep and warm and true.

A walk.

Just them.

No one else.

He nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

-

The house didn’t shrink as she left it, but it felt like it did.

The second she stepped past the porch and into the space between the trees—where sunlight slanted through the branches and the sound of the group dissolved into distant thuds and murmurs—something opened in her chest. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. Just a slow unfurling, like a breath she hadn’t known she was holding had finally been allowed to leave.

There was no trail for where they were headed. No destination. No need to fill the space with conversation or perform the closeness they’d been toeing around all day. But the shift in energy was immediate. She felt it in the way the soles of her shoes pressed more deliberately into the dirt. In the way the air around her warmed despite the shade. In the way Harry fell into step beside her without saying a word, as though he’d been waiting for the cue all day and now that it was here, it needed nothing more than a look.

She didn’t glance at him yet.

She didn’t have to.

His presence was a tether.

Solid. Quiet. Close.

Her hands were still sticky with the sugar from the popsicle he’d handed her. The cherry flavor had long since faded, but the aftertaste lingered—bright and artificial and a little too sweet. Her lips stuck slightly when she pressed them together, and she swiped her tongue along her bottom lip out of habit. The humidity clung to her in patches, where the sweat from the hike had never fully left, and the breeze barely moved through the pines now that they were deeper in the woods.

She wasn’t sure why she’d suggested the walk.

Not really.

It had come out of her mouth before she’d fully thought it through, and when Harry had looked at her like yes, that, her brain had gone quiet.

Maybe it had something to do with the way he hadn’t let go of her hand right away when they’d returned from the dock. Or the way he’d stood behind her in the kitchen, quiet and close, like he didn’t want to get in her way but also didn’t want to stand anywhere else. Or maybe it was the way the others were looking at them now—not just curiously, but like they knew, like they were cataloging each touch, each glance, each moment and wondering what had changed.

Y/N had spent her entire adult life learning how to manage other people’s attention. She was good at it. A professional, even. She could navigate a faculty meeting with one raised eyebrow and a well-timed exhale. She could redirect conversation away from herself with the ease of someone who’d been practicing since she was a teenager. And yet here, with Harry, she didn’t feel like hiding.

She just felt like being.

The trees around them thickened slightly, enough to swallow the sunlight in long beams and cast the forest floor into strips of gold and green. Harry walked slowly. Purposefully. His arms hung loose at his sides, his gait lazy in the way that only came when his guard was down. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the house, and yet somehow she felt more connected to him now than she had through any of their earlier back-and-forths.

It was strange, she thought, how easily the silence sat between them. Not strained. Not heavy. Just there. Soft and shared.

She picked up a twig with her toe and kicked it ahead of her on the trail. “You always this quiet?”

Harry looked over, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth. “Only when I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

Her brows lifted, surprised at his honesty. “You think there’s a wrong thing to say right now?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shorts and let his gaze track a squirrel darting across the brush before he spoke.

“I think,” he said, slowly, “that there’s a lot of things I could say. And some of them… I’m not sure you’re ready to hear yet.”

The warmth that had been coiled in her chest twisted, then pulled tighter. It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t even heavy. It was gentle. A soft touch at the edge of something neither of them had named.

“And what if I am?” she asked, quieter than she meant to.

Harry looked at her.

Really looked.

And then—just as slowly, just as softly—he smiled.

-

He hadn’t meant to say it like that.

He hadn’t meant to say anything at all. The quiet had been good—weightless in a way that felt rare between two people who hadn’t known each other well just days ago. And now here they were, walking a dirt path that didn’t lead anywhere, held together by whatever had settled between them since the night of the grocery trip.

Still, when she asked if he was always this quiet, the words had come out without calculation.

It wasn’t just the sun-warmed calm of the woods that loosened his tongue.

It was her.

The way she looked at him when she wasn’t trying to be understood. The way she tilted her head like she already knew what he meant but wanted to hear it anyway. The way her voice dropped into something barely-there when she asked, “What if I am?”

Ready.

Like maybe she was.

He could’ve said a dozen things. Something teasing. Something noncommittal. But instead he looked at her and smiled. Just that. Just the truth of that smile. And then kept walking.

She caught up to him a few paces later, their shoulders close again, feet moving without purpose.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence lightly, “what exactly would be so dangerous for me to hear?”

He exhaled, amused. “Thought we were letting it go.”

“We were. But then you went all cryptic woodsman on me.”

“Cryptic woodsman?”

“You know, with the quiet and the vague truths and the meaningful glances.”

“I’m just trying not to ruin the walk.”

“You’re failing.”

He looked at her, and her grin widened.

It hit him all at once, then—how easy it had become, how he didn’t feel like he was performing anymore. Not even behind sarcasm. Not even behind old habits of emotional sleight-of-hand. He was just… here. Himself. With her.

And it didn’t scare him.

It settled in.

Like it had been waiting.

-

She didn’t know what she’d expected from the walk, but it wasn’t this.

It wasn’t this feeling of clarity—quiet and low and persistent. It wasn’t the comfort of falling into step with someone who didn’t need her to explain herself. It wasn’t the slow-burning hum of her pulse every time Harry said something in that voice, his voice, with its patient rhythm and careful humor and unspoken undertow.

She glanced down at her feet, at the way her shoes scuffed dust up from the trail. She didn’t feel nervous. But she did feel aware. Of her limbs. Her breath. The faint ache in her knees from the earlier hike. The slight stick of sweat at her temples. The shift in gravity every time he came close enough to cast a shadow across her shoulder.

“You’re still avoiding the question,” she said, voice light.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I don’t remember there being a question.”

She rolled her eyes, stopping short in the path. “What would you say if you thought I was ready?”

He stopped too.

There was no one around now. Not within earshot. Not within view. The woods stretched in every direction—quiet, dappled, just barely moving with the wind.

Harry looked at her like she was the only real thing in it.

He took a step closer.

“You want the truth?” he asked.

“Always.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“I think,” he said, low and warm and steady, “that you’re not half as hard to understand as you want people to believe. I think you notice everything. I think you hold it all in, and you don’t let people know how much it means to you. But I think you care. A lot.”

She blinked. Swallowed. Tried not to shift her weight too obviously.

Harry continued, his voice softening further. “I think you watch the people around you more than you watch yourself. And I think it’s exhausting. But you do it anyway. Because you don’t trust that anyone else will.”

Y/N didn’t speak.

Her throat was tight.

Her heart had pressed up into it like it couldn’t stay still in her chest anymore.

She should’ve made a joke. Changed the subject. But instead, she asked, “And you? What do you think I haven’t noticed?”

He smiled at that.

But it wasn’t cocky.

It was bare.

“I think,” he said, “you noticed that I hate running on concrete. That I always drink the last half of my coffee cold because I forget about it. That I only sing along when I’m alone in the car, and I only do it if the windows are up.”

He paused.

She waited.

“I think,” he said again, slower now, “you noticed that I’m still figuring myself out. Even now. And I think that scares me less when you’re around.”

She felt that one behind her ribs.

Felt it all the way down.

-

They kept walking.

They didn’t need to talk after that.

The silence came back, but it wasn’t emptiness. It was full of something golden and growing.

At some point, they passed a narrow wooden fence that curved along the far edge of the forest. It was old, half-fallen, mostly overtaken by moss and ivy. Y/N paused to touch one of the posts—gently, like it might dissolve under her hand.

Harry watched her.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just figured you’d be the type to notice things like that.”

She turned. “Like what?”

He shrugged one shoulder, casual. “Quiet corners. Places that no one else looks at.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where the best stories start.”

She raised a brow. “You really believe that?”

He smiled.

And then, just as he stepped forward and reached out to tug a pine needle from her hair, he said it:

“Yeah. I’m starting to.”

-

She didn’t suggest stopping.

She didn’t need to.

The moment they reached the edge of the clearing—a slight rise in the trail flanked by low grass and a patch of mossy boulders that looked like they’d been dropped there centuries ago—they both paused without speaking. The silence between them hummed. Not with awkwardness. Not with indecision. Just… something that said here. That said this is where we rest now.

Y/N moved first, slipping between two stones and sinking onto a flat, sun-dappled patch of moss. She tucked her legs beneath her, hands loose in her lap. The heat of the ground seeped through the fabric of her shorts, grounding her in a way the conversation hadn’t. She needed to stop moving. Not because she was tired, but because whatever was buzzing under her skin was getting louder, and motion only made it worse.

Harry followed her without a word, stepping into the space and sitting cross-legged just across from her. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance around. Just folded his hands loosely in his lap and met her gaze like it was the only thing worth seeing.

For the first time since they’d left the house, the quiet didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt charged.

Like whatever had been building between them had reached a point where it couldn’t hide inside the hike or the banter or the soft, careful looks anymore. The air between them was thin with it—heat, breath, silence. It wasn’t about the group. Or the trip. Or anything that had happened before.

It was about now.

And neither of them moved.

-

She looked like she was trying to decide whether to speak or stay still forever.

He knew that feeling.

It was one he carried in his chest every time he stood at the edge of something good and had no idea if it would still be there once he reached for it. But there was something about the way she sat across from him now—open without trying, knees curled in, hands loose, jaw tight with everything she wasn’t saying—that made him want to ask.

Made him want to know the things she didn’t give away for free.

“You’re quiet,” he said softly.

Her eyes didn’t flinch. “So are you.”

“I’m trying not to say the wrong thing, remember?”

She smiled. But it was slower now. Different. Not teasing. Not light.

Just quiet.

Measured.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” she said.

The request didn’t sting. It wasn’t sharp. But it landed.

He blinked once, stunned—not by the boldness of it, but by how gentle it felt coming from her. It wasn’t a dare. It wasn’t a challenge. It was an invitation. A door, cracked open.

He looked down at his hands.

Then, after a long moment, he answered.

“When I was fourteen,” he said, voice low, “I wrote a song for someone. Didn’t show it to them. Didn’t even keep the paper. But I remember the lyrics.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Do you still write?”

He hesitated.

“Not really. Not like that.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Felt stupid. Too much. Like I was doing it for the wrong reasons.”

“What were the right ones?”

Harry looked up at her again, eyes steady now.

“I guess I didn’t know then,” he said. “But I’m starting to figure it out.”

Y/N didn’t push.

Didn’t fill the space with anything unnecessary.

She just nodded, like she understood, and let the moment stretch.

And God, this was worse than any kiss.

Worse in the best way.

Because it meant something. And he wasn’t ready for what it meant, but he wasn’t running either.

He was here.

-

The silence didn’t rush to be filled, and that might’ve been the most jarring part. It didn’t lean toward awkwardness or stumble into rambling just to have something to occupy it. It was full, dense, thick with quiet understanding, and yet completely natural in its weight. Y/N had never been one for long silences. Not really. She liked noise, liked rhythm, liked the assurance that conversation gave her—a way to know that the other person was still with her, still engaged, still moving forward. But with Harry, it felt different. Like she didn’t have to prove she was present or interesting or worth the pause. He just stayed across from her, unmoved, unreadable in a way that wasn’t cold or distant, just intensely focused, like he was observing her in real time and trying to memorize every flicker of change in her expression.

She could feel the heat of him even from where they sat. The space between them wasn’t wide, but it wasn’t narrow enough to be obvious either, and still, it felt like it pressed in on her from all sides. Her skin was too warm, but not in a way that made her uncomfortable. It was the kind of warmth that bloomed slowly in her chest, radiating out through her arms and legs like it was being drawn toward something. Every breath she took made the air feel thinner, not because she was nervous—though God, maybe she was—but because she was too aware of the space her body occupied and how close he was to filling it.

She looked at his hands first. They were resting on his knees, loose but alert, fingers slightly curled like he was prepared to react at a moment’s notice. Like if she reached for him now, he wouldn’t pull away. He might not meet her halfway, but he wouldn’t flinch. And that small difference—the not knowing if he’d come forward, but knowing he wouldn’t leave—was enough to send her stomach into a slow, twisting knot that felt suspiciously like anticipation.

When her gaze finally rose to his face, he was already watching her. There was no flicker of embarrassment, no sudden shift of attention like he’d been caught. He meant to be looking at her, and he made no move to hide it. She held his gaze, blinking once but otherwise still, and let the tension build. Let it stack higher and higher between them like stone on stone. It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense. There were no fireworks. No sweeping music. Just the earthy scent of pine and sun-warmed bark and the hush of a forest that didn’t care what happened between two people on the edge of something.

Her voice was quieter than she intended when it finally broke the silence. “You do that a lot.”

Harry didn’t ask what she meant. He just raised his eyebrows, a small tilt of his mouth giving the ghost of a smile.

“Watch me like you’re trying to read something I haven’t written yet,” she clarified.

That brought the full smile out. Small, sure, steady.

“Maybe I am,” he said, but his voice didn’t carry the smugness she might’ve expected. It didn’t flirt or poke or tease. It just… was. Honest. Warm. Settled like a truth that had been waiting to land.

Y/N shifted, arms wrapping loosely around her knees. Her body leaned slightly forward, instinctive and unintentional, but she didn’t pull back. She wanted to say something else, something with teeth, something that would level the field again and keep her from feeling like her heart had crawled too close to the surface. But nothing sharp came. Nothing clever. Just a quiet hum beneath her ribs and the recognition that for once, she didn’t want to play defense.

So she gave him something back.

“Sometimes I don’t know what to do when you look at me like that,” she admitted. “Like I’m supposed to know what comes next.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, thoughtful, eyes narrowing like he was filing that away.

“You don’t have to know,” he said, voice soft but not delicate. “I’m not expecting you to.”

She let that settle. Let it bloom in the silence.

Let herself feel the impact of being met exactly where she was.

Let herself feel the way he wasn’t rushing her, wasn’t pressing her, wasn’t turning this into a declaration or a demand or a game.

He was just here.

And so was she.

-

The quiet had thickened to the point that it wasn’t really silence anymore. It had become something else entirely—something suspended and weighty, like humidity right before a storm, or the space between two breaths when you’re waiting for someone to say your name. They weren’t speaking, but they were both very much in this moment, like they could hear the hum of what was unspoken between them if they stayed still long enough. There was no movement, not even a nervous shift. Just stillness, dense and stretched thin with proximity and patience and tension that neither of them wanted to break but both of them were leaning into more and more with every breath.

Y/N’s fingers were splayed against the moss between them, her skin still warm from the hike, still a little tacky with sugar from the popsicle back at the house. She hadn’t planned to move them, hadn’t made a decision in her head, but her body acted on something quieter and more instinctual—curiosity maybe, or want. Her hand drifted forward across the soft, sun-dappled stone. Not a dramatic gesture. Not a bold one. Just enough that her pinky brushed the side of his.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything. But her stomach twisted as if she’d shouted.

Harry didn’t move right away. But she could feel the awareness in him shift. His fingers flexed slightly, resting still for a moment before curling—just a little—around the outside of hers. Not a grab. Not a reach. A response.

She turned her palm over, and he met it. No hesitation, no pause, just warmth. His hand slid into hers like it already knew the shape of it, like his fingers had been molded to fit hers, even if neither of them would’ve admitted that out loud. She breathed in, shallow and quick, then let the air fall out of her like it had been caught in her lungs for days.

He didn’t let go.

She didn’t ask him to.

“I didn’t think I’d ever do this with you,” she said after a long beat, voice soft but steady, her eyes fixed on their joined hands.

Harry’s thumb grazed her wrist. “Hold hands?”

“Sit still.”

His laugh was low and warm and a little closer than before. “Yeah, you’re usually more of a pacing type.”

“Shut up,” she murmured, but she was smiling now, a real one, the kind that tugged at the corners of her mouth without asking first.

“I’m serious. You don’t do this. You don’t… stop.”

She looked up at him then. “Do you?”

His gaze didn’t flinch. “Only when I want something to last.”

The air went tight again. Her chest filled with it, caught under her collarbones and held there like she wasn’t allowed to let it go yet. She knew what he meant. He hadn’t said it plainly, but he didn’t need to. It was in the way he was looking at her now—like this quiet between them was more than just a moment to enjoy. It was a decision. An intention.

Y/N didn’t move, didn’t pull back, didn’t tease. She didn’t try to laugh it off like she usually would. She just held his hand tighter, her thumb brushing slowly over the back of his, her body warm all over and anchored in something deeper than she could explain.

“I notice things about you too, you know,” she said finally.

His brow lifted, curious and soft. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You always pick the least direct path on a trail. You lean forward when you’re thinking, like you’re already walking into the next sentence. You—”

“Alright,” he said gently, squeezing her hand, his voice low and amused, “say one more and I’ll start getting a complex.”

“I wasn’t going to stop.”

“Figured.”

He smiled, and she felt it—not just saw it. She felt it like it pressed right into the center of her chest and stayed there.

The sun shifted slightly, and their shadows leaned closer across the moss.

Y/N tipped her head to the side, still watching him. “Do you think this is stupid?”

Harry’s face sobered, but not harshly. “What?”

“This,” she said, gesturing to the space between them with a slight nod. “All of it. The group. This trip. You and me.”

He didn’t answer right away, and for a second she thought he might shrug or laugh it off or say something clever. But when he spoke, his voice was low and firm and made her heart ache a little.

“I think this might be the first thing that doesn’t feel stupid in a really long time.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then looked back down at their hands, their fingers still laced, skin warm and steady, and she didn’t say anything more.

Because there was nothing else that needed saying.

-

The quiet between them had thickened into something dense and familiar, something that didn’t demand to be broken but made room for truth if it wanted to be spoken. Y/N didn’t shift where she sat. Her hand stayed loosely curled in Harry’s, thumb moving slowly along the side of his, not because she was nervous but because she needed something to tether her to the moment. It felt like it could float away if she didn’t stay grounded in it, if she didn’t pay attention. The sunlight had shifted since they’d first sat down, casting longer shadows across the moss, cooler now, more golden than white. She could feel the weight of the day settling around them, not heavy, but sure.

“How many days are left?” she asked after a long stretch of stillness, her voice low and calm, like the answer might settle something inside her if he got it right.

Harry turned his head slightly, brows pulled together as he counted. “Two,” he said. “Just tomorrow, and then we pack up the morning after that.”

“Two,” she repeated, quieter now. The word sat differently than she expected, heavier maybe, or sharper around the edges. “That’s not enough.”

His fingers shifted against hers, not a squeeze, not quite, just a subtle reaction, like he’d felt it too. “I know,” he said, his voice soft and threaded with something she didn’t want to name.

She let the silence settle again, only this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that curled around her ribs and whispered that the end was coming whether she wanted it to or not. She tried to focus on the warmth of his hand, the steadiness of it, the way he didn’t let go even as the minutes stretched on and the world around them started to cool.

“It’s strange,” she said, her thumb drawing an unconscious line across the back of his hand. “It feels like it’s just starting. Like I’m just now catching up to myself.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Same.”

Neither of them looked away.

After a moment, her voice dropped even quieter. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like I could settle into something this easily.”

He tilted his head. “Settle into what?”

She gave a small shrug, like she didn’t want to define it. “This. The quiet. You. All of it.”

Harry let that sit between them before replying. “Maybe it’s not about ease. Maybe it’s just… right place, right time.”

“Or wrong time,” she muttered, half to herself, then looked up. “You talk to your sister much since you got here?”

He smiled at that, something warm flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah. She texted me the other night after we sent that picture from the dock. Wanted to know who the ‘girl with the sarcastic grin’ was.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t say me.”

“Course I did.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s slander.”

“Truthful slander,” he said, and his thumb traced an arc against her knuckles.

“Older or younger?”

“Older. Not by much. She thinks that makes her morally superior.”

“It might,” Y/N teased, then added more quietly, “Jess would agree. She’s older than me too.”

“She the one we met back at the house?”

“Yeah. She’s my… everything person, I guess. If I’m falling apart, she knows before I do.”

He nodded like he understood. “Mine’s the same. Bit bossier, maybe.”

“She ever give you hell about relationships?”

Harry snorted under his breath. “Constantly. She told me before this trip that if I didn’t come back with at least one good story, she was revoking her right to defend me.”

“Sounds like something Jess would say,” Y/N said, and for a second the two of them just sat there in the shared understanding that sisters had a way of seeing you before you saw yourself.

He looked at her then—not quickly, not sharply, but with that same gentle, anchored attention he’d given her since they’d stepped into the woods. “Does she know what this is?” he asked, the question quiet but pointed.

Y/N hesitated, then smiled. “She’s already bought stock in it.”

Harry grinned. “Smart woman.”

“I know.”

The air felt softer around them then, but heavier too, like they were stepping closer to a ledge they didn’t know how to name. Two days. That was it. Not enough to undo anything, but maybe enough to see it for what it was. Maybe enough to let it take root before everything outside this place tried to pull it away.

-

She didn’t want to go back. Not yet. Not back to the house, not back to the group, not back to the way the real world pressed in around the edges of everything that had finally gone quiet inside her. This was the first time in weeks—maybe longer—that she hadn’t felt like she needed to be on guard. Not for anyone else. Not even for herself. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t proving. She was just sitting in the woods with a boy who made her forget how many versions of herself she usually carried around to stay protected. And maybe that should’ve scared her. Maybe it still did. But it also felt like a relief she hadn’t realized she needed until it had already wrapped itself around her.

Harry’s hand was still warm in hers. Still steady. Still sure in that quiet, unobtrusive way that said he didn’t need to be holding her to make his presence known—but he liked that he was. And she liked that he did. She liked the way he moved through silence like it didn’t intimidate him. Like he didn’t feel the need to fill every second with something clever or easy. She liked the way he let the weight of her quiet hang in the air and didn’t ask her to lighten it.

Two days.

That was it.

And somehow that number had started to ache in her chest like it meant more than just a countdown. It meant borrowed time. Measured space. A trip that wasn’t built to carry what was beginning to form between them. And maybe that was fine. Maybe it was the right kind of temporary. But it didn’t feel like something she could fold back up when it was over and tuck away in a drawer. This—whatever this was—had shape now. Weight. Breath. A rhythm she was already learning by heart.

She looked down at their hands again, where his thumb traced an easy line over the edge of her palm. She could memorize that, she thought. The pace of it. The warmth. The quiet confidence in his touch that didn’t ask for anything but didn’t shy away from the truth of what it was either.

“I don’t think I expected to feel like this,” she said, voice low and careful, but not tentative.

He didn’t look surprised. “Like what?”

She let the silence stretch before answering, like the right words might rise out of the air if she gave them time. “Like I’ll miss you.”

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak right away either. But the way his fingers stilled slightly against hers—just for a second, just long enough to register—told her he’d felt the weight of that too.

“I will,” she said. “Miss you.”

He turned his head then, slow and deliberate, until his eyes met hers again. And there was nothing easy in them now. No teasing. No half-grin. Just that open, unguarded gaze that felt like it saw past whatever she hadn’t said yet.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t swept up in heat or urgency or anything designed to carry weight. It just was. And maybe that was why it landed the way it did—deep, quiet, true.

She didn’t speak again after that. Neither did he.

They didn’t need to.

-

Harry wasn’t ready to stand. Not yet. He could feel the clock ticking behind his ribs, some slow, invisible count closing in on the moment they’d have to rise from the mossy patch of shade and walk back into a world that hadn’t seen them like this—quiet and settled and entirely changed. The others wouldn’t know what happened out here. Not really. They’d joke, maybe, tease them, fill in the blanks with their own narratives. But they wouldn’t know. Because the story wasn’t something loud. It didn’t arrive in a kiss or a confession or anything so dramatic. It had built itself in the stillness, in a silence that most people would’ve missed. But Harry hadn’t missed it. And neither had she.

Her hand still sat in his like it belonged there. Not clutched. Not held too tightly. Just there, warm and aligned and honest. Her breathing had gone steady a long time ago. He could feel the rhythm of it, low and unhurried, like it had finally caught up with the truth of the moment and decided not to race past it. She hadn’t looked away from him since she said she’d miss him. And he hadn’t dared speak until now, not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because the weight of it was too dense to move around until he found the right way to place it.

��You know what’s funny?” he said, voice low, rough from disuse and something else he didn’t want to name.

She looked at him, quiet, ready.

“I keep thinking about that first morning,” he continued, “in the car. You were sitting there, arms crossed, that coffee cup clenched like it’d personally betrayed you.”

Her mouth twitched. “It was early.”

“It was war,” he said, the corner of his own mouth tipping. “And I remember thinking, I could survive this trip if she never talks to me again.”

She laughed then, soft and incredulous. “Jesus.”

“But then you did,” he went on, slower now, not smiling anymore. “You talked to me. Not all at once. Not easily. But… enough. You started asking questions, biting back at mine. You rolled your eyes. You gave me hell. And I started to look forward to it.”

She tilted her head, her expression settling into something quieter.

Harry let the silence sit for a beat before adding, “I didn’t expect this.”

“Me either.”

“I didn’t think I’d want to give this version of myself to anyone here. Not after how it started.”

She didn’t say anything, but her thumb pressed into the center of his palm.

He exhaled slowly, like the words needed space to fall into.

“But I do,” he said. “I want to give it to you.”

Her chest rose slightly.

“I don’t know how much of it you even want,” he went on, voice soft and slow and careful, “but every version of me that’s come out since we left the driveway-”

She didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. Just let the quiet answer for her.

And then, before he could overthink it, before the weight of it shifted into something heavy instead of full, he added, softer now, but no less certain—

“It’s just for you.”

-

By the time they emerged from the woods, the sky had turned a bruised gold, soft at the edges, slipping toward dusk. They walked slower now, like the path back was longer than it had been on the way out, like each step toward the house carried more weight than the last. Y/N didn’t drop his hand until the clearing opened and the backyard came into view, not out of fear or uncertainty, but because some small, private part of her wanted to keep the moment theirs just a little longer. As if the trees had been holding something sacred, and stepping back into the open would let it dissolve.

The house buzzed with sound—music playing low from the porch speaker, laughter from somewhere deeper inside, the muffled thud of footsteps crossing the upstairs floor. The day had stretched on without them, as it always would, and the group didn’t pause just because two people had wandered off to fall into something quieter. But the second they stepped out of the tree line, the air shifted.

Claire noticed first. She was seated at the far end of the outdoor table, drink in hand, sunglasses pushed back into her hair. Her posture didn’t change, but her gaze followed them with the kind of sharpness that came with interest disguised as boredom. Beside her, Ben turned too, his mouth tightening—not with surprise, not with warmth, but with some unnamed edge that made Y/N’s skin prickle, though she refused to look directly at him.

Harry didn’t falter. He walked just behind her, close enough that their shoulders brushed, close enough that the silence between them didn’t feel broken so much as carried. There was no announcement. No explanation. Just the quiet presence of two people who’d gone somewhere together and returned different.

Ali caught sight of them from the open kitchen doorway and grinned wide enough to slice the tension straight through. “There you are,” she called, cradling a beer against her hip like it was a microphone. “Thought you’d disappeared into the woods to build a new life.”

“Tempting,” Harry said under his breath, just loud enough for Y/N to hear. She bit back a smile, elbow nudging against his as they reached the porch steps.

“We figured you got lost,” Ali said, stepping aside as they climbed onto the deck. “Or maybe just sick of our faces.”

Y/N leaned against the railing, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Maybe we just needed a break from the chaos.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Ali shot her a look that was almost too knowing, then glanced at Harry. “You look very refreshed. Enlightened. Like a man who’s been changed by nature.”

Harry gave a small bow. “The trees spoke. I listened.”

Ben’s voice broke in then, low and sharp from where he stood refilling a drink near the patio table. “You two get caught in the rain, or are you just glowing on purpose?”

The joke landed flat. Claire laughed anyway. Ali didn’t.

Y/N turned toward them, posture calm, face unreadable. “Just a walk.”

Harry didn’t add anything, but the weight of him beside her, the way his arm hovered just near hers, the subtle line of his smile that hadn’t left since the clearing—all of it told a different story.

The others drifted around them—voices, music, the rustle of chairs and clink of bottles—but the shift had settled like fog, low and noticeable. No one said it outright. No one had to. Whatever lived between them now had a pulse. And it was loud enough to feel, even without a sound.

Ali lingered at Y/N’s side as the others turned away, her eyes following Claire and Ben without subtlety. “They’re not thrilled,” she said under her breath.

“That’s alright.” Y/N replied, her voice even.

Ali grinned. “You two look… good together.”

Y/N glanced at Harry. He was talking to Eli now, nothing serious, but his body still angled toward her like he hadn’t forgotten she was there. She felt the echo of his touch in her palm. Heard his voice again—just for you—like it had been said a lifetime ago instead of less than an hour.

She nodded. “Feels good.”

-

It was nearly dark by the time she slipped inside. The kitchen had thinned out, the sink full of dishes no one had the energy to finish, the counters littered with half-empty bags of chips, a trail of condensation rings marking where the night had landed and left again. Music still played low from the living room—someone had queued up something nostalgic, soft and summery—but most of the group had moved outside or upstairs. The house felt different now, quieter. Not empty, but settled. Like it had been holding its breath and was finally letting it go.

Y/N wandered toward the fridge, not because she was hungry but because it gave her something to do with her hands. She wasn’t used to this feeling—this soft hum under her skin that wasn’t nerves or adrenaline, but something else entirely. Something like awareness. Of the moment. Of herself. Of him.

She heard Harry before she saw him—his footsteps, light and familiar now, and the sound of the screen door creaking closed behind him. When he stepped into the kitchen, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded loosely, eyes finding hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She didn’t look away.

They stood like that for a while, the silence between them stretched thin but not tense, just full. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be broken because it wasn’t trying to prove anything.

Then, softly, she said, “I keep thinking someone’s going to say something.”

Harry tilted his head. “About us?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “They already are. Just not out loud.”

She laughed under her breath and shook her head. “I guess I thought it would feel different. More complicated.”

“Maybe it still will. Later.”

“But not now.”

“No,” he said. “Not now.”

She moved toward him without meaning to, drawn by something she didn’t need to name. She stopped just short of him, barely a breath between them, and looked up. His eyes were darker in the dim light, but steady. Warm. Anchored.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, and this time, it felt real.

He reached up then, fingers brushing her arm lightly, just enough to remind her he was there, like she could’ve forgotten. The touch wasn’t possessive. Wasn’t a question. It just was, and it felt better than any conversation she might’ve had with the group that night. She let herself lean into it, just slightly, just enough to rest her hand on his chest where the fabric of his shirt had warmed with the day.

It was a simple moment. Unremarkable, probably, to anyone else. But it made her throat go tight.

“Do we need to figure out what this is?” she asked, quietly, not because she wanted an answer now but because she wanted to know if he was thinking about it too.

He shook his head slowly. “Not yet.”

And somehow, that felt like exactly the right thing.

The kitchen light flickered once, then steadied. Outside, someone whooped loudly on the porch, followed by laughter. But in here, with his hand brushing slow circles along her forearm and her fingers curled against the seam of his shirt, the world felt narrowed down to one point. One connection. One breath.

He smiled again, softer now.

And she didn’t look away.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

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Next Part (Coming Soon)

[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.