#it doesn’t need to be spelled out for it to be so

[theetherealbloom]

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.7

Chapter Seven: What Are You Doing To Me Now?

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck, 

Word Count: 8.3k

A/N: ISTG last chapter— ya’ll comments had me wheezing and dying of laughter PLEASE— MY BAD, I DIDN’T MEAN TO GIVE PEDRO A HEART ATTACK LMAOOOO. Anyways, enjoy this little filler of a chapter. That’s 8k words long LMAO…

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: The blue by Gracie Abrams

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PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON

“You still need to change.”

The words tumble out before you can stop them, and you immediately want to crawl into a hole. Out of everything you could have said, that’s what your brain decided on?

Pedro blinks at you.

Then, as if just realizing it himself, he looks down at his suit—a bright, unmistakable blue, the bold insignia stretched across his chest.

Mr. Fantastic.

A literal superhero, walking through the lot, guiding you with steady hands like you were the fragile one. It’s so utterly absurd you almost laugh.

“Huh,” he says, eyebrows raising in mild amusement. “Guess I forgot.”

You shake your head, half-exasperated, half-fond. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving a dull ache in its place, and for the first time since the accident, the weight of everything presses in.

The stitches in your arm pull when you move too fast, a sharp reminder that this was real. That you’d actually shoved Pedro out of the way and taken the hit yourself.

He hasn’t let you forget it, either.

Not in the way his fingers still ghost over your wrist, as if testing to make sure you’re solid. Not in the way he keeps looking at you, his expression unreadable, like he’s trying to work through something in his head but hasn’t found the words yet.

And now, on top of it all, you still need to check in with Jess, confirm with Matt that you’re cleared for the day, and figure out if you need to file for medical leave.

So much for an easy afternoon.

You make your way across the lot, Pedro still at your side, his presence warm and steady. When you find Matt and Jess, they’re already deep in conversation with Rob Beggs, the safety manager. The area where the light rig fell is cordoned off now, crew members carefully maneuvering around it as they assess the situation.

The moment Jess spots you, her face crumples into something equal parts relief and guilt.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” she asks, stepping forward like she wants to hug you but stops herself at the last second, eyeing your injured arm. “Shit, I’m so sorry—”

“Jess, no,” you interject quickly, shaking your head. “This wasn’t your fault. Accidents happen.”

“Still, I feel awful,” Matt adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “We should have double-checked the rigging before calling everyone in.”

“And we’re going to,” Rob says, tone firm but even. “I’m running a full investigation on this. We’ll figure out where the breakdown happened and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

You nod, appreciating the sentiment but also not wanting to linger on it. The last thing you want is for everyone to start treating you like glass.

“I’m okay,” you say, offering them what you hope is a reassuring smile. “Just a few stitches. I’ll live.”

“Damn right you will,” a familiar voice cuts in.

Daisy.

She and Omar appear from the side, both of them looking equally relieved and exasperated.

“You scared the hell out of us,” Omar says, shaking his head. “One second everything was fine, and then—boom. We see you on the ground, bleeding.”

You wince. “Yeah. That part wasn’t fun.”

“No shit,” Daisy mutters. Then her eyes flick to Pedro, who still hasn’t strayed far from your side. Her gaze sharpens just slightly.

“You sticking to her like glue for the rest of the day or what?” she teases, but there’s an underlying note of curiosity there.

Pedro doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yep.”

You glance at him, surprised by how easily the answer leaves him. His expression is relaxed, but there’s something in his eyes, something quietly unwavering, that makes your stomach flip.

Daisy arches a brow, but she doesn’t push.

Instead, she just shakes her head, smirking slightly. “Figures.”

Omar huffs a laugh. “Well, at least she’s in good hands.”

You feel your face heat, and Pedro, the absolute menace, just looks utterly unbothered, like he was always meant to be standing here next to you. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Alright,” Jess sighs, rubbing her temples. “You’re cleared for the day. If you need extra time off, just let me know.”

You nod. “Thanks, Jess.”

“Now,” Matt adds, giving Pedro a once-over, “please tell me you’re not actually taking her back to the hotel like that.”

Pedro glances down at himself again.

Then he shrugs. “I dunno. Kinda think it adds character.”

You groan, covering your face with your good hand.

“Just go change, man,” Omar snorts.

Pedro grins, but then his attention shifts back to you, and the humor fades just slightly, replaced with something softer. Something quieter.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, voice low. “Stay here, okay?”

You nod, and the second he steps away, you exhale, feeling the weight of everything settle just a little heavier on your shoulders.

Daisy nudges you.

“So,” she drawls, a knowing glint in her eye. “Anything you wanna share?”

Your face burns.

“Nope.”

Omar snickers. “Yeah, sure.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you don’t say anything else. Because honestly?

You’re not sure how to explain what just happened.

Or how you’re supposed to go back to normal after it.

You don’t know how Pedro managed to convince Matt and Jess to call it an early day, but somehow, he did. Maybe it was the way he asked, firm yet gentle, leaving no room for argument, or maybe they saw the concern in his eyes—the kind that couldn’t be faked. Either way, production had been shut down for the day.

Besides, Rob had said they needed to check the cameras, review the footage, and determine exactly what went wrong.

Now, you were surrounded by Vanessa, Ebon, and Joseph, their voices overlapping as they checked in on you.

“Oh my god, are you sure you’re okay?” Vanessa asked, wide-eyed, her hand hovering near your arm as if she was scared you’d break.

“Yeah, you took quite the hit,” Ebon added, shaking his head. “Looked bad from where we were standing.”

Joseph crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “They need to get that sorted out before we continue filming. It could’ve been worse.”

You nodded, offering them a small smile, trying to shake off the lingering adrenaline and the way their concern made you feel more fragile than you wanted to admit.

“I’m fine, really,” you reassured them. “Just a couple of stitches. No big deal.”

But your voice wavered slightly, betraying the truth. Your hands were still cold, your heart still hadn’t settled into its usual rhythm. You wanted to be strong—to be the girl who brushed things off with a laugh. You’d always been that girl.

Then Pedro emerged from his trailer.

He’d finally changed out of the Mr. Fantastic suit, trading in the blue spandex for a soft black sweater and dark jeans, but he still had that look—the same one he’d had since the moment the accident happened. Like he hadn’t been able to let out a full breath since.

His eyes found yours instantly.

“Hey.”

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “Hey.”

Pedro ignored everyone else, his focus entirely on you as he closed the distance between you. The warmth of his presence was immediate and grounding, and when he reached out—his fingers ghosting over the bandage on your forehead—you felt yourself sway slightly.

“You should be resting,” he murmured, his voice lower, softer, meant just for you.

“I’ll rest when I get home.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, but something in your expression must’ve given you away, because Pedro exhaled through his nose, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face before he could think better of it.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. You were very aware of the way the others had fallen silent, watching the moment unfold. But Pedro didn’t seem to care, and you... you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

“I didn’t mean to.” The words came out quieter than you intended.

His brows knit together like he was about to say something else, but then Matt called out from the other side of the lot, breaking the moment.

Pedro sighed, dropping his hand, but not before giving your shoulder a small squeeze. “Let me take you back to the hotel. You shouldn’t be dealing with all of this right now.”

Your instinct was to protest, to insist that you were fine, that you could handle it. But the truth was, the idea of getting away from set, from all the eyes and whispers, sounded... nice.

So you swallowed your pride, glanced up at Pedro, and nodded.

“Okay.”

His shoulders loosened slightly, like he’d been waiting for you to agree. “Okay.”

And just like that, he was guiding you toward the parking lot, his hand ghosting over your lower back, protective, steady, like he was ready to catch you if you stumbled.

You exhaled, letting yourself lean into the warmth of him, just a little. Just for now.

The black van was already waiting at the curb, engine humming softly as the late afternoon light spilled golden streaks over the lot. Pedro kept a firm but gentle hand on the small of your back as he guided you inside, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.  

Albert, the driver, glanced back as you climbed in. “Miss,” he greeted with a polite nod, his eyes flickering briefly to Pedro as if silently assessing whether you were okay.  

You gave him a small smile. “Hey, Albert.”  

Once everyone was settled, the doors shut with a soft thud, sealing you into the familiar bubble of the ride back to the hotel.  

“I think after today, we deserve drinks.” Joseph stretched out his legs with a groan, his head thumping lightly against the headrest. “Preferably something strong. Maybe something that could wipe today from my memory entirely.”  

You let out a quiet laugh but shook your head. “Thanks, but no alcohol for me.” You scrunched your nose, pulling a face. “Kind of wanna keep all my blood inside me for now.”  

Pedro made a noise next to you—something between amusement and disapproval—as he shot you a sidelong glance. “Yeah, no tequila shots for you, querida. Not when you just got stitched up.”  

“Ugh, I was gonna say wine, but sure, make me sound like a total mess,” Joseph quipped.  

Vanessa smirked. “You are a mess.”  

Ebon chuckled. “At least you admit it.”  

The conversation carried on, the lighthearted teasing making the tension from earlier slowly fade. You felt yourself relax, your body sinking a little deeper into the seat. But even as the laughter filled the van, you remained acutely aware of the warmth beside you—the way Pedro’s thigh pressed lightly against yours, the way his arm rested along the back of the seat, close but not quite touching you.  

And when you glanced at him, you found his gaze already on you, something unreadable in those deep brown eyes.  

You looked away first.

The drive back to the hotel stretched longer than expected, traffic turning the usual route into a slow crawl. London streets, thick with impatient drivers and red taillights, blurred into a haze outside the window. Rain had started to drizzle, streaking the glass with soft, uneven patterns. The low hum of conversation filled the van, punctuated by the occasional groan from Joseph whenever the vehicle lurched forward, only to stop again moments later.  

You let your head rest against the window, watching the world pass in slow motion. The warmth of the van, the steady rhythm of the rain, and the quiet murmur of voices lulled you into something close to drowsiness. Your body ached—not unbearably, but enough that exhaustion tugged at you with each passing second.  

Pedro shifted beside you, the movement drawing your attention. His arm, which had been loosely draped along the back of the seat, dipped slightly, fingertips ghosting over your shoulder in a touch so light you almost imagined it.  

“You okay?” His voice was low, meant only for you.  

You hummed, turning your head slightly but keeping your gaze on the rain-slicked streets. “Yeah. Just tired.”  

His fingers flexed, the briefest hesitation before he let his hand settle—gentle and warm—on your arm. Not overbearing. Just there. Just enough.  

You should sit up straighter. You should move, make some joke, shake off the way his presence settled around you like something protective, something safe. But you didn’t. Instead, you let yourself relax, the weight of exhaustion pressing heavier against you.  

The next time the van jolted to another stop, your body leaned instinctively toward the nearest solid thing—Pedro.  

You felt it the moment your head made contact with his shoulder. The way he stiffened, just for a beat, before exhaling like he’d been holding his breath. You started to move away, an apology forming on your lips, but before you could, his hand found your knee—just the lightest touch, grounding, reassuring.  

“Stay,” he murmured.  

You weren’t sure if he even realized he’d said it.  

But you did. And you stayed.  

The voices around you blended, fading into the background as your eyelids grew heavier. Pedro’s breathing was steady beneath your cheek, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into something dangerously close to comfort. His scent—faint traces of cologne and whatever they used to take off the makeup from set—wrapped around you, familiar and warm.  

Outside, the rain kept falling. The city moved in slow motion.  

And in the middle of it all, you slept, tucked safely into the space Pedro had made for you.

Pedro stilled when he felt the full weight of you against him.  

At first, he thought you were just resting your eyes, letting exhaustion settle in after the long, chaotic day. But then your breathing slowed, deepened, the kind of rhythm that only came with sleep.  

Carefully, he glanced down at you. Your face was relaxed now, lips slightly parted, the tension that had clung to you all day finally melting away. A soft, barely-there snore slipped past your lips, and—fuck—his heart clenched.  

Then he felt it.  

A faint warmth against his shoulder.  

He shifted ever so slightly, and sure enough—yep. You were drooling.  

He should probably mind. He should probably shake you awake or shift you off of him. But the thought didn’t even cross his mind.  

Instead, he swallowed past the lump in his throat and stayed perfectly still.  

Because if this was all he got—this fleeting moment of quiet, of you trusting him enough to let your guard down, to lean on him like this—he wasn’t about to ruin it.  

Still, guilt gnawed at him. The scene kept playing in his head. The accident. The way his stomach had dropped when he saw you hit the ground. The way you had looked up at him afterward, trying to play it off like it was nothing, even though he knew better. Even though he knew you.  

He could have lost you today.  

The thought made his grip tighten ever so slightly against his knee, his other hand twitching with the urge to reach for you. To make sure you were really here.  

And then there was that look.  

The one you had given him. The one that sent something sharp and undeniable curling in his chest. The one that told him—without words—that whatever this was between you, it wasn’t just in his head.  

He could have kissed you then.  

He should have.  

But it hadn’t been the right time. Not after what had happened. Not when you were still reeling from it, still patching yourself up.  

But fuck, it’s going to keep him up at night.  

He wants you.  

And he knows—knows—that you want him too.  

The van hit another bump, jostling you slightly, and instinctively, he shifted, tucking you closer so your head wouldn’t slip from his shoulder.  

You murmured something in your sleep, a soft sigh, curling the tiniest bit toward him. And Pedro?  

Pedro let himself enjoy it. Just for now. Just for tonight.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING  

A gentle voice coaxed you from sleep.  

“We’re here.”  

You stirred, warmth pressed against your cheek, the rhythmic hum of the van’s engine fading as the vehicle rolled to a stop. Your mind felt sluggish, still tangled in the remnants of sleep, but then—oh God.  

Your head had been resting on him.  

Panic flickered through you as you jerked upright, realizing with horror that you had not only slept on Pedro’s shoulder but also left a small damp patch on the fabric of his hoodie.  

“Oh my—shit.” You wiped hastily at your mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to—Jesus, I drooled all over you. I’m so—”  

Pedro chuckled, low and amused, shaking his head. “It’s fine.” His voice softened. “Just don’t move too much. Remember—your stitches.”  

The reminder stopped you in your tracks. Right. Your stitches. Your ribs ached dully, a reminder of the accident earlier on set. You swallowed, nodding.  

“Right,” you murmured.  

Across from you, Joseph twisted in his seat, smirking slightly. “You good?”  

“Yeah.” Your voice was still rough with sleep. You cleared your throat and tried again. “M’good.”  

Vanessa gave you a sympathetic look, her expression warm. “You should probably head up and rest.”  

You nodded again, still feeling a little disoriented. The van door slid open, letting in the cool London air. One by one, everyone filed out, stretching and murmuring about what to do next. Pedro moved to step out, then hesitated, glancing back at you.  

“You coming?” he asked, voice low, just for you.  

You blinked, forcing yourself to move. Your limbs felt heavy, your body still craving rest. As you started to climb out, your footing wavered slightly—maybe from exhaustion, maybe from the dull ache in your side.  

Pedro was there in an instant.  

His hand hovered near the small of your back, not quite touching, but close enough to steady you. Close enough to say, I’ve got you.  

You inhaled, just for a moment, letting yourself take comfort in his presence. 

The warmth of the hotel lobby wrapped around you as you stepped inside, the soft hum of distant conversation and the faint scent of polished wood and expensive cologne filling the air. Pedro stayed close, his presence a quiet reassurance, his hand hovering near your lower back again, never quite touching, but there.  

You made your way toward the elevators, pressing the call button. When the doors slid open, you stepped inside with a sigh, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. You tapped your keycard, pressing the button for your floor before instinctively pressing Pedro’s as well.  

“Nope,” he said immediately, crossing his arms.  

You turned, blinking up at him. “What?”  

“You’re staying with me tonight.”  

Your lips parted in surprise. “Excuse me?”  

Pedro sighed, like he had already expected you to put up a fight. “Someone needs to look after you.”  

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “Pedro, I’ll be fine. They’re just stitches. I’m just gonna head to bed early—” You punctuated the statement with a yawn, covering your mouth with the back of your hand.  

Pedro gave you that look. That firm, stubborn, no-room-for-argument look, the one you’d seen him use when he was absolutely set on something.  

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”  

“Just stay in the suite,” he said, softer this time. “Please. You can use your old room.”  

Your brows furrowed. “Pedro, my stuff is still in my room.”  

“Then I’ll stay with you.”  

Your breath hitched. “What?”  

Pedro shrugged, like it was the most casual suggestion in the world. “If you won’t stay in my suite, then I’ll stay in yours.”  

You stared at him, your heart thudding a little too loudly in your ears. The idea of sharing a space with Pedro for the night—of waking up knowing he was just a room away, of the quiet intimacy of existing in the same space—made your stomach flip.  

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, voice quieter now.  

He tilted his head, studying you. “I want to.”  

The elevator dinged, signaling your floor. The doors slid open, but neither of you moved. The air between you was charged, thick with something unspoken, something there.  

You hesitated. He was giving you a choice.  

You exhaled, already knowing you were going to give in before the words even left your mouth.  

“Fine…” you muttered, crossing your arms. “If it makes you feel better.” You glanced up at him and sighed. “Now put away your puppy eyes.”  

Pedro grinned, all smug warmth and victory, but there was something softer in his eyes—relief, maybe. Like he was glad you weren’t pushing him away.  

“I’ll just grab some of my stuff. I’ll be right back,” he said, already stepping back toward the elevator panel to press his floor again.  

You shot him a teasing look. “Better hurry, or I might just pass out before you get there.”  

Pedro narrowed his eyes playfully. “Seven minutes,” he said, like it was a challenge.  

You smirked as the doors slid shut, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the hallway.  

By the time you got to your room, exhaustion was already creeping in. You barely had the energy to kick off your shoes before flopping onto the bed, sighing into the plush comforter. You told yourself you’d just close your eyes for a moment—just a second.  

Then, exactly seven minutes later, the sound of your doorbell rang through the room.

You rolled off the bed with a groggy sigh, rubbing your eyes as you shuffled toward the door. When you pulled it open, Pedro was standing there, looking so effortlessly comfortable it made your stomach flip.  

A plain black tee stretched across his broad chest, the soft fabric hanging loosely over the curve of his arms. Grey sweatpants sat low on his hips, the kind that made your brain short-circuit for a second longer than you wanted to admit. He’d traded his usual contacts for his square-framed glasses, the ones that made him look just a little too good, like a university professor who knew exactly how to ruin you with a well-placed argument.  

In one hand, he held a small duffle bag, the strap slung over his shoulder like he belonged here, like this was routine. Like you’d done this before.  

Pedro’s gaze flicked over you, taking in your half-lidded eyes and the way you leaned against the doorframe, still fighting off the edges of sleep.  

“You didn’t pass out,” he noted, amused.  

“Almost did,” you mumbled, stepping back to let him in.  

Pedro walked past you, his familiar scent trailing after him—clean, warm, a mix of something woody and subtle, like cedar and spice. He moved easily around the space, setting his bag down by the chair, toeing off his sneakers before glancing back at you.  

“You should get some rest,” he said, softer now.  

You folded your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that you were still in the clothes you wore earlier, your sweater slightly rumpled from your half-nap. “I was resting until someone rang my doorbell exactly seven minutes after leaving.”  

Pedro just smiled, unapologetic. “I said I’d be quick.”  

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the small grin tugging at your lips.  

Then, as if the weight of the day finally caught up to him, Pedro let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw before tilting his head at you. His gaze softened, the humor fading just a little.  

“How’s your side?”  

You hesitated, glancing down like you could see the stitches through your clothes. “Fine,” you said, but it wasn’t very convincing.  

Pedro’s brows pulled together. “Let me see.”  

You blinked. “What?”  

“Just—let me check, make sure it’s not bleeding or anything.”  

You frowned, the shyness creeping back in. “Pedro, I can—”  

“You could,” he interrupted gently, stepping closer, “but you won’t.” His voice dipped into something quieter, something coaxing. “Just let me take care of you, okay?”  

Your breath hitched.  

You should’ve argued, should’ve batted away his concern with another stubborn insistence that you were fine. But he was looking at you like that—like you were something fragile and precious, something worth worrying over.  

And maybe a part of you wanted to be taken care of.  

You swallowed, nodding once.  

Pedro exhaled, something unspoken passing between you, before he gestured toward the bed. “Sit.”  

You did.  

He knelt in front of you, hands careful as he helped you lift the hem of your sweater, just enough to check the bandages covering your side. His fingers barely grazed your skin, but it was enough to send a shiver up your spine.  

Pedro stilled.  

His gaze flicked up to yours, like he’d felt it too.  

For a moment, neither of you moved. The room felt smaller, the air thicker.  

Then, finally, he spoke—voice rough, quiet.  

“You scared the shit out of me today.”

“So you’ve said…” You mumbled.

Pedro huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he carefully smoothed the fabric of your sweater back down. His hands lingered for half a second too long, fingertips brushing against your waist before he pulled away.  

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it—just exhaustion, something fond underneath.  

You swallowed past the warmth creeping up your neck and cleared your throat. “I, uh—I need to shower.”  

Pedro’s expression shifted instantly, concern knitting his brows together. “Careful with your stitches.”  

“I know,” you sighed, already pushing yourself up from the bed. “I just—” You hesitated, suddenly aware of how gross you felt. Your sweater was stiff in places, dried with sweat and blood, and your skin itched from the grime of the day. “I just need to wash this all off.”  

Pedro’s gaze softened, but his jaw ticked, like he was biting back a hundred different things he wanted to say.  

Instead, he nodded. “Okay.”  

You quickly gathered your pajamas and underwear, started toward the bathroom, then paused at the door, glancing over your shoulder. “Don’t—” You hesitated, shifting awkwardly. “Don’t leave, okay?”  

Pedro blinked, something flickering behind his eyes before he nodded again. “I won’t.”  

That was all you needed.  

You closed the bathroom door behind you and exhaled, pressing your forehead against the cool wood for a second longer than necessary. Your heart was beating too fast.  

You shook it off, moving to turn on the water, making sure it wasn’t too hot—you didn’t want to irritate the stitches. The mirror caught your reflection, and you winced. You looked exhausted, dark circles under your eyes, dried blood streaked near your collar. No wonder Pedro had been hovering.  

Carefully, you peeled off your clothes, mindful of your injury as you stepped under the spray. Warm water cascaded over you, washing away the dirt and the tension, and you sighed in relief.  

The moment you stepped out of the bathroom, warmth wrapped around you—not just from the plush hotel robe you’d thrown on, but from the scent of food lingering in the air. Something rich, comforting.  

Pedro sat on the edge of the couch, scrolling through his phone, but his head snapped up the second he heard you. His eyes flickered over you, scanning for any signs of discomfort, lingering too long on the bandages at your side before he forced himself to meet your gaze.  

He offered you a small smile. “I ordered room service for dinner. Figured you needed something to eat before your next set of meds.”  

Your stomach answered before you could, a low grumble betraying just how little you’d eaten today.  

Pedro smirked. “Guess I made the right call.”  

You rolled your eyes, but the truth was, you were grateful. The thoughtfulness of it made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with your stitches.  

“What’d you get?” You padded over, tucking damp hair behind your ear as you settled onto the small couch beside him.  

“Chicken soup, because, you know—doctor’s orders.” He lifted the lid with a flourish, steam curling into the air. “And some pasta, just in case you wanted something more solid.”  

Your lips twitched. “You really thought this through, huh?”  

Pedro shrugged, too casual. “You’re my responsibility tonight.”  

Something about the way he said it made your breath catch. He didn’t say it like it was an obligation. He said it like it was a fact. Like he wanted it to be.  

You looked away, focusing on the soup as you picked up a spoon. “Thanks,” you murmured.  

Pedro watched you for a beat before nodding. “Anytime.”

The silence between you was warm, familiar. The kind that didn’t need to be filled.  

You focused on your food, spooning up the broth, letting the heat soothe you from the inside out. The warmth of it settled deep in your chest, easing away the tightness that had been there since the accident. Pedro had been right—this was exactly what you needed.  

Across from you, Pedro twirled his fork through his pasta absentmindedly, but he wasn’t eating much. His eyes kept flicking toward you, like he was checking, making sure you were still here, still breathing.  

“You should eat,” you murmured, not looking up from your bowl.  

Pedro let out a small breath of amusement. “You sound like me.”  

You lifted a brow. “Guess it’s contagious.”  

He smirked but didn’t argue, finally taking a bite of his food. You kept eating, but the weight of his gaze never fully left you. It sat there, unspoken, lingering between the spaces of your breath and the scrape of silverware against ceramic.  

After a while, you set your spoon down and leaned back against the couch, stretching your legs out. Pedro’s eyes flickered to your bandages again, his jaw tightening slightly.  

Pedro’s gaze flickered down to your bandages again, his jaw tightening slightly.  

“You have no idea how much you worried me today,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges.  

You exhaled slowly. “I know.”  

“I mean it,” he said, setting his plate aside. He shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours, grounding himself in the warmth of you. “One second, you were fine, and the next…” He shook his head, running a hand through his curls. “I keep thinking—if things had gone differently…”  

“Hey.” Your voice was soft but firm. You reached out without thinking, resting a hand over his. His fingers twitched under yours, like he was resisting the urge to hold on.  

“I’m okay,” you reassured him. “It was just an accident.”  

Pedro let out a humorless huff. “That doesn’t make it any less terrifying.”  

You swallowed, your fingers curling slightly over his. “I know.”  

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The distant sounds of the city hummed beyond the hotel window, the murmur of footsteps passing by in the hallway. But here, in this quiet little bubble, it was just the two of you.  

Pedro’s fingers twitched again, then slowly, finally, curled around yours. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t hold too tightly. Just enough to tell you he was still here. That he wasn’t letting go.  

Your throat felt tight, emotions tangling up somewhere in your chest.  

“Pedro,” you started, but you didn’t know what to say.  

He looked at you then, really looked at you. And for the first time all night, you didn’t look away.  

There was something in his eyes—something raw, something real. It made your heart stumble in your chest.  

He swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. “You need to drink your meds.”

“Right.” You nodded and reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand and twisted the cap off with a sigh. Pedro, ever watchful, pushed the packet of pills closer to you with two fingers.  

“Go on,” he urged, tilting his head.  

You huffed but took the meds anyway, popping them into your mouth and swallowing them down with a gulp of water. The whole time, Pedro watched you like a hawk, arms crossed over his chest, his face full of barely restrained concern.  

“There. Happy?” you mumbled, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.  

Pedro narrowed his eyes slightly, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Very.”  

“You’re being a little much,” you teased, setting the bottle down.  

He arched a brow. “A little much?”  

“You’re hovering. You’re being—” You gestured vaguely at him. “Like a mother hen.”  

Pedro let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Damn right I am. Someone’s gotta make sure you’re not out here trying to tough it out on your own.”  

You looked away, your fingers fidgeting in your lap. He wasn’t wrong. You’d spent so much of your life trying to prove that you didn’t need anyone, that you could handle things on your own. But having him here, fussing over you, making sure you took your meds, ordering you food—it was… nice.  

Really nice.  

You cleared your throat, suddenly feeling warm all over. “Well, thanks,” you muttered, voice softer this time.  

Pedro studied you for a beat, then gave a small nod, like he understood. Like he saw right through you.  

You busied yourself adjusting the pillows, trying to ignore how much your heart was racing. But then you froze.  

There was only one bed.  

Your eyes darted to Pedro’s, and you saw the exact moment he noticed, too. His lips parted slightly, gaze flicking from you to the bed and back again.  

“Oh,” you said.  

Pedro exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can take the floor.”  

You blinked. “What?”  

“The floor,” he repeated. “I’ll sleep there.”  

You frowned, looking between him and the thick, undoubtedly uncomfortable carpet. “Absolutely the fuck not.”  

Pedro smirked, clearly amused by your sudden shift in tone. “Wow. Strong words.”  

“I’m serious, Pedro.” You crossed your arms. “Your back will hate you forever.”  

His smirk widened into a grin. “Are you calling me old?”  

Your mouth opened, then closed. “No! I—I’m just saying, you’ll wake up sore as hell and—ugh.” You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples.  

Pedro chuckled, shaking his head. “Relax, I’m just messing with you.”  

You glared at him, flustered beyond belief. “Not funny.”  

“Very funny.”  

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it effortlessly, still grinning like a damn idiot.  

“You’re sleeping in the bed,” you grumbled, trying to regain some of your dignity.  

Pedro held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But if I wake up with an elbow to the ribs, I’m filing a complaint.”  

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.  

One bed. Pedro Pascal. You.  

You were doomed.

You climb into bed first, carefully maneuvering around your injury as you settle against the pillows. Pedro follows soon after, turning off the last of the lights, leaving only the bedside lamp casting a soft, golden glow over the room. The space between you is small—closer than what two people who are just friends probably should be—but neither of you move to fix it.  

For a moment, the only sounds in the room are the quiet hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the hotel settling. Then, Pedro shifts slightly, resting his head on his hand as he looks at you.  

“Isn’t it weird?” he murmurs.  

You blink sleepily. “What?”  

“You changed rooms… and now we’re in the same bed.” His voice is thoughtful, like he’s only just realizing the weight of the situation.  

You snort. “Maybe I’m cursed.”  

Pedro chuckles, low and warm. “Nah, can’t be cursed if you end up spending more time with me.” His grin is downright smug.  

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Okay, superstar, calm down.”  

Pedro huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m just saying. If this is a curse, it’s not a bad one.”  

You open your mouth to argue—because really, who just casually says things like that?—but the words catch in your throat when you realize how close he really is. His face is relaxed in the dim light, his eyes dark and unreadable, his curls a little mussed from the day.  

Your heart stumbles.  

It should be weird, lying here with him like this, but somehow… it isn’t.  

Somehow, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

The quiet hum of the night settles around you, the warmth of the sheets and the steady presence of Pedro beside you making it all too easy to forget the chaos of the day.  

You should be sleeping, but instead, you’re scrolling on your phone, the dim glow illuminating your face as you read. The soft, rhythmic sound of Pedro’s breathing makes you think he’s fallen asleep—until his voice rumbles low in the quiet.  

“You always do that before bed?”  

You nearly jump, clutching your phone against your chest. “Do what?”  

Pedro’s lips twitch in amusement. “Read.”  

You swallow. Shit.  

“Yeah?” you say, trying to sound nonchalant.  

Pedro props himself up on one elbow, peering at your phone. “What are you reading?”  

Your body goes rigid. Oh god.  

You’re reading fanfiction. Specifically, his character’s fanfiction.  

Absolutely not. You cannot let this man know.  

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, locking your phone and placing it screen-down on the nightstand.  

Pedro raises a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure.”  

You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, and you turn away, mumbling, “It’s nothing important.”  

Pedro hums, amused, but thankfully doesn’t push further. Instead, he settles back down, stretching one arm under the pillow.  

“Alright, secrets,” he teases, voice laced with sleep. “Guess I’ll just have to wonder.”  

You groan. “Go to sleep, Pedro.”  

He chuckles, the sound warm and deep. “Fine, fine.”  

A comfortable silence blankets the room, the kind that makes your eyelids grow heavier. The warmth of Pedro beside you—solid, steady, real—only adds to it, pulling you deeper into rest.  

And before you know it, you’re asleep.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EARLY MORNING

The muffled chime of your alarm cuts through the quiet, dragging you from the depths of sleep. You groan, blindly reaching for your phone on the nightstand, smacking at the screen until the sound dies out.

As you settle back into the pillows, intending to steal a few more minutes of sleep, that's when you feel it.

Warmth. Solid and everywhere.

Your drowsy brain takes a second to catch up, to process the strong arm slung over your waist, the steady rise and fall of a broad chest against your back, the way his legs are tangled with yours, locking you in place.

And then—oh.

Something hard presses against the curve of your ass.

Your breath catches.

Oh.

Heat floods your face instantly. The realization slams into you with the force of a freight train. Pedro is wrapped around you, his body flush against yours, and—yep, there’s no mistaking that.

You go completely still, hoping—praying—that maybe, maybe he’s still asleep, that he’s not aware of how intimately you’re pressed together.

A slow, deep inhale against your shoulder tells you otherwise.

Shit.

You can feel the moment he wakes up, the way his breathing shifts, the faintest tensing of his muscles. And then—

A sleepy, raspy groan vibrates against your skin.

Pedro shifts slightly behind you, his grip on your waist tightening for the briefest moment before his entire body goes rigid.

Silence.

You can practically hear the gears turning in his still half-asleep brain.

“…Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

Your entire body feels like it’s on fire.

His hand flexes against your stomach before he very, very slowly starts to pull away, but in doing so, he shifts again—and you feel everything for a split second longer than you should.

A tiny, humiliating sound escapes the back of your throat.

Pedro freezes.

Oh, god. Kill me now.

“…Did you just whimper?” His voice is still thick with sleep, rough and laced with amusement.

“No…” you mumble, barely above a whisper.

He shifts slightly, just enough for you to feel him again, solid and unmistakable.

Your breath stutters.

Pedro lets out a low, knowing chuckle, his lips brushing against your shoulder as he murmurs, “Mmm. I think you did.”

You want to die.

Or maybe kill him. Either option seems preferable to this moment.

“You’re imagining things,” you mutter, voice strained as you try to ignore the way heat licks up your spine.

“Am I?” His arm tightens slightly around your waist, his fingers splaying against your stomach in a way that makes your breath catch.

God, he’s so warm.

You swallow, heart hammering against your ribs. “Pedro.”

Pedro hums in response, low and teasing, the sound vibrating against your skin.  

You shiver, heat pooling deep in your stomach. He’s still so close—his breath warm against your jaw, his fingers resting against your waist, firm and grounding.  

You don’t know who moves first.  

Maybe it’s you, tilting your head just slightly, your lips parting in anticipation. Or maybe it’s him, the way his nose grazes your cheek, the way he exhales shakily, like he’s been fighting this just as much as you have.  

And then his lips are on yours.  

Soft at first, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away, to stop this before it can spiral into something neither of you can take back.  

But you don’t pull away.  

Instead, you press into him, fingers gripping onto the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.  

Pedro groans low in his throat, something almost desperate unraveling between you. His hand slips under your shirt, fingers splaying against the bare skin of your waist, not pushing—just holding. His lips part against yours, deepening the kiss, tongue sweeping against yours in a slow, intoxicating glide.  

You sigh into him, utterly lost in the way he tastes, the way he feels.  

Then he shifts, leaning more of his weight onto you, and a sharp twinge shoots through your side. You inhale sharply, wincing.  

Pedro immediately freezes.  

His lips break from yours, breath warm and uneven against your jaw. “Shit.” He pulls back, eyes scanning your face, concern flickering in the deep brown of his gaze. “Did I—did I hurt you?”  

You shake your head, blinking away the haze of want clouding your thoughts. “No, I’m okay. Just… a little sore.”  

His lips press into a thin line, and then he’s pulling away completely, his hands gentle as he brushes a thumb over your hip. “I shouldn’t have—”  

You cut him off with a soft laugh. “Pedro, you didn’t break me.”  

His brows pinch together, still looking unsure. But then his gaze flickers to the clock on the nightstand, and he mutters a quiet fuck.  

You glance at the time. “What?”  

“I have to be on set in thirty minutes.” He groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “I gotta get dressed.”  

Your heart sinks.  

You don’t even try to hide it, the disappointment settling deep in your bones. But it’s not just that he has to leave—it’s the way he pulls away so fast, the way his hands are gone from your skin, the way reality rushes back in like a cold slap to the face.  

What if that kiss was a mistake? 

What if he didn’t mean it, not really? What if it was just the heat of the moment, an impulse he already regrets?  

You swallow hard, trying to school your expression, trying not to let the spiral show on your face.  

But Pedro catches it anyway.  

He stops halfway through buttoning his shirt, his gaze snapping to yours. His brows furrow, that warm, knowing look settling into his features. “No.”  

You blink. “What?”  

He shakes his head, stepping closer, voice firm. “No. I know that face.”  

You press your lips together, looking away, but Pedro doesn’t let you retreat.  

His fingers find your chin, tilting your face back toward him. His eyes are soft, earnest, searching yours. “That kiss wasn’t a mistake.”  

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.  

Pedro exhales, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “I like you.” His voice is rough, almost exasperated, like he can’t believe he even has to say it out loud. “Fuck, I like you.”  

Your stomach flips. “You do?”  

His lips twitch into a small, crooked smile. “Yeah. I do.” He presses his forehead against yours, letting out a breathy chuckle. “And I really wish I didn’t have to leave right now.”  

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a little. “Me too.”  

Pedro lingers a second longer before groaning, pulling away. “Okay. I really do have to go.” He finishes buttoning his shirt in record time, shoving on his jacket, running a hand through his messy hair.  

And yet—before he reaches the door, he turns back, pointing at you. “Take your meds. We’ll talk more later when I get back.”  

You roll your eyes. “Yes, dad.”  

“I’m serious,” he says, giving you a pointed look. “Rest, take your meds, don’t do anything stupid.”  

You huff, crossing your arms. “You’re really bossy, you know that?”  

Pedro smirks, walking backward toward the door. “Yeah? And you really like it.”  

You grab a pillow and launch it at him.  

He laughs, catching it before it can hit the floor, and then he’s gone—leaving behind the ghost of his touch, the lingering taste of his lips, and the undeniable truth that you are absolutely, utterly screwed.

The moment the door clicks shut, you stare at it for a solid five seconds.  

Then—  

You let out a muffled squeal, practically throwing yourself onto the bed, hugging your pillow close to your chest as you kick your feet.  

Oh my god.  

Oh. My. God.  

Did that really just happen? Did Pedro fucking Pascal just kiss you? Did he say—no, did he actually say he likes you? Out loud? Like, in real life?  

You bury your face into the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut. This has to be a dream. Some fever-induced hallucination from the painkillers, because there is no way this is actually happening to you.  

Your stomach flips as you replay every second of it—the warmth of his hands on your skin, the way his lips moved against yours, the way he groaned into your mouth. Jesus. Your body feels like it’s buzzing, and you don’t know if you’ll ever recover from this.  

Then, like a bucket of cold water, a terrifying realization crashes over you.  

He doesn’t know. 

You push yourself up, staring blankly at the wall as the horror sinks in.  

He doesn’t know you’ve been reading fanfiction about him. About his characters. About him doing things that— 

You slap a hand over your mouth.  

Oh God.  

This is the worst thing that has ever happened to you.  

What if he ever finds out? What if he ever catches you again, peeking at your phone, and this time you don’t have the composure to hide it? What if he sees the ungodly amount of saved bookmarks you have?  

You flop back onto the bed, groaning into your pillow.  

Oh. Oh no.  

The fanfiction was bad enough. But then—  

Your stomach drops.  

The TikTok edits.  

The candid photos.  

The folder.  

You physically sit up in bed, gripping the pillow like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. The folder on your phone—hidden in the depths of your camera roll, labeled something totally inconspicuous like Receipts or Taxes—is filled with candid pictures, behind-the-scenes clips, and so many thirst edits of Pedro Pascal set to unholy audio.  

You squeeze your eyes shut, cringing so hard your whole body tenses.  

You can never let him near your phone.  

Ever.  

What if he finds the one edit with him as Jack Daniels? The one that made you short-circuit the first time you saw it? Or the compilation of him laughing, looking stupidly charming, set to some overly romantic Taylor Swift song?  

Jesus Christ.  

You groan, flopping back against the pillows, dragging your hands down your face.  

This is bad.  

Like, really bad.  

Because not only have you been a lowkey (very highkey) fangirl for years, but now you’ve kissed him. Now he likes you. Now there’s a very real possibility that this could actually go somewhere.  

And if he ever finds out just how deep your obsession goes?  

You’re changing your name and moving to a remote island.

End Notes:

Well… IT HAS BEEN HINTED AT. TIME AND TIME AGAIN. That you are a fan girl so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Oh God, what if he finds out 😃

Ya’ll they kissed! YAYYY!!

Awww you have a week off to rest and heal up girlieeee heuheuh

Look at Pedro being a mind reader. Love that for you!

We love a reassuring king. Gimme that shit. 

Yes, this is a little filler chapter before absolute chaos… oh hrm I meant… nothing what?

TAGLIST: @comfortzonequeen @christinamadsen @liciafonseca @greenwitchfromthewoods @iqr-x @southernbe @maryfanson @brittmb115 @taytay0403 @whimsiwitchy @zymiii @sarahhxx03 @leilanixx @lilasskicker-23 @https-murdock @barnescamboy @widowsvail @senhoritamayblog @morganlolitta @suzysface @reidsworld @xmaykeca @dontlookatme121 @mandaloriankait @picketniffler @pedrofan @mystickittytaco @enchantingchildkitten @seven-seas-of-fuck-you @ro-nahime-things @senhoritamayblog @hermionelove @ashhlsstuff @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall @youusunshineyoutemptress @klajmekkk @aomi-nabi

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Two

It’s dark. The window is still open, but the chillier air is kind of nice on Eddie’s flushed skin.

The clean bedding is nice too; Eddie tries to remember the last time he appreciated something as nice as clean sheets and draws a blank.

Probably when he still lived with Wayne. Probably before they made it big. Probably before the partying started.

Eddie picks up his phone, his thumb hovering over the call button. He presses it.

Wayne doesn’t pick up. Eddie’s not surprised, not really.

He tries Chris; she doesn’t answer either.

Likewise Gareth.

He doesn't bother calling Jeff.

There’s no one else in his phone; Chrissy took it all away when Eddie couldn’t differentiate between a friend a dealer or a booty call.

Like the worst Marie Kondo ever, Chrissy had held up the hundreds of friends Eddie had in his phone, one by one, ‘does this spark joy?’

No. Sometimes sucked his dick, though.

Eddie has money though. He twirls his phone on his chest, flipping it from long edge to short. There’s always somewhere open. Flip. Flip. Flip.

Not like anyone's answering him right now anyway. They’ve just left him here. With fucking Steve. It’s just one time anyway, he wouldn’t get away with it more than once. Chrissy would put him on proper lock down if she found out. Probably shove him back in the clinic.

So...just once.

One last go. And then he’d quit for sure. He hasn’t touched it for months, so he’s pretty much proved he can do it, anyway.

Eddie gets dressed. Finds cash balled up in random places.

Eddie stands in the doorway. Look up at the stars and then across the lawn at the security gates. He hasn’t had so much as a cigarette in nearly half a year. This is fine.

“Where you going, Eddie?”

Eddie sighs. Fucking busted. Still, “no where you need to worry about.”

“Uh hu.”

“Look, I’m not on house arrest okay? I can go out, I’m a grown fucking man.”

“You totally are. You want to go out, you go for it. No skin off my nose.”

Eddie whirls, shocked, “what the fuck? Aren’t you supposed to try and stop me from doing dumb shit?”

Steve raises the eyebrow, “so you admit it’s dumb?” He looks sleep rumpled, wearing sweats and a white tee shirt.

Walked right into that one. “You’re dumb.”

The face again. The totally schooled features that are utterly professional and give absolutely nothing away and yet...somehow...he’s laughing at Eddie. Eddie can feel it.

“So you go out,” Steve saunters over, stands next to Eddie, bare toes curling over the doorstep, “you score or drink or do whatever it is you’re aiming to do. Then what?”

“Then what,” Eddie mimics, all bitchy, “I’ll come home, and I’ll sober up, and it won’t change a fucking thing,” Eddie bites out.

“You think? You’ve had sober spells before, is that how it’s gone in the past?”

Eddie takes a deep breathe, because no, no that is not how it’s fucking gone in the past, “this time is different.”

“Is it?” Steve asks, completely fucking nonchalant, “how so?”

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to punch someone so bad in all his life. Imagines it viscerally, Steve's fucking head cracking on the door frame while he slumps to the floor in a bloody heap.

Eddie does not do that, obviously.

“Look, I’ll come home, we don’t do anything about it, you still get paid, sound good?”

“I get paid either way,” Steve shrugs one shoulder, because he’s a cunt. “This is how a lot of addicts die, did you know that?”

“What?” Eddie asks, startled by the left turn.

“Yeah, get out of rehab, think their tolerance is still the same, get back on it…” he doesn’t bother to finish.

“That won’t happen to me.”

“Oh yeah, right. Of course. Because you’re Eddie Munson, sorry, sorry, forgot a second there.”

Eddie takes two thumping angry steps into the yard and just...just fucking screams at the sky. Just...roars at nothing. This is shit. It’s so shit. Everything is shit. And Eddie nearly fucking died last time and there’s no escaping that fact. There’s no help. There’s no point to any of this. There’s just pain and fucking misery and something clawing at Eddie’s insides trying to get out.

He roars until he’s hoarse. Until he can’t any more. Until his chin is wet with spit and he feels week and rung out.

He sits on his ass on the cold, dewy lawn.

Steve is still standing in the doorway, he doesn’t look like he’s moved at all. If he’s at all bothered by Eddie’s little meltdown, he isn’t showing it.

“Why did you want to go?” Steve asks finally, "did something change?"

Eddie shrugs, he’s got nothing, not really. No real reason past just wanting to get fucked up. Because it feels good. Because he likes it.

“Okay, what’s worth staying for?”

Eddie makes a dismissive ‘pfffft’, made croaky by his fucked out voice.

“They always say you need to do these things for yourself,” Eddie glares at Steve, because that's some dumb shit right there. Always had it in therapy though. Self worth. Mindfulness. Living in the moment and being proud of what you’ve already achieved and every journey starts with a single step and all that other bull shit they try and feed you. “I know. I agree. When you...feel like you’re nothing, you’re not worth any effort. It’s the hardest time. So pick someone else. Who can you do it for?”

“They don’t care,” Eddie croaks, “they didn’t answer,” he pulls his phone out, flips it onto the grass.

“Who?”

“Chris. Wayne.”

“Okay, give me a good reason why Wayne didn’t answer? That’s your uncle, right?”

“Yeah he...he could be at work,” Eddie admits quietly. Eddie’s given Wayne money. Well, practically forced it on him. Set him up with a nice place; or at least as nice as he could talk Wayne into. Wayne doesn’t believe in free loading though. Eddie’s convinced him to do less hours, but he still works nights two or three times a week. Claims it’s ninety percent of his social life, or some shit like that.

“Okay, and Chris?”

Eddie shrugs, embarrassment over his outburst making him petulant now.

“Eddie, what time is it where Chris is, right now?”

Eddie sighs up at the stars. It’s the middle of the fucking night, “late. Early. I guess.”

“Okay. So they’re not ignoring you, they’re just living their lives like normal human beings. Come on, get up, your ass is gonna be wet.”

“And do what?” Eddie snaps, “what’s the fucking point.” It’s not a question.

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

“It was a tough time, you know? Like, life sucks hard sometimes. Music helps. My favorite is The Wilds, you know? You heard that one?” The interviewer mumbles something indistinguishable, “it’s kind of...like the bit about the shining sea, you know? How like, it’s so beautiful, but it’s fucking hard to sail on. Or like how the mountains are so beautiful, but if you go up there alone, you’re gonna’ die, right? So I think...like how insignificant, and meaningless my life is, in like, the grand scheme of things, but like...that makes what you do even more important, right? Like, it means more, when you choose to be...I dunno,” the kid with a million piercings shrugs, “like just be good to each other, you know?”

“That’s not even remotely what that song is about,” Eddie mumbles at the laptop monitor.

Behind him, Steve snorts a laugh, “well that kid thinks it is.”

Another kid, more makeup than the whole of Kiss slathered on her face, “I just think it has meaning, you know?” The interviewer mumbles something again, “oh my favorite?” A lip bitten in thought, she looks at the sky for inspiration, it’s sunset, Eddie figures. Lots of similarly dressed kids in the background. Takes him a second to realize this was filmed outside of a gig, or something like that. “It’s hard to pick, but if I gotta’, it’s definitely Double Down. Those lyrics are just...Eddie Munson is just...he’s a fucking genius, you know?” She frowns, “but also really fucking dumb soemtimes, I hope he’s okay.”

“I didn’t even write that one. Jeff wrote most of that. On napkins, I think. I just...worked it together.”

Another kid, saying how important Corroded Coffin are; how they helped this kid through hard times. Honestly it’s a difficult watch, Eddie has no fucking clue where Steve even found this, and when Eddie’s phone rings he jumps on it, glad of an excuse to slap the screen of the laptop closed.

“Hi, Eddie! You called, sorry it’s early I got up to go for a run-”

“No. No, it’s fine, I...I shouldn’t have called you so late. Early. You were probably sleeping.”

“That’s okay, of course it’s okay, it’s nice you called me,” she snickers, “you never call me.”

That’s true, and Eddie feels bad. It’s always Chrissy chasing after Eddie. Trying to keep a lid on him...trying to keep him safe. He was always the one dodging her. “Yeah, sorry…” Eddie gets up so he can walk away from Steve, tail between his legs he slinks into the hall, he vows, “I’ll try and do better.”

“Good, how are you feeling? Hows your rut?”

Eddie is not fucking admitting that he just had a breakdown and nearly fucked it all up in the middle of the night. No fucking way is he admitting that, “yeah...yeah, just...couldn’t sleep, you know? I guess the rut...still going. Feels weird.”

Eddie can hear Chris moving around, figures she has him on speaker or something, “uh hu, that’s because you haven’t cycled a proper rut in like, four years honey, these things take time to settle. Is Steve doing okay? You’re not being a cunt to him are you?”

“Well I’ve only thought about punching him,” something jogs in Eddie’s mind, “Chrissy, what happened to the cleaning lady?”

“Oh...we did talk about it honey but you weren't really...taking it in, I don’t think-”

“I was fucked up.”

“Yeah...but she…”

“Just say it.”

“The...you know, the vomit. You were constantly trashing the place. She was worried she was...well she was mostly scared she was going to walk in one day and find your body.”

“Oh.” Eddie slumps down on the bottom step, “that sucks. I liked her.”

“Don’t worry, her final pay was incredible. She got a really impressive bunch of flowers.”

“Oh...well. Thank you. For sorting that.” Eddie’s eyes feel wet. His lip wobbles a little, but he holds it in. He’s got no right to guilt about that, not now. “The place looks okay though, I think Steve’s been cleaning some.”

“Yeah, probably, he seems like a good guy.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, but the first tear breaks free and he knows he can’t hide it much longer, “go on your run.”

“Okay, speak later?”

“Yeah, course.”

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s so great to hear you sounding more like yourself, I missed you so much.”

Eddie hangs up, draws his knees up to his chest, the material of his sweats already darkened with tears.

[hivemuthur]

If you’re comfortable, can I request Viktor dating hcs where reader has adhd? If not, that’s fine!

Hi Anon! Here's your HCs!

ViktorXADHD!Reader HeadCannons

viktorxgn!reader general, fluff and again we have Viktor setting impossible standards for real-life partners (for me, I'm the partner :v)

author’s note: I wish I was this kind of partner guys :')

word count: 0,8K

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✧ Viktor notices almost immediately that your mind moves fast—sometimes faster than even his own. He finds it fascinating, the way your thoughts jump from one topic to another, connecting things he wouldn't have considered.

✧ When you start rambling about a new hyperfixation, he listens intently, chin propped in his hand, soft smile on his lips. If it's something he can research, he’ll surprise you with a fact about it later, just to see your face light up.

✧ “You know, I read something about that,” he says casually, and the way you snap to attention fills him with warmth.

✧ He isn’t bothered when you interrupt him mid-sentence; he knows it’s because you’re engaged, not because you aren’t listening. That being said, if he really needs to get a point across, he’ll gently cup your face and say, “Lásko, let me finish.”

✧ If you forget important things—appointments, meals, deadlines—he doesn’t scold you. Instead, he subtly helps. “Did you eat today?” he asks while placing an apple in your hand. “You have an appointment tomorrow morning, yes? I will set an alarm for you.”

✧ He understands how frustrating it is to want to do something but not be able to focus on it. If you’re struggling with executive dysfunction, he sits with you, offering quiet encouragement. Sometimes, just knowing he’s there makes it easier.

✧ You tend to leave things half-finished, starting a new task before completing the last. Viktor doesn't mind; he simply places a bookmark in your abandoned book, keeps your projects organised, and gently reminds you where you left off.

✧ “You were working on this earlier,” he says, nudging a notebook toward you. “Shall we finish it together?”

✧ If your hyperactivity manifests physically, he lets you fidget with his fingers, his cane, even the hem of his sleeve. He likes it—it means you feel safe enough to do so.

✧ On days when your thoughts feel like an untamed storm, Viktor grounds you. He speaks softly, rubs soothing circles into your palm, and reminds you to take deep breaths.

✧ Viktor notices when you’re upset before you even say a word. Your usual energy dims, your gaze lingers unfocused, and your hands fidget more than usual. He doesn’t press you to talk—he knows that sometimes, finding the words is the hardest part.

✧ “We have three options,” he says, brushing his fingers against yours. “We talk about it now, we do not talk about it at all, or I will check in with you again in an hour.”

✧ The relief you feel is instant. He doesn’t need you to spell out what you need; he gets it. And when you squeeze his hand in silent gratitude, he simply squeezes back.

✧ Viktor doesn’t complain about your habit of draping half your wardrobe over the back of the chair. To him, it looks chaotic—but to you, it’s a system.

✧ “Why do you not put them away?” he asks, genuinely curious.

✧ “Because they aren’t dirty, but they aren’t clean either,” you explain.

✧ He nods as if that is the most logical thing in the world. “Ah. A liminal space for clothing. Understood.” And he's never brought it up again.

✧ Keeping the house organised is a delicate balance between Viktor’s methodical nature and your tendency to misplace things.

✧ He has congratulated himself more than once for coming up with transparent food containers.

✧ It's a small gesture, but got you tearing up. “You brilliant, brilliant man,” you say, bewildered, stacking them up in the most visible spots on your kitchen shelves.

✧ At some point, Viktor realised that opened food items exist in a strange limbo in your mind—neither fresh nor expired, just schrödinger’s groceries.

✧ His solution? A red marker pen, always within reach.

✧ Every milk carton, juice bottle, or half-used sauce now has the date of opening scrawled on it in his precise handwriting.

✧ “You are absurdly efficient,” you admit, watching him carefully mark the oat milk.

✧ “Efficient?” He smirks. “No, I simply dislike the phrase ‘I don’t know if this is still good, smell it for me.’”

✧ You fall asleep best when there’s something playing in the background—a podcast, an audiobook, even a video you’ve watched a hundred times.

✧ At first, Viktor found it odd, but now? He’s grown used to it. If anything, he finds the murmur of voices comforting when you fall asleep curled into him.

✧ He even takes the time to pick something out for you if you’re too tired to choose. “I selected a lecture on quantum mechanics,” he says with a small smile. “I expect you will be asleep before the introduction is over.”

✧ He doesn’t see your ADHD as a flaw. He sees you—brilliant, creative, full of energy and passion. And he loves you for it.

[ravenclaw-for-all-seasons]

His Soft Spot (3) - Mattheo Riddle

The four of you were lounging in the Slytherin common room when the conversation turned to the upcoming Yule Ball. Theo and Enzo were discussing who they might ask when you casually sighed, stretching your arms over your head.

“Haven’t got a date yet,” you mused, your voice carrying a teasing lilt as you glanced at them.

There was a beat of silence before Mattheo turned to you, his brows furrowed. “What?”

You shrugged. “I said, I haven’t got a date yet.”

Mattheo’s frown deepened, looking genuinely confused. “What the hell do you mean you don’t have a date? You’re my girlfriend.”

You bit back a smirk. “Well, yeah,” you said smoothly, tilting your head at him. “But unless someone asks me, I don’t technically have a date, do I?”

Mattheo blinked at you, his mind clearly short-circuiting as he tried to process your words. “But… you’re going with me.”

You stood up, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips, your smirk widening when you pulled back. “Am I?” you whispered, before turning on your heel. “I’ll be in the library.”

With that, you walked off, leaving Mattheo sitting there, staring after you like you’d just spoken in Parseltongue.

“What the fuck just happened?” he muttered, completely lost.

Theo and Enzo exchanged glances before bursting into laughter.

“Oh, mate,” Theo said, shaking his head. “She wants you to ask her.”

Mattheo still looked confused. “But why? She knows she’s mine. Why do I need to ask?”

Enzo smirked. “Because she wants the grand gesture, obviously. She wants to be courted, you idiot.”

Realization finally dawned on Mattheo’s face, and then—almost instantly—his expression darkened with something entirely different. Possessiveness.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered, his jaw clenching. “If she thinks for even one second that someone else might try and take her—” He stood up so fast his chair nearly toppled over. “I need to make sure everyone knows she’s mine.”

Theo laughed. “And what exactly are you gonna do?”

Mattheo’s lips curled into a dark smirk, his eyes gleaming with something mischievous. “I’m gonna make sure she never forgets who she belongs to.”

And with that, he stalked off, already planning something that would make sure no one even thought about asking you to the Yule Ball.

That evening, Mattheo sat in the common room, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he plotted. Theo and Enzo lounged nearby, watching with amusement as he scribbled something on a piece of parchment, crumpled it up, and then started again.

“She really got to you, huh?” Theo smirked, tossing a chocolate frog in the air and catching it with his mouth.

Mattheo didn’t even look up. “She thinks she can walk around saying she doesn’t have a date?” he muttered, shaking his head. “Nah. She’s about to get the grandest fucking invitation Hogwarts has ever seen.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow. “Just so we’re clear, this is a Yule Ball invitation, not a marriage proposal, yeah?”

Mattheo shot him a glare before refocusing on his task. He wasn’t just going to ask you—no, he was going to make damn sure that no one in this entire castle would dare even think about asking you first.

The next morning, you were making your way to the Great Hall for breakfast, completely unaware of what was waiting for you. As soon as you stepped inside, the entire room went silent.

Your brows furrowed. “What the—?”

Then, you saw it.

At the center of the Great Hall, hovering in midair for everyone to see, was an enormous banner made of swirling green and silver smoke, charmed to hover like a Dark Mark in the sky. But instead of a skull and serpent, the words spelled out:

Y/N L/N—YOU’RE MINE. MEET ME AT THE CLOCK TOWER AFTER CLASS. WE HAVE A BALL TO ATTEND.

– M.R.

Your jaw dropped.

The hall erupted into whispers, students staring between you and the display. The Gryffindor table looked horrified, while the Slytherins were either smirking or looking vaguely impressed.

At the far end of the room, you spotted Mattheo at the Slytherin table, leaning back lazily in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, smirking like he had just declared victory in battle. Theo and Enzo sat beside him, shaking their heads, clearly so done with his antics but enjoying the show nonetheless.

You exhaled through your nose, biting your lip to stop yourself from smiling. Of course he had to be dramatic about it. Of course he had to make sure everyone in the school knew who you belonged to.

With an exaggerated sigh, you shook your head and made your way over to him. The second you were close enough, Mattheo reached out, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you effortlessly into his lap.

"See, princess?" he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "Now everyone knows you have a date."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the warmth spreading through your chest. "Possessive much?"

Mattheo grinned, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your neck, not caring that half the school was watching. “Obsessive,” he corrected. “No one else was even allowed to think about asking you.”

Theo, shaking his head, muttered, “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

Enzo just laughed. “This is why no one else even tries to compete with him.”

You turned to look at Mattheo, raising an eyebrow. "You do realize I was always going with you, right?"

Mattheo smirked. "Yeah, but I had to make sure no one else got any ideas." His grip on your waist tightened. "You're mine, Y/N. Always." His expression softened slightly. “Besides, I know you wanted the gesture and if it’s important to you then it’s important to me.”

You sighed dramatically but leaned down and kissed him anyway. “Lucky for you,” you murmured against his lips, “I like when you get possessive.”

His smirk grew. “Oh, princess, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

[odileeclipse]

Hello!! Could you do a shadow milk cookie x reader except one sided with smc liking reader and reader is smart but just nonchalant about everything and can see through Shadow milk cookie but doesn’t say anything about it since reader doesn’t really care about him. Reader also can manipulate other people really well but except reader just uses it when it is absolutely necessary and not just for fun

you could say it’s like manipulator x manipulator type of relationship 😭🙏🏻🙏🏻

so whenever smc tries to manipulate reader, they just look at him with no interest whatsoever and then after, reader just brushes him off lmao

A Scholar's Indifference

A/N I took the liberty to make them a scholar because they're intelligent so what better way to show it than be a scholar.

The Grand Archives were quiet, save for the faint scratching of quill against parchment. The scent of aged paper and candle wax lingered in the air, untouched by the passage of time. It was a sanctuary of knowledge, a place where scholars sought wisdom, where history was preserved and studied. And where, unfortunately, Shadow Milk Cookie had made himself a nuisance. “I can offer you more than dusty old tomes, you know.” His voice coiled through the air like a whispered spell, smooth and deliberate, laced with that ever-present undertone of mischief. He lounged atop your desk as if he belonged there, one leg lazily crossed over the other, his fingers absentmindedly toying with the edge of an open book.

You didn’t look up. “That’s nice.” Shadow Milk Cookie narrowed his eyes slightly. A non-response. Not rejection, not curiosity just sheer, effortless apathy. How irritating. “You wound me, dear scholar,” he sighed, dramatic as always, his free hand pressing against his chest. “Is it truly so awful to imagine a world beyond these walls? A world where you are not simply a collector of knowledge, but a wielder of it?” You dipped your quill into the ink, barely acknowledging him. “Knowledge doesn’t need to be wielded. It simply is.”

“Drowning yourself in scrolls again, dear scholar?”

Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice curled around you like wisps of ink in water, smooth and dark, filled with a performer's flourish. He emerged from between the bookshelves, mismatched eyes gleaming with playful intent. You didn’t bother to look up. “Drowning implies struggle,” you replied smoothly, scratching your quill against the parchment. “I find knowledge rather easy to breathe in.” He laughed, slow and rich. “Oh, how clever. But tell me, what will all this knowledge do for you, hm? You sit here, day after day, collecting truths like dust on old tomes. And yet, do you ever stop to wonder how small this kingdom makes you?” You turned a page. “Enlighten me.” Shadow Milk Cookie leaned against the desk beside you, propping his chin on his palm as he watched you work. “You are brilliant,” he mused, “yet your talents are wasted here, confined to these halls, buried beneath limitations.” He waved a hand, gesturing vaguely at the bookshelves around you. “The Vanilla Kingdom tells you what you can and cannot study. They sift through history, preserving only what benefits them. But me? Oh, starlight, I hold the knowledge they do not want you to find.”

At this, you finally lifted your gaze, eyes laced with the same disinterest you always regarded him with. “Let me guess, if I simply cast aside my oaths and follow you, you’ll show me the hidden truths of the world?” Shadow Milk Cookie smirked. “You say it so mockingly, and yet, I can see the hunger in you.” You let out a soft hum, studying him. “Tell me, Shadow Milk Cookie. If knowledge was truly your grand gift to me, why present it with such flair? Truth does not need theatrics. it stands on its own.” He faltered, just for a fraction of a second, but you caught it. You always did. You leaned back in your chair, folding your hands neatly. “You see, I know the difference between a charlatan and a scholar. Charlatans weave grand words, dress their lies in gold, make impossible promises to those desperate enough to believe them.” Your gaze sharpened. “And you? You are nothing more than a talented illusionist. A puppet master in a carnival of shadows.”

Shadow Milk Cookie chuckled, though his grin was slightly tighter than before. “And yet, you keep listening.” You smirked. “Because you are a wonderful study in deception. I find you fascinating, in the same way one might study the tactics of a conman.” His eyes flickered, momentarily losing their playful gleam. “You wound me.” “No,” you said, tilting your head. “I intrigue you.” Silence stretched between you. For the first time, you had taken the stage. And Shadow Milk Cookie who had spent centuries puppeteering the minds of others found himself being played. The realization must have struck him as well, because after a moment, his lips curled into something more genuine than his usual theatrics a slow, appreciative grin. “Well, well,” he murmured, voice lower, smoother. “Perhaps I miscalculated. You’re not just another mind to mold, are you?” You lifted your quill, twirling it between your fingers. “Of course not. And that’s where you made your first mistake.” Shadow Milk Cookie laughed, a real laugh this time deep and delighted, his eyes gleaming not with victory, but with something far more dangerous. Interest. “You are wasted in this kingdom,” he purred, standing to his full height. “One day, you will see that. And when that day comes…” He let his words trail off, a silent promise woven between them. You merely returned to your parchment. “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

He grinned, sharp and intrigued. “Spoken like a prisoner who doesn’t realize they’re in a cage.” You finally, finally lifted your gaze, leveling him with a stare so perfectly blank, so wholly unimpressed, that for a moment, he felt the slightest twinge of irritation. And then you smiled small, knowing, and just a little bit cruel. “If this is a cage,” you said, tilting your head, “why do you keep coming back?” Shadow Milk Cookie hesitated. Just for a second. Then, his grin widened. “Ah, but you mistake my presence for captivity, starlight. I am merely… entertained.” “Mm.” You turned back to your work, brushing away a stray ink blot. “So am I.” The amusement in his expression flickered, just for an instant, before he laughed. Genuinely. “You are playing with me.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. You didn’t bother to confirm or deny it. Because you were. And he knew it. Shadow Milk Cookie had spent lifetimes weaving illusions, twisting perception, ensnaring minds in silken lies spun with the utmost precision. And yet, you? You saw through him. Not because you were searching for the truth. Not because you wished to challenge him. But because you simply did not care. And that was infuriating. “Oh, you are delightful,” he purred, resting his chin in his palm as he watched you work. “Truly, I cannot decide if I admire or despise you.”

“I don’t think about you enough to make that decision,” you replied idly. That one almost made him scowl. Almost. He hummed, watching as you dipped your quill back into the ink, utterly unbothered by his presence. “You’re wasted in this kingdom, you know,” he said, shifting tactics. His voice softened, dipping into something lower, something enticing. “They will never recognize your full potential here. But I will.” You let out a quiet hum, seemingly entertained by his attempt. “Is that what you tell everyone you want to recruit?” “Oh no, no, no,” he chuckled. “This is different.” He leaned closer, voice lowering to a whisper. “I see you, dear scholar. You and I? We are the same.” That made you pause. Just for a breath. Then, slowly, you turned to face him again. Your expression didn’t change. Your voice didn’t waver. But your words? Your words shattered him. “You mistake recognition for importance.” Silence. For the first time, Shadow Milk Cookie did not have a response. You let the moment stretch, tilting your head slightly. “I am no more like you than a scholar is like their book. You, Shadow Milk Cookie, are a performer.” You rested your chin against your hand, mirroring his own smug posture. “And I? I am simply watching the show.” His fingers twitched against the desk. It was annoying. It was intoxicating. It was exhilarating. “You are fascinating,” he murmured, his usual teasing lilt replaced with something real. Something dangerous. You shrugged. “I know.” And just like that, you turned away again, utterly, completely unbothered. Shadow Milk Cookie stared at you for a long moment. Then, he laughed. A breathy, delighted sound, as if he had stumbled upon the greatest puzzle he had ever encountered. “Oh, you are going to be my favorite,” he whispered, grinning to himself. You didn’t respond. Because as far as you were concerned, the conversation was already over.

[flounder9898]

I consider myself a conservative independent and I’d personally think that yes being gay is a sin but I wouldn’t say it to anyone in person or on the internet because we are all sinners and I am not perfect so I will let people live their lives as long as it doesn’t affect me. And this goes with besides trans because it is a completely different thing to me. I think that you are saying that god made a mistake when he created you in his image and I will let you live your life as long as it doesn’t affect me or any child because what most of you don’t know is that you are doing horrible damage to your body and others that you force to transition. If you look it up what the original purpose of these “puberty blockers” were you’d find that they were meant to chemically castrate pedophiles. What you also haven’t heard of is how bad it affects kids. There was a kid in the 1900’s in the USA that was born male and he had something that messed up his genitalia before he was even able to walk so the doctors recommended making the kid transition to be a female and the kid found out not to long after he was an adult and killed himself because the parents did that to him and gaslit him too and when his brother found out about this whole story he killed himself too. Also if you have heard of Jaz Jennings (yes I know that I probably spelled it wrong) I’ll be nice and say she but her parents decided that since they wanted a girl to transition their son into a girl and they did this with in the first year of her life and had her transition very young and she has been having lots of psychological issues lately like she wants to date and get married but no one wants her. She wants to know what sex is like but no one wants to have sex with her. She wants to have an orgasm but because she doesn’t have the female genitalia to have a female orgasm or male genitalia so she can’t have a male orgasm at all and she is developing major psychological issues lately because of what her parents did. We have seen what happens to people that transition and it isn’t good it messes with their brains destroys their bodies and causes many major medical issues so we need to stop this stuff from happening anymore. Being transgender isn’t a good thing it will most likely kill you. Please if you want to be trans be a transvestite and don’t do very harmful stuff to your body. And many hidden studies have shown that people who believe they are trans at a young age are actually either gender confused and realize that they are not trans or they are actually gay or lesbian so please don’t be trans before your 18 and if you believe you are trans see a therapist that will help you through these feelings and if you turn 18 and decide you still want it go for it but I personally think you shouldn’t do it regardless but you are an adult. And the people who ended up detransitioning depending on how far they went might have irreversible damage and trauma. If you decide to be called trans and don’t take any steps to transition then you are one of the lucky ones. But if you start taking medication or have surgery to remove something and decide to not continue you are screwed because you did something that can never be undone. Even taking a testosterone pill to become a man will mess up your body and cause long lasting harm.

If you're gay, Republicans don't want you. I guess you didn't get the memo. They don't care about LGBQ rights.

Literally every slur I've ever gotten has been from a leftist, but go off I guess

[veritas-scribblings]

map - @into-the-jeggyverse - words: 822

James feels the bite of winter in the very depths of his soul. It is bitter and unrelenting and has blanketed Hogwarts in a thick, white frost. He sinks into it up to his shins as he treks across the grounds, towards the Forbidden Forest. Through layers upon layers upon layers of snow storms laid down by a world that may very well be raging. Or grieving.

A beautiful, poetic irony, James thinks. If he has his definition of poetic irony correct. He probably doesn’t.

But there isn’t anyone around to correct him, so…

James! Wait!

The world is white through the barrage of snow. He cannot see. But he doesn’t need to. He lived on, learnt on, played on these grounds as a youth. He would know his way around blind in the dark.

And he is blind now. And everything is numb. His fingers. His toes. His nose. His face, his skin, his bodyhisheadhishearthissoul.

James would cast a warming spell, but he doesn’t trust the volatility of his magic. He hasn’t for months.

Some years ago (James can no longer be sure how many) he’d brought Regulus out here into the Forbidden Forest after the first snow, back in his sixth year when James was still in love with winter and Christmas and snow and had wanted to share the joy of it all with Regulus. He’d wanted to build snowmen with Regulus. Go ice-skating with Regulus. Stand under the dusting snow with Regulus. And then drink hot cocoa by the fireplace to defrost with Regulus.

Regulus, of course, had grumbled the whole time, because he’s fussy and prickly like a cat and hates snow.

Hates being wet.

Hates being cold.

Hates Christmas, because he’s just insane like that.

He’d been all wrapped up in a scarf and beanie at the time like some sort of soggy marshmallow. In the snow and the cold, his nose and cheeks had gone all pink, and he’d scowled the whole time, muttered something about James needing to see a mind healer or be institutionalised.

James! Stop!

It’s long past the first snow of winter now. James missed it almost a month ago in his hibernation, buried under the weight of his own grief and rage and insanity. He’s missed Christmas. He’s missed autumn and Halloween. He’s missed so many things. The birth of Lily’s son. Dorcas’s funeral. Marlene’s funeral. Little Neville’s first birthday. And Frank and Alice…

It was upon emerging from it all that James had been horrified to find that time hadn’t waited for him. To finally recall how, in the depth of everything, he’d sometimes wished that the war had never ended. Because until it did, he’d barely had a moment to stop or breathe, let alone to feel. And when he finally did stop and breathe and feel…

When reality had pulled him under…

James has so many regrets.

James is near the Forest Grove, wading—damned near swimming—through the snow when a force bodily takes him down from behind. He goes easily. Maybe because the fight had been gouged out of him months ago. Maybe because he’s numb and weak from stumbling about in a snow storm for Merlin only knows how long.

“James! Stop! This is not what I meant when I told you to get out for a change!” The voice, conflictingly both rough and polished, can only belong to Sirius. “Are you this desperate to die that you’re willing to go from frostbite and hypothermia?”  

But James does not wish to die. Not when he’s finally past it. Past the tears, the gut-wrenching from-the-bottom-of-his-soul screams. He’s past feeling like he’s been torn asunder from the inside. He’s ready to live again. 

It’s only then that Sirius looks down and sees what James has clenched in his shaking fist. Many years ago, when they were young, still revelling in their own mischief and congratulating each other on their genius, they’d had the foresight to cast waterproofing and anti-tearing charms on the map. But even so, the years-old parchment is sodden from the journey and crumpled from desperation. From repeated folding and unfolding and smoothing and turning.

Sirius tears it from James’s grip. “You’re going to trust something we made when we were fifteen?” he screams. “There’s nothing there!”

But there is. James is certain of it. He saw it. There. On the page. As true and real as had been the immutable grief he’d been drowning in only days ago.

He’d seen the name flickering there on the parchment, vibrant and alive. And he would know. He’d spent hours staring at it all those years ago at Hogwarts. Watching the name drift around the Slytherin dormitories. Float through the hallways. Tuck itself into a corner of the library like the studious little nerd it was at heart. 

“James!” Sirius practically shoves the parchment in his face. “James! There’s nothing there!”

[vidals-harkness]

circle sewn with fate, unlock thy hidden gate (part 1)

summary: your perfectly 'normal' friday morning got interrupted by the mad search for a coven with a witch who's reputation precedes her.

fic type: angst

pairings: agatha harkness x teen!reader, teen x teen!reader

word count: 1.6k

series masterlist | masterlist

You sat at the kitchen island and watched your mother go off her rocker and ballistic about…well, everything. It was entertaining, to say the least, but it was also nothing short of absolutely irritating.

“Coming in here after all that time, thinking she’s gonna…” she muttered angrily. “Look at my front door!”

“Well, if you weren’t such a hopeless lesbian and just, I don’t know, talked to Mami, we wouldn’t be here, would we?” You scoffed, annoyed.

“What?” She rounded on you, before yet something else caught her eyes. “Ugh! Whose shoes are these?”

“Probably the guy you kidnapped,” you shrugged, nodding at Teen, who stood at the closet entryway, trying to undo the tape from his mouth.

“Okay. She’s unstoppable,” she said, pausing for a moment.

“No, she’s not, you’re just being stupid,” you said, rinsing your bowl and putting it away.

“And you’re giving me attitude?” She scoffed.

“Oh, tragic,” you rolled your eyes, walking over to grab a broom, ready to sweep the mess up.

“The house is yours, random boy. Be sure to tell the vengeanceseekers I said hi,” Agatha said hurriedly, gathering some stuff. “Y/n, grab stuff we can use to survive on the road—“

The boy bunny-hopped to the doorframe, and spent a moment taking off the tape around his mouth before blurting out, “Take me to the Witches’ Road!”

Both you and your mother froze, looking at each other.

“Come again?” The older woman said, brow raised.

“The Witches’ Road,” the boy repeated. “I want you to take me there. Please?”

“Is this twink for real?” You asked, eyeing your mother.

“Hey!” He protested, only to receive a shrug in return.

“The Witches’ Road doesn’t exist,” Agatha said, crossing her arms to face him.

“You’re lying,”

“Am I?”

“That’s just what real witches say to keep the amateurs out,” he replied. “The Road will give you the thing you want the most,”

“And what could you possibly desire? Free glitter eyeliner for life?” You snorted, leaning on the broom.

“Dude, what is your problem?” He said, irritated.

“Hey, I’m my mother’s daughter,”

“The road does give you what you desire,” Agatha interrupted. You already sensed the cogs turning in her brain and it made you sick. “If you make it to the end,”

“And I can. I will,” he said indignantly.

“Hmm,” she hummed thoughtfully, casting you a sideways glance which you reciprocated with a scowl. “The Road is no place for a kid,”

“I’m 16!” He protested. “Oh, sorry. Teen,” she replied mockingly. “I don’t know where you heard about The Road…Books, the Ballad, legend, lore…But it will kill you,”

“Didn’t kill you,” he countered.

“Cause she’s a stubborn bitch,” you huffed under your breath.

“Well, I’m exceptional,” she said simply.

“That’s my point,” he said.

“No, please don’t fuel her humongous ego—“ you sighed.

He rolled his eyes and added, “Okay, so, confession, I know an egregious amount about you. I’ve been obsessed since I first read up on your Salem days,”

“So not only are you a twink, you are also a creep, fantastic,” you nodded sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes at you, continuing, “One of my favorite “you” eras,”

“That’s a good one,” Agatha nodded appreciatively. She looked at you and said pointedly. “At least a omeone appreciates my work,”

“That’s why I came here last night,” he said. “That’s why I saved you from the spell you were under,”

“If you’ve got the goods to break a spell cast by the Scarlet Witch,” Agatha said, eyeing him curiously. “Why do you need The Road?”

“I mean, I’ve studied, don’t get me wrong,” he said, making her smile tightly in acknowledgment. “But that can only take you so far. I wanna blast, to shield, to levitate—“

“So you want a shortcut,” she interrupted. “The Road promises that what’s missing awaits you at its end,”

“Oof,” you chuckled. “That’s rough, never meet your heroes, Teenie,”

“Shut up,” he snapped, turning back to Agatha. “Power is what I’m missing. Sounds like it’s what you’re missing, too,”

You paused and watched your mother nervously. She was a strong woman, crazy every now and then, but she wasn’t stupid, was she? She couldn’t possibly take up on this offer with some random kid she kidnapped under a spell.

“Nope. Too risky. No time,” she said finally, about to walk off again.

“If you wanna run, fine,” he shrugged. “But these people who are coming tonight sound serious. You really think you can outrun them with no magic at all?”

“Twink’s got a point,” you sighed. While yes, it was an idiotic thing to do, the Road was safer than the Seven, without a doubt. At least there, death would be quick and painless and devoid of any nightmarish methods.

“Who are you?” Agatha asked, squinting at him.

“My name is…” his words distorted, and you saw his lips vanish completely, only to reappear again after he had finished.

"Say again," your mother demanded, eyes squinting slightly at the sight of it.

"I'm..." there it was again. Distortion, something scribbled over his lips.

Your mother and you shared a look. 'Something's up,'

"Interesting..." she mused, eyeing him curiously. "I'm driving,"

You groaned. This woman was on a whole different level.

"I don't like this, Mom," you muttered, catching her by the wrist. "I really don't,"

She shook your hand off her. Ouch. A glare graced her sharp blue eyes. "Trust me,"

"When was the last time those two words meant anything to you?"

"When was the last time you weren't so suspicious?"

"Whatever," you huffed.

Of course it was like this. Power, power, power. You couldn't remember the last time she'd stopped, paused, asked you 'how was your day, baby?' but she wasn't that kind of mom...was she?

Fix it, fix it, fix--

You shook your head. Stupid voices. This is what happened when Death and Chaos raised a child. There was nothing you could fix. Not when the thing you wanted to fix was...

...sitting at a makeshift car.

"Need your pills, Mama?" You scoffed, walking right past her, grabbing the keys, only to have them snatched from you by Agatha.

"You’re driving," she tossed the keys in Teen's direction, much to your dismay.

The crisp Westview afternoon beat down upon you, with sharp sun gleaming over suburban rooftops, casting sharp shadows over the empty streets. It was quiet, normal, calm--

"Miss Harkness! Miss Harkness!"

And there it went, right as you were enjoying it. Teen.

"What do you know about covens?" He asked, enthusiastically.

You rolled your eyes. "Calm your ass down, fanboy,"

"Y/n," Agatha warned before walking and continuing, "Just that they’re drawn together by mysterious forces of fate, and that they’re the truest form of sisterhood and--"

"Oh, my God. Are you taking me to meet your coven?" He gasped, interrupting her.

She shuddered. "No. Those harpies are dust. But we do need a coven to access The Road,"

"Right. Of course, that makes sense," he muttered.

"Wow, it can understand common sense," you gasped sarcastically. "Well done, Junior,"

"Fuck off," he huffed. He caught up with Agatha. "It is the Witches’, plural possessive, Road,"

You glared daggers into the back of his head as he sat in the front of a Subaru, Agatha beside him. Jealousy, ugly and burning, twisted in your chest. What was she trying to do, palling up with this random kid she kidnapped on a Thursday evening in delirium? Had she no sense? No dignity? No grief?

Your fingertips tingled, and the voices rose. Fix it, fix it, fix it. Fix what? Fix a relationship like porcelain? Fix this power-hungry woman with a thirst for nothing else?

"So where do we just find a coven?" Teen asked.

"You call yourself a witch?" You scoffed. "You got some homework to do, Twinky,"

"Wherever you are, a coven there shall be," Agnes shot you a look through the mirror.

"That’s beautiful,"

"Hardly," you scoffed.

"She's right. It’s definitely not," Agatha shrugged. "But it is the Covenstead Rule. Within any three mile radius, there will be a collection of witchy enough people to form a coven,"

Teen fished around in his pocket and held out a worn journal. "Can you actually jot that down for me?"

"Ooh, where's the unicorn fluffy pen, Twinky?" You teased. "Gushing about your dream guy from class in your diary?"

"No," he gave you a pointed look. "There’s a pen in the glove compartment,"

"Oh," Agatha had that look in her eye as she got the pen. "Okay. Of course. Will this be…" she promptly flung it out the window.

"I'll remember it," he shrugged. "So, with a Covenstead, it’s unlikely we’ll find witches as high profile as you--"

"Yeah, there’s no such thing, Teen," she interrupted. "You know, but all we need is a bit of talent. Even the most downandout witches, when in close proximity with each other, bring out a magical spark,"

"A spark you seem to have lost," you muttered as the car stopped. Here, the energy felt strange--buzzed like a frat party, but calm like before a storm. Your eyes landed on it: Madame Calderu's.

A psychic. You hated psychics. Know it alls who had no notion of personal space or intellectual personal space.

"You think there’s a real witch in there?" Teen asked as Agatha did up her hair.

"Nah, probably some ugly fucking harpy," you scoffed, shoving past him.

"We’ll see if she knows the secret handshake," Agatha shrugged. On seeing that he was believing her, she groaned, "No,"

A grin spread over his lips. "I feel really optimistic about this,"

The shop was dim, lit primarily by the candles of the space. It smelt of incense and essential oils, and it made you want to throw up. Trinkets hung from every place, and it made your chaotic thoughts more chaotic than usual. The lights glinted off the surface of the crystal ball--which warped the floral tablecloth it was placed over.

And right then, a voice.

"Welcome to the curious,"

@eletricheart, @misty-melody, @mmemalwa, @skittlebum, @lexietargaryen, @natashasmuse, @angelbeingatitspurest, @skittledemon, @wandasreallover , @gaylorvader, @lovelyy-moonlight, @lizziescutiepie, @rosierogie, @lanadelreyaesthic, @circe143, @babybeeelle, @kafkas-left-titty, @delusional-4-fake-people , @filmedbyharkness , @nothecoffeemachine03, @believe-in-magic13 , @liloandstitchstan , @scarlettwidow09, @pixelfaery, @darkexil, @agatha-harknesses-housewife

hi bao buns! sorry this is SO overdue, i've been swamped with work, motivation problems, and now studies. i figured it'll be exhausting to write out such huge chapters for every episode, so i might break them down into parts <3 thank you for your patience!

love, jace.

[opiopal]

(I found this old draft from like, early December! I remember it was a practice at writing dialogue and a bit of angst? I just remember sitting in an art class and typing it out lol, But I decided to clean it up a bit and post! Since I haven’t been posting often and I have about 60 drafts lined up, lowkey I can’t tell if it’s any good or not, since idk if my skills have grown since my wattpad days. I would’ve fully rewritten it, but I knew it would’ve been a pain so I just spell checked and replaced a few sentences.)

•

•

(First scene takes place before lesson 16, second scene is during lesson 16. Also this is just a thing I thought of a while ago)

•CW: description of blood and dead body at the end.•

Mc has been staring at him for a while, hugging onto one of their pillows tightly, completely lost in thought. Mammon had brought them an extra cup of noddles, they had both just gotten back from RAD a while ago so they were reasonably hungry, and he apparently made two “by mistake” and just didn’t wanna waste it.(Mc thought it was a dumb excuse, but didn’t want to mention it and just accepted the food.) Though Mc had finished theirs a while ago, mammon was taking his sweet time, awkwardly staring down at the floor and occasionally flicking his eyes over at the human sitting no less then four feet away from him. It doesn’t cross their mind that he may be acting so awkward due to the fact that they have just been staring at him for the last ten minutes, but how could they really tell? Ever since they had made a pact with him, he’d been so awkward that it made levi look like an extrovert. As the seconds go by he wonders if he should question them, maybe there’s something wrong with them?? Why else would they be staring?? Or maybe there’s something on his face? Is his hair a mess? Is his shirt wrinkled? Why in the three realms won’t they just look away???

“do you like me?”

as they finally break the silence mammon chokes a bit, he coughs as his cheeks almost immediately get red,

“H-wh- I- What?!” “do you like me?” They asked it so casually, as if they were asking him if it were going to rain soon.

“O-of course I don’t!”

“then why do you hang around me?”

“because I HAVE to!”

“even at home?”

“yes!”

“how come?” They set their pillow to the side as they stare at him, he stammers

“I- well- because.. it’s… dangerous for you to be alone!”

Mc tilts their head slightly and furrows their brows, ”do you think your brothers would be a danger to me? Am I not safe here?”

“NO! I mean- uhm- obviously you’re safe here, I just.. you know I need to watch you!”

“but if I’m safe.. then why would you need to?”

“well-“ he pauses, his face somehow gets redder,

Mc smiles and scoots closer to him,

“you wanna know what I think?”

he side eyes them as they slowly start to smile,

“I think we’re friends,”

“PFFTT WHAAAT! NO! No. No we aren’t.”

“I think we are!”

“No” ”yes,” ”no-“ ”yes!” ”no!”

“Then I’ll ask again, How come you hang out with me?”

“I-“ as he pauses again to try and think of an excuse that wouldn’t cause anxiety or worry, he doesn’t want them to believe his brothers would hurt them- but he doesn’t want them to know the painfully obvious truth!!!! mc grins and wraps their arms around one of his,

“we’re frriendss~” they say in a sing songy voice, pressing their cheek against his shoulder. at this point he was so flushed you’d assume someone had came in and slathered red paint all other his face.

a bit of frustration creeps in as he yanks his arm from their grasp, and pulls them in for a tight hug as he avoids eye contact with them. If he can’t deny it, he might as well own it.. right??

“Well. I guess you WOULD want to be friends with the great mammon! It’s only natural!!”

a little surprised, mc giggles and wraps their arms around his torso in return,

“oh yeah, that’s totally it.”

“A- hey! Don’t be gettin all sarcastic!”

They turn their head to look up at him, at this point nearly laying in his lap. They stop giggling for a moment to smile at his face red face, they didn’t really mean to tease him, but he didn’t seem to be taking it to harshly. though still they apologize,

“I’m sorry, you’re right. Though you are a pretty good friend.”

“… really?”

his response surprises the both of them for a second, honestly he didn’t mean to say it, that was just an inside thought that managed to sneak out. He adjusts his arm to support the back of their head as he stares down at them.

“yeah, of course, I think you’re amazing mammon… and you’re doing a fantastic job… keeping me safe, that is.”

• •

That moment almost immediately enters his mind as he stares down at them, pulling their body closer into his chest as their blood slowly begins to soak his arms and lap.

he wasn’t doing a fantastic job. He didn’t. He hasn’t. Why would he let this happen? HOW could he let this happen? He’s holding his human, his mc, as his youngest brother laughs.

He can’t look away, his mind re-memorizing their face, their eyes looked straight ahead with no sign of life, unblinking. He cups their face, shaking them gently, wanting them to do something, anything. To laugh at him being so worried, to make a comment about all the commotion, to mumble something about Lucifer, to blink, to BREATHE, To do ANYTHING. he could feel their warmth fading away, they were so cold. They didn’t deserve to be cold.

His brain was so clouded that he hardly took notice of the door being opened and his brothers arguing coming to a stop, his head finally jerking up when someone spoke their name.

[wifelivvyx]

OK SO I KNOW I ASKED FOR THE WEASLEY TWINS X SHY READER ONE ALREADY (AMAZING BTW 💗) BUT LIKE WHAT ABOUT A FOLLOW UP? LIKE EVEN IF ITS A SHORT ONE, AND THIS IS JUST AN IDEA CUS I JUST WOKE UPAND THOUGHT OF IT. SO DURING THE BATTLE OF THE SEVEN POTTERS, SHE IS SCARED THAT SHE MAY LOSE THEM, AND SHE SEES THE VIAL OF POLYJUICE POTION LEFT SO SHE DECIDES TO DRINK SOME SO SHE CAN GO OUT AND MAKE SURE THEYRE OK. ENDS UP GETTING HURT. WHEN EVERYONE RETURNS AND TRANSFORMS BACK THEYRE ALL CONCERNED CUS THERE WASNT SUPOOSED TO BE ONE MORE HARRY- UNTIL SHE TURNS BACK- OH SHIT. THEY KINDA GET REALLY UPSET, BUT THEN SHES OK- I DUNNO SOMETHING OIKE THAT. DONT ASK THE SPECIFICS ABOUT HOW THE FUCK SHE MANAGED TO GET HARRYS CLOTHES, I DUNNO- MAYBE HE LEFT A WHOLE ASS EXTRA SET- I JUST FEEL LIKE THIS WOULD BE SO GREAT FOR A FOLLOW UP LIKE AFTER THE RELATIONSHIPS GONE PUBLIC. I DUNNO

ahh okay i tried!!

Not Another Harry – A Weasley Twins x Reader

The Battle of the Seven Potters.

You weren’t supposed to be part of it.

You were supposed to stay behind, to wait with the others, to trust that the twins would come back to you safe and sound. But how could you just sit there, knowing they were flying into danger? Knowing they could be killed?

You had overheard the plan, seen the discarded vial of Polyjuice Potion, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you had grabbed one of Harry’s spare sets of clothes (why did he leave an entire extra outfit lying around? You didn’t know, and frankly, you didn’t care).

The potion tasted disgusting.

But the next thing you knew, you were looking at your own reflection in the window - except it wasn’t your reflection anymore.

It was Harry’s.

And you ran.

ϑ𐑞...

Flying wasn’t the hard part - it was dodging.

Spells zipped past you, green and red blurs cutting through the night. You had no real strategy. You just had to find them. Make sure they were okay.

Then you spotted them.

Fred and George, well, what looked like them. In reality it was two Harry's, but you could tell by the way they moved it was them, lying with their respective partners. You felt a surge of relief - until a curse came too fast, too close.

You barely had time to twist away. The spell caught your shoulder, burning hot as it seared through fabric and skin alike. You screamed, lost control, and spiraled downward.

The last thing you heard before the world went black was someone shouting your name.

ϑ𐑞...

When you woke up, you were on the ground. Someone was shaking you. Voices. Urgent, panicked.

You groaned, trying to sit up, but your body ached - your head spun-

“Who is that?” someone demanded.

“Another Harry?”

“That doesn’t make any sense-”

“They're hurt!”

And then, as the Polyjuice Potion began to wear off, silence fell.

Because where there had been eight Harrys, now there were seven.

And one very injured, very stupid girl lying in the grass.

Fred and George were the first to react.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL-?!”

ϑ𐑞...

You barely had time to blink before they were on you.

“What were you thinking?!” George’s voice was wild, frantic, but his hands were gentle as he hovered over you, terrified to touch the burns on your arm.

Fred was pale, gripping his hair like he wanted to rip it out. “You-! You absolute menace! You could’ve died!”

Everyone else was too stunned to speak.

“You-” George’s voice cracked. “You drank the Polyjuice Potion. On purpose?”

You winced. “I just- I needed to make sure you were okay-”

Fred let out a strangled noise. “That’s not your job!”

George grabbed your face, eyes blazing with something raw and terrified. “If you ever do something like that again, I swear to Merlin-”

You expected anger. But what you didn’t expect was the way he crushed you into his chest, holding you so tight you could barely breathe.

Fred followed, arms wrapping around both of you.

And then George whispered, voice shaking, “I thought we lost you.”

You clung to them, guilt and relief tangled together. “I’m sorry,” you murmured.

Fred exhaled sharply. “You should be.”

But neither of them let go.

And neither of them would - not for a long, long time.

[awrkive]

summary: where you and jungkook love to play the push and pull game

w/c: 4.7k

warnings/misc: idol!jk x (fem)producer!reader. the usual. mean words being exchanged to each other in the name of banter 😕 they dk how to be nice to e/o and i enjoy writing that way too much methinks. explicit sexual content (penetrative s*x, unprotected s*x, c*wgirl position, d*ggy, shower s*x, cre*mpie, dirty talk) idk what happened but there is angst here

note: due to popular demand here is pt 2 🤩🤩 i actually kinda have more ideas for this universe tbh and would love to go thru with it but it def depends so dont expect anything!! anywho. hope u enjoy!!!!! its unedited tho will fix later

index: part 1 | pt. 2

jeon jk. (bighit) [10:25pm]: im stressed i need to eat you out  jeon jk. (bighit) [10:50pm]: whats taking u so long to answer?  jeon jk. (bighit) [10:58pm]: will it kill you to reply

you [11:31pm]: shut up i just got off class 

jeon jk. (bighit) [11:32pm]: who gets off class at 12 fucking midnight  jeon jk. (bighit) [11:33pm]: are you fucking ur professor again jeon jk. (bighit) [11:36pm]: who was that. kim namjin. the lame ass linguistics prpfessor

you [11:40pm]: kim namjoon* and if im fucking him again whats it to you?  you [11:40pm]: hes not lame and hes got a bigger dick than you 

jeon jk. (bighit) [11:41pm]: yeah by like 0.05 inch. 

you [11:43pm]: if thats what makes you sleep at night ig 

jeon jk. (bighit) [11:41pm]: funny bcs who did you come back to after all that? def not namjan

you [11:43pm]: only bcs u send me stupid shit like “im stressed need to eat u out” when u dont get to fuck me 

jeon jk. (bighit) [11:41pm]: youre infuriating as hell

you [11:50pm]: I literally do not care. 

Your doorbell rings for the second time. Rolling your eyes, you let out a loud sigh and drop your highlighter on your book, dragging your feet to the doorway and opening it against your will. 

“What the fuck took so long?” Is what Jungkook welcomes you with, taking off his black mask aggressively and stepping inside the threshold without you even inviting him inside.

You lock the door again, watching as Jungkook expertly navigates the space of your apartment, used to the way he heads to the kitchen with ease where he places the – you noticed it just now – bags of take-out on the counter. 

“I told you, I can’t get into anything right now. I have to study for a test.” You cross your arms under your chest, following him. You stop by the counter across Jungkook, looking at him as he opens your fridge to get a bottle of water. 

He’s worn all black from head to toe for obvious reasons because you live downtown and near Gangnam, and there’s no way nobody would recognize him if he didn’t get into any disguise. 

Jungkook turns to you once he’s chugged the rest of the drink, leaning onto the counter, brow raised as he says, “Who said we have to get into anything right now?” 

You shoot him a mirrored look.

“We only see each other for sex. And we can’t have sex tonight. I need to spell it out for you?” 

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. Instead, he gestures to the food on the counter and begins shrugging off his leather jacket and cap. 

“Eat. You look pale.” 

“Jungkook—”

He furrows his brows. “Is it that time of the month? Why are you so mouthy more than usual?” 

“Fuck off.” You flip him off which makes him chuckle. It takes you aback a little. 

“See. You’re irritable because you haven’t eaten yet. So what if you have to study? Eat first. I’ll help you with your flashcards later, then we’ll have sex. Easy.” 

“Who are you and why are you telling me what to do?” You bite back.

“Because you’ll probably die at 27 if I wasn’t constantly reminding you of eating your meals,” Jungkook shrugs and starts tearing off the tapes on the take-out food. “And you like having sex with me. So.” You purse your lips, making a small scoffing sound, prompting Jungkook to glance at you. “Yeah?” He quirks a brow with a hint of a smile on his lips.

You frown. “You’re cocky.” 

“You get me hard when we argue. Save it for later.” He says, as if chastising you and redirecting your attention again to the food. 

You roll your eyes again, annoyed that there’s a weird feeling in your stomach about the whole exchange and your mouth muscles are itching to curl up a little at his… stupidity. It irritates you, the way Jungkook goes through life in an easy-going way because he knows exactly who he is. 

You almost let out a moan as you start digging in the chicken he bought, feeling relieved to finally have something. Jungkook was only half-exaggerating when he said he had to tell you to eat, because most of the time you really forget all about it.

Today was one of those days… you didn’t have to clock in at the company on Fridays but your classes go from 5 to 9pm which drains the hell out of you. Waking up midday means not bothering to eat… and aside from the bagel and coffee you grabbed at the cafe earlier, you haven’t consumed real food. 

“I don’t like this.” you suddenly say. 

“What?”

You look up at him. He still looks weird. 

“That.” you point at his general direction. He raises a brow, growing confused. “You look happy. I’m not sure if I like that.”

“Ouch.” 

You can’t help yourself. You laugh at his completely blank face. Cutting yourself off completely, you clear your throat.

“It’s weird. Why?” 

“I smile and it just… what? Ruins your day?” 

“Yeah.” 

Jungkook laughs out loud. “You’re infuriating.” 

You hum, weirdly satisfied with that.

Jungkook has been over your apartment many times because as much as his place is way nicer, you don’t like going there. Too risky, too many eyes. Too��� scary. You know Jungkook improves his security every three months, as sad as it sounds, but still. You don’t feel comfortable going there, probably why you refused to use the keycard he’s given you. You do fuck a lot in your studio, though, or in the empty rooms over at the company, but when you’re not, Jungkook and you drive here. It’s almost safe to assume that Jungkook knows this place already like the back of his hand.

Probably because whatever the hell this is between you has been going on for eight months now.

After Jungkook and you inhaled every last bit of the food (because he was apparently starving as well), true to his words, he actually did help you study a bit. But that didn’t really last when Jungkook suddenly had his fingers in you thirty minutes later. 

One moment you were talking about phonological change and sound laws, the next thing you know, you’re cumming on his fingers, while Jungkook sits on the edge of your bed frantically helping you straddle him. Meanwhile, half of your clothes are forming a heap on the floor as you heavily make out with each other. 

“F-fuck,”

Jungkook sighs when the tip of his cock finally enters your pussy as you slowly push down on him, thighs clenching at the way he’s stretching you out. 

You gasp when you fully sit on him, open mouths breathing against each other. 

“Oh, fuck, you’re so b-big–”

And you might never really get used to it, no matter how many times you do it.

You let out a shaky moan when you feel Jungkook’s dick twitching inside you, opening your eyes only to see him already staring right at you. 

“You okay to move?” He rasps, the veins in his arms telling you he’s trying to hold back. 

You nod eagerly, placing your palms on his shoulders and preparing yourself to go up. Your slick from the foreplay doesn’t make the stretch of his cock fully burn, making it a little easier for you to slide out and bounce back down on him until you’re repeating the movement faster, with Jungkook taking a hold of of your breasts, squeezing the flesh tightly in his huge palms. He groans, leaning down to capture your nipples, biting the pearls a little too rough you whimper a little too loud. 

“O-oh—! Not too rough, Jeon.” You whine, grabbing the back of his head. Jungkook looks at you with brows raised, rightfully confused ‘cause you usually like it when he’s rough with you. You bite your lip, continuing to ride him. “Just a little sensitive. My period’s next week.” 

Jungkook nods understandingly, squeezing your chest again, quite apologetically might you say so. He licks over a nipple, this time considerably more gentle with it. 

“How’s this for a studying session?” 

“N-not bad,” You bite your lip when you feel your thighs quivering, already starting to run out of breath, digging your nails in Jungkook’s shoulders. His hands travel down to your hips, where he grips it tight and starts guiding your ministration, literally bouncing you up and down on him. “Ahh– fuck.” you moan, shutting your eyes close at the delicious sensation of his engorged cock touching every part of your pussy. 

You’re dripping on him, both of your bated breaths filling your room as he picks up your own pace. 

“You – fuck – enjoy riding my cock like this?” He suddenly cups your jaw, making you look at him. The sides of your eyes sting with unshed tears, whimpering when his dick slips out of you when you try to go down again. Both of you look at it, with Jungkook quickly helping you put it back in, moaning in unison when it enters you again. You tighten your grip on him, soft sighs falling out of your mouth. But Jungkook suddenly lets out a quiet tsk, looking at you with furrowed brows as he says, “Answer me.” 

“Y-you know.” you say, mirroring his look. You start rocking back and forth instead, heightening the pleasure. 

With the way Jungkook’s face contorts, you know the new movement feels just as good for him. 

But he suddenly thrusts from under you, grabbing the back of your hair – the stretch on your scalp didn’t hurt, but it’s enough to make you gasp.

“Why do you gotta be such a fuckin’ brat, huh?” Jungkook groans, guiding your face closer to his. “You act like this around— who’s that guy again? Professor Kim?” 

You bite your lip to prevent yourself from smiling at that. You knew he was gonna bring that up one way or another. You and Professor Kim fucked that one time — okay maybe two times when Jungkook and you had this weird cool-off thing going on four months ago, and he made sure to remind you of it every singe chance he got. 

“No,” you firmly say, leveling him with a look, still keeping your pace on his cock. “He likes it when I’m a good girl.” 

Jungkook’s expression darkens, and you moan when his grip on your hair tightens. 

“You’re far from a good girl, sweetheart. But he wouldn’t know that ‘cause he only got to fuck you twice.”

“Y-yeah? You sure it’s not more tha—” 

Jungkook cuts you off with a hot, angry kiss. Your teeth cling together, and with the aggressive way he inserts his tongue into you unprompted, you know he’s getting a little heated. 

It’s juvenile, but you take a little pride in how much it's so easy for you to piss him off. 

But one second you’re sharing a searing kiss, the next moment you feel a sting on your bottom lip. 

“Oh—! What the fuck!” You push Jungkook away so hard he unceremoniously plops down on the mattress, bringing you down with him. You manage to support yourself with his hard chest, looking at him with bewildered eyes, touching your bottom lip. The fucker just bit it. 

Jungkook lets himself rest against the mattress, gripping your thighs instead. 

“He’s fucking weird for fucking his student, by the way.” he says, apparently still not done talking about Kim Namjoon. His hands have made their way from your legs to your breasts, but you whisk them away, shooting him a glare.

“You’re a dick,” you jab at his chest, making him let out a slightly pained “Oh!”, soon exchanged with a grunt of pleasure when you reach for his cock behind you to sit on it again, grinding against it. You lean on his chest, keeping your daggers on him. “You can say whatever you want but you can’t blame Prof Kim for fucking his student.” 

Jungkook immediately scoffs. Because you refuse to have anything to do with his hands, he crosses them under his head, eyes casting a glance down where you meet, darkening when you roll your hips against him deliciously.

“He’s a person in power. That gotta be unethical.” 

You roll your eyes almost automatically. 

“So you wouldn’t fuck me if I was your student, then?” you raise your brow, taking note of the obvious surprise coloring Jungkook’s face. 

But he quickly shuts it down with a smug response.

“I would just have to look at other professors to fuck. Especially at SNU? Have you seen the women professors there?” There’s a bite to it, and the smirk on his lips heighten that. Like he’s telling you he has way more options than you – and those options can come easy for him. If he wants to. 

“See how you’re not fucking any one of them? Exactly.” you retort. 

Jungkook snorts. “I don’t have to,” He removes his hands from his head. “Besides, I fucked Hana before in a professor outfit. Does that count?” 

You grit your teeth together at the mention of Hana. She’s a friend of yours, also an idol like Jungkook. You actually do have a lot of friends in the industry, and coincidentally, Jungkook has fucked most of them. 

“What’s the matter? Don't like the reminder that much?” Jungkook grins. “I remember Jiyeon being in the same position as you now. She really loves riding my dick. Kind of like you. You two really are friends, huh?” 

Kim Jiyeon, a member of a famous group in the country. Another one of your friends and one of Jungkook’s on and off hook-ups too. You don’t know if they still do it from time to time – as far as you know, they ended just as you two began. But you don’t ask either, don’t really care at all. 

But it’s funny since you remember him saying awhile ago he hasn’t fucked anybody other than you in a long time. Was that a lie? 

“Sure. Don’t feel special though, I rode Jaehyun exactly this way. Went at it for hours because my pussy just gets so wet for him.” 

You relish the fact that Jungkook’s smile immediately falls off his face when you say that. But that victory only lasted for a brief moment when he spoke his next words. 

“You have a dirty mouth on you, I’ll give you that. Shin’s was dirtier, though. Gives crazy head too.” 

You don’t really know why he’s mentioning all your idol friends, but fine. If he wants to play that game, you’ll give it to him. 

“Don’t you just love a crazy head? Mingyu gave me one when we finally went out on a date, and I still think about it,” You made sure to grind against his cock painfully slowly, making a show of moaning out loud. “Oh god,”

Thankfully, that shuts Jungkook up. 

“So he did ask you out.” Jungkook says, and it sounds so… firm. You can’t even recognize the look on his face. 

“Yes.” 

He goes quiet after that, but his hands on your waist are tight. 

Like nothing happened, you continue riding him – and maybe because you talked too much that the momentum got killed, but suddenly, you stop your ministration.

Jungkook’s brows furrow, about to say something. Just as when he opens his mouth to speak, you get off him, leaving him astounded on your bed with his dick still stiff and hard against his abdomen.

“What the hell?” 

“I’m going to take a shower.” you say nonchalantly, already heading to your bathroom. 

“Seriously?” Jungkook says, the disbelief in his tone palpable. “I’m still hard and I haven’t even cum yet.” 

You look back at him. “You can take care of that.” 

Jungkook gestures with his hand. “Are you fucking kidding– you’re serious?”

You turn away and go straight to the bathroom, locking the door and immediately turning the shower on – aggressively so.

You’re not mad, is what you tell yourself. You know you started it when you goaded Jungkook about Namjoon. But you also shouldn’t have taken the bait, because Jungkook is competitive in all areas that affects his huge, dumb ego. 

Well, fuck him. Figuratively this time. You can’t believe you let him in your place tonight. You can’t even fucking remember what you were reading earlier, because his stupid horny brain decided it was okay to finger you when you were memorizing the mor—

“What the—!” 

You look at Jungkook in shock when he suddenly barges in the shower, all naked just like you and goes under the stream too, looking just as pissed as you left him.

“I know where you keep your keys and you can’t just walk out on me like that,” He turns off the shower and you’re about to complain when he suddenly looks at you again, brows furrowing and tone a little dark when he says, “So what? You play this little I’m-fucking-other-people-and-not-just-you games on me every fucking time and expect me to just take it? When I decide to ride along you get a little pissy and act like a child?” 

Your jaw slacks, not expecting the call-out. Jungkook steps closer to you, heavy footsteps sounding like a ticking clock above your head. You’ve always known he’s muscly, and much much taller and bigger than you, but his presence especially looms over you when he’s obviously heated like this.

Your backward steps are futile when he only takes steps forward, until you feel the glass wall on your back. 

Jungkook follows, and even though his hands are wet from the water, warmth spread through your body when he takes you roughly by the waist.

“Now you have nothing to say because you know I’m right,” he rasps. You whimper when he presses his body to you, his dick flatly rigid against your stomach, the tip aching red when you glance down to look at it. Jungkook clicks his tongue against his cheek, cupping your cheek to redirect your face to him. “Turn around.” 

He doesn’t even bother hearing you out, just manhandles you around himself. You suppress a moan when he rests his dick against the cleft of your ass, his body heat spreading within you when he leans down to whisper in your ear, “You know what’s funny? Your mouth looks adorably small when it’s stuffed with my cock, but it sure is big enough when you run it just to piss me off.” 

Your thighs clench at his words. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you look back at him. “S-so what are you gonna do about it?” 

Jungkook raises a brow. “The best option is to put my dick in it but you’d be way too happy with that.” 

You roll your eyes. “You’re so full of yourself—” 

“God, can you shut up for even just a minute?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes again.

“Can you just fuck me and get this whole thing over with?” 

You don’t expect the slap in your ass that comes after that. Looking back at Jungkook with a gasp, you’re about to voice out a complaint when he suddenly inserts a finger in you, cutting your train of thought. 

He slowly eases out of your pussy, but shoves his digit back in, settling with a steady pace in and out. 

“Look at you, you’re a cockslut. You like when I’m mean to you, that’s why you piss me off, right?” He says, nibbling on your ear. 

You whimper when he adds another finger, moaning at the sensation. Jungkook picks up his pace, and your lewd sounds bounce off the shower stall as you start feeling the hot coil in your stomach. 

“J-jungkook,” 

“Hm?” 

“I want– more.” You say, looking at him with your mouth agape, tears forming in the sides of your eyes. Your thighs feel like giving out, and you feel so empty even though he’s two fingers in it’s almost criminal. 

“Say it. What do you want?” 

You fight the urge to flip him off, but your tone is still snarky when you simply say, “Dick.”

He chuckles, sending shivers down your spine. “Whose dick? And what’s the magic word?” 

You shut your eyes close, grinding your teeth in quiet anger.

“Your dick and please.” You say in the most monotonous voice you could ever muster. 

You fully expectd Jungkook to prolong the moment a little longer, but fucking finally, you see him stroking his dick a few moments later, shaking his head and chuckling lowly when he adjusts your position against his crotch. 

“You whine and I give you what you want. Aren’t you too spoiled, princess?” He says, aligning the head to your oussy until you feel the tip slowly entering you. 

You inhale, relief of having his cock back inside you washing over you. 

“Y-you love giving me what I want.” You retort back, pushing yourself on him, careful to keep a tight balance on the glass before you even though Jungkook’s got a tight hold on your waist with his other hand. 

He only hums, and soon he thrusts inside with no warning – but it’s a pleasant stretch when it happens, a loud moan escaping your mouth from the sudden movement. 

“O-oh god!” you yelp when he begins sliding in out of you at a fast pace, gushing as he kept on giving it to you.

You try to keep your voice low but Jungkook’s stretching you out so well, his thrusts so precise and forceful, dick growing impossibly bigger every passing second. 

Soon, the cramped shower stall is fogged, with nothing but your heavy breaths and moans and groans filling the air, Jungkook beating your pussy with speedy trusts your breasts are starting to hurt from the jiggling – thank god that Jungkook decided to fondle them with his palms, squeezing and holding, flicking your nipples every now and then. 

“It’s–shit–it’s only me who gets to see you like this, begging for my cock because you fucking love it so much,” Jungkook says against your neck. “So fucking wet, such greedy pussy – and it’s mine, right?” You only whimper, but that obviously does not make Jungkook happy. With a forceful tug on your hair, he makes you look at him. “Answer me when I talk to you, baby, or you’re not gonna cum.” 

“Y-yes!” 

He hums, slowing down to give you a slow, purposeful trust. 

“I don’t care who else you fuck, __. Because at the end of the day, it’s me you come back to.” 

You could almost cry by the way he’s going so slow that you feel almost every ridge of his cock, but it feels so good. He’s so big and hits all the right spots, even when he talks shit.  

“Shit.” he hisses before speeding up again, and you can feel fhe tell tale sign of his orgasm when his rhythym becomes uncoordinated for a bit of a moment, groaning a little loider than usual, until one of his hands on your waist let go to squeeze his dick in your pussy.

“I’m gonna cum,” Jungkook says with heavy breaths, staggering a little. “Where can I cum?”

“Inside.” you say, “Please cum inside. I need it, Kook. Cum inside me.”

“Yeah?”

“Y-yeah. Please. Need it. Need it so bad.” you bite your lip, feeling a little delirious. 

When Jungkook moans a little louder, that’s when you feel the hot liquid running down your legs. It makes your pussy flutter, whimpering when Jungkook inserts his cock in you to push his cum back again, stuffing you with his cum. 

“So damn pretty… fuck,” Jungkook whispers, rubbig the base of his cock against your lips. 

“Kook–”

He doesn’t let you say any more, just creeps his finger in your pussy, thumb rubbing your clit in eights. And because you’ve been basically edged as well, it doesn’t take too long for you to follow him, cumming down hard. 

Jungkook helps you get up, lets you rest your back against him as you try to regain your mobility, chest heaving up and down.

It’s weirdly calming when he runs his hands over your body, caressing your stomach and squeezing your tits as you both come down from your high. 

“You okay?” Jungkook whispers against your head. You nod. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it.” 

You’re about to ask if he plans on showering as well, but you stop yourself before you can even say it out loud, looking at his disappearing figure when he walks out of the shower box and the bathroom altogether. 

It takes you a moment to start the shower again. 

But it was only a quick one, and you didn’t exactly think about where Jungkook would’ve gone by the time you're finished, but once you’ve emerged in your bedroom again, you see him pulling up his pants, buckling his belt. 

“You’re leaving?” You say, pausing. Then you realize it came out kind of weird, so you try to scratch that. Glancing at your alarm clock by the bedside table, you clear your throat. “I mean, it’s 3 am.” 

Jungkook looks up at you. “Yeah. I have practice at 6.” 

“Ah.” you nod, blinking at him. You head to your closet, picking out your clothes for the night. “You have three hours left. Tough.” 

Jungkook snorts. You can hear him shuffling behind you while you wore another clean camisole and shorts. When you turn around, Jungkook’s dressed now in his black shirt and jeans. His cap and jacket are in the living room, so he'll probably just grab them when he heads out. 

When you plop down on the bed, you watch as Jungkook picks up his wallet and his phone, stuffing them in his pockets. You thought he’d leave by then, but he suddenly speaks. 

“Hey.” He calls. You raise your brow at him to continue. Jungkook pauses for a moment, looking a bit unsure. Before you can ask, he finally says something. “You can fuck Kim Namjoon or whoever you like,” he starts, staring intently at you. “Just tell me beforehand so we can sort it out.” 

A few beats. 

Jungkook doesn’t follow it up with anything, and nor do you say anything quickly to that. 

The silence sounds way too loud. 

“Okay.” Is what you settle with. Jungkook stares at you a little longer than necessary, so you arch your brow. “What? Anything else before you leave?” 

It takes Jungkook awhile to say, “Nothing.” 

“Okay… and uh, thanks for bringing food.” 

He arches a brow, lips curling up a little. You squint your eyes, rolling it when he gives you a knowing smile. 

“Good night, I guess?” Jungkook lamely offers. 

You nod. “It’s 3 am but okay.”

“You can’t tell me good night, too?” Jungkook says. 

“Uh, have a good sleep and sweet dreams?” you say with the flattest tone and face. 

He scoffs, but he looks amused. “You can be a little more sincere than that.” 

You wave him off. Jungkook shakes his head, turning on his heels to head out the door. 

“Jungkook.” 

His hands around the door handle pauses mid-air to look at you. 

You look away. 

“Mingyu did ask me out,” you start. 

Jungkook’s face is unreadable when he says, “I didn’t ask.”

You shake your head. “No, I know you didn't, I just–” you sigh. “That was a week ago. I just want to say that… nothing happened.” 

It takes awhile for Jungkook to understand. 

“So…”

You lied. About the head or whatever the hell you said about Mingyu and you together. Mingyu was a nice guy, and the date was also really nice. But it just… didn’t work out. 

“Yeah.” is what you settled with. 

You don’t really know what you expected from him, but he just nods. 

“Alright.” 

That was the last thing he said when he walked out of your door. 

You look away, grabbing your phone to check some notification. There’s something on instagram, and there’s a message from Yoongi. Some mp3 file. Music stuff, you guess. And there’s one from Yena too, a member of a rookie female group over at the company who’s getting into songwriting. 

When you lie down to sleep, you feel empty.

[steampunkhobo]

If you don’t think Young Mungo had a happy ending don’t talk to me 😤❌

[bakudekublogblog]

kacchan is standing before him, openly weeping, childishly professing he wanted a forever with him and Izuku is like ?? kacchan haha do you have brain damage ?? horikoshi when I fucking catch you

[stuck-in-jelly]

Obsessed with how Claudia and Soren view magic.

Claudia views magic as something amazing and special, even dark magic despite having to ‘harvest’ from living creatures in order to use it. Because in the end how could something that helps her friends and family be bad? How could something that saved an entire kingdom from starvation be evil?

Soren meanwhile doesn’t care about dark magic vs primal magic. In his eyes Dark magic can be used for immense good just as much as Primal magic can be used for horrific evils. At the end of the day all magic has ever done is divide people and cause years of suffering.

But they are both such hypocrites (affectionate).

Claudia views dark magic as a gift, something to take pride in having. But when she is finally broken down she reflects back she feels disgusted at herself for viewing living creatures as parts. Then when pushed into a dangerous situation she cried out “Don’t make me! Don’t make me do dark magic!”

Soren believes the world would be better without magic at all. Yet he turned to it, he looked his father in his eyes and said “You have your other way! Dark magic.” Not caring that Viren explained the original spell was a primal spell and the new spell would require a terrible sacrifice.

[scooberish]

Scooby Doo fans when the autistic character exhibits autistic traits: 😡🤬

[morphean42]

Okay this may be my hottest take ever but I… bear with me… dislike how popular Ineffable Husbands is. Let me explain. Good Omens has been an incredibly important book for me since the first time I opened it at 11 years old. It’s shaped everything from my writing style to my views on society and the world. It’s safe to say I’ve read this book 8 times at least.

Season 1, also very dear to me. I loved seeing these characters on screen and although some parts were different or cut, everyone worked so hard in their roles that it brought the book to life.

Now, here’s where I get lost. Good Omens is a story about the end of the world, and while yes its “main” characters are an angel and a demon who are very fond of the world and each other, the simple fact is that they aren’t what’s important about the story. They are fun and deep and amazing characters, but so are The Them, and Anathema and Newt, and Agnes Nutter, and Shadwell and Madam Tracy, and Warlock, and the four horsemen (and other four horsemen)/ bikers of the apocalypse, and that one televangelist that lives rent free in my head, and that guy who sees the trees take over the city and R. P. Tyler and everyone else.

They make the story. They are the humans— sans the four bikers—, and this gets lost in the fandom and, dare I say it, season two. I will say right now that I adore season 2, it’s what I’ve waited 4 years for and I would never ever criticize Neil Gaiman as I am definitely not qualified enough for that.

But.

Season 2 makes it all about Aziraphale and Crowley. It loses the message of the book and becomes almost a sort of rom com (for all our yelling and heartbreak and accusations of liar, Neil was right. It is quiet, gentle, and romantic). This is not inherently bad at all, but to me, it’s not Good Omens. It’s not the same. Crowley and Aziraphale were never my favorites, they were never where the meat of the story is at, so that’s where my point comes from I guess.

I am so glad we have representation like them. Middle aged queer people who have god knows what gender fuckery going on. But, sometimes I wish we talked about anything other than them. I wish I could find thoughtful analysis and writing and art just about the book (and even the show) that wasn’t simply “Crowley and Azirapahle aren’t together and they’re sad but then they are and now they’re happy.”

I don’t want anyone to read this and think I don’t like the ship, I love it, it was my first ship. But, sometimes, I just wish Good Omens hadn’t turned into a romance. I wish it was still the delightfully funny and childishly dark story that made me think, for the first time, writing was something I wanted to do. Because it was more than just a story, it was an idea.

TLDR: I love Ineffable Husbands, but I wish the fandom could talk about literally anything else for a change