#thanks for reading. and thanks for the asks

[navybrat817]

This man. This gif!

Take Them Off

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky just wants to read. You have other ideas.

Word Count: Over 900

Warnings: Established relationship, implied smut, teasing, slight possessive behavior, dirty talk, mentions of spanking and fingering, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Another quickie, but I hope you lovelies. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky didn’t ask for a lot. In fact, all he wanted to do today was finish his book and not move from his chair. Very simple, and he should’ve known you would take it as a challenge.

Since he said he didn’t want to move from his chair, you decided to tease him and strut around the place in just your underwear as you did chores. And not just any pair of underwear. You had a pair specially made that had “Property of Bucky Barnes” written on the front and back. He was hard and aching for what felt like hours thanks to you.

He could admit it was fun when you teased him, but he could only take so much.

“Take them off.”

Three simple words. All you had to do was listen. Bucky sure as hell put enough authority in his voice, and he knew damned well you heard him since you looked over your shoulder with a playful smirk.

“What was that?” you asked, toying with the band of your underwear. “You want me to take these off?”

He exhaled slowly and gripped the arms of his chair. It was an impressive feat that he hadn’t done any damage to the furniture. “Yeah. Take them off. Now.”

You pretended to think about it. “Or what?”

Bucky snarled when you darted just out of his reach and had the audacity to shake your ass at him, which only made you smirk more. Whenever you got close to him, you moved away with a giggle. Both of you knew he could catch you if he wanted to, and he would, but he was trying his best not to leave his chair.

But once you got close enough, he’d put you over his knee. Maybe spank you. Maybe yank that special pair of underwear down and fuck you with his fingers until you came all over them, only after you begged for it. And after a little edging for all the teasing.

The question was if he wanted to fuck you with his metal fingers or not.

“Or I’ll cut them off,” he threatened.

You faced him as you played with the band again, his cock ready to burst from his pants when you pulled them down enough to show him your mound. Just as quickly as you pulled them down, you pulled them back up. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“You drive me crazy,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. His scalp tingled at the thought of you pulling on the long strands. A very good kind of pain.

“And you love me for it,” you smiled.

His gaze momentarily softened. You were the light of his life, always. “I do. Very much,” he swore, brandishing a knife from his pocket and twirling it for you to see. “And maybe I can turn that threat into a promise if you get over here.”

You gasped and he didn’t have to look between your legs to know there was a wet patch on the fabric. “Is this the part where I go ‘is that a knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me’, Barnes? Or are you planning to stab me with your dick?”

His blue eyes darkened when you took a step closer. As much as he wanted to put you over his knee, he also wanted to lavish your gorgeous breasts with the attention they deserved. “I’m going to destroy all of your holes tonight, and I might just fuck your pussy last,” he said, going in for the kill. “Or maybe I won’t fuck your pussy at all since you’re a fucking tease.”

He wanted to smirk when you narrowed your eyes and took two steps closer. Close enough for him to grab you. “A tease doesn’t back up their words and you know damned well I always-”

Careful not to cut you because he’d never hurt you, he gripped your wrist and chuckled when he yanked you over the armrest. “Follow through. I know, baby. I know.”

He half expected you to squirm or struggle, but you only moaned when brought the blade to your hip. He saw you rub your thighs together. The teasing had worked you up, too. Good. “Are you really going to cut these off?” you pouted.

He sank his teeth into his lip when he read the words along your ass. It would be a shame to destroy them since he was already going to destroy what was underneath. “Maybe, maybe not,” he mused, grazing the blade along your skin to make you shiver. “I’ll think it over while I finish my book.”

You tensed up and slowly turned your head. “You’re still going to finish your book? Are you kidding me?” The fire in your eyes almost made him lose his cool, but he used to be the Winter Soldier. He didn’t break so easily.

“You knew that was my plan today. Not my fault the sight of me gets you hot and bothered,” he smiled, rolling his hips up so you could feel just how hard he was in his pants. To be fair, the sight of you did the same thing to him. “So sit tight, get comfortable, and we’ll see if you can figure out which hole I’m fucking first.”

Because if you got to tease him, he got to tease you, too.

Once again, nothing to see here, lovelies! Go about your business. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[neodymiumcuilz]

HELP A FAMILY IN 🍉🍉

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[gf2bellamy]

Spencer who comes home late expecting reader to have already gone to bed but is instead greeted with an exhausted smile and a groggy "my looove~" as we stumble into his arms

late — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: both of them being tired a/n: hii thanks for your request <3 hope you like this :)

Spencer Reid suppressed a loud yawn as he entered his bedroom. He rubbed his eyes, still trying to shake off the tiredness from a long day at the BAU. However, the moment he caught sight of you sitting cross-legged on the bed, a book resting in your lap, his heart skipped a beat.

You looked like you were fighting a battle against sleep, your head bobbing slightly as you struggled to keep your eyes open. He softly called your name, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey, you,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, your eyes still heavy with sleep. A small smile spread across your face as you slowly stood up from the bed, your arms reaching out to him. Without a moment’s hesitation, you wrapped him in the tightest hug you could muster.

“I missed you, Spence,” you mumbled into his hair, brushing your fingers through the soft strands. The scent of your shampoo filled his senses, and he felt an overwhelming sense of comfort wash over him.

“What are you doing awake?” he asked, his voice laced with concern as he rubbed gentle circles on your back.

“I didn’t want to go to bed without you,” you replied, still refusing to let go. Spencer couldn’t help but chuckle at your earnestness.

“You know I’m always just a phone call away, right?” he said, trying to ease your worry. He pulled back just slightly, enough to look into your eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

“I’m fine, Spence. Really,” you insisted, your expression honest as you met his gaze. “I just really missed you.” With that, you wrapped your arms around him once more, nuzzling your face against his shoulder, your breath warm against his skin.

“Missed you too,” he replied softly, a smile tugging at his lips. Spencer loved these moments with you—where time seemed to stand still and the outside world faded away.

As you both stood there, Spencer couldn’t help but tease you gently. “You know, I was just reading about the migratory patterns of birds and how they return home after long journeys. I think I’m beginning to understand them,” he said, a playful grin spreading across his face.

You pulled back slightly, feigning shock. “Are you comparing me to a bird?” you laughed, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Not just any bird! A majestic, beautiful one,” he responded, his expression playful.

“Spencer Reid, you charmer,” you teased, poking him lightly in the ribs. “You really know how to flatter a girl.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “Okay, but seriously, you should get some rest,” he said, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You need your beauty sleep to keep being as pretty as you are.”

You playfully rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the smile creeping across your lips. “Alright, but only if you promise to stay with me until I fall asleep.”

“Deal,” Spencer said, knowing that there was nowhere else he’d rather be. He climbed into bed beside you, pulling the covers up as you nestled against his side, your head resting on his shoulder. He could feel your breathing slowly becoming steady and soft as you drifted off.

“Goodnight, Spence,” you murmured, a content smile on your face.

“Goodnight,” he replied, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head, feeling utterly grateful for this moment together.

[zorlok-if]

Hello, everyone! Welcome back to Casper.

The prologue has been re-released on itch.io and you can play it now! The first two scenes have been heavily revised while the last scene is entirely rewritten. There have been some quality of life fixes (though I'll also be adding a few more in the upcoming weeks) such as improved audio settings and a skip to final scene option.

If you run into any bugs or errors, let me know. The best way to do so is through an ask here on Tumblr or in the Zorlok Discord server (screenshots are always helpful if possible).

You can find the updated content warnings for the Prologue under the cut. If there's anything you think should be added or reworded, just let me know.

I am so thrilled and happy to share this with you and even more excited to keep sharing this story with you. The next update will be part of episode 1 and I'm hoping to get that out within the next few months (though we'll see since I'm a librarian and summer reading is coming up).

Anyways, I hope you have an absolutely lovely day and that you enjoy the update!

-Albie

Huge thank you to my wonderful playtesters: Arc, Aspen, Aster, Beckdeck, Cassie, Crash Sjordal, Crouton, Equus, Ghost, Jinx, Kazoowhiz, LeafGoldKing, Mansym, Monday, Oddington, Sneky, and Snooga

PLAY ZORLOK | CAST | FAQ | NAV | PLAYLIST | DISCORD | AUTHOR

Updated Content Warnings for the Prologue: Blood Body Horror Insect/Necrotic Imagery Physical Restraint Mental Invasion Memory Loss Self-Mutilation Cursing Bullying Broken Bones (conditional) Wretching (conditional)

[ashwhowrites]

omg yay requests are open! Could you do smth with the concept of Eddie with a reader that is very affectionate with everyone but him, and when he finally confronts her about it, confused, and honestly a bit hurt, she’s forced to reveal her crush on him?

I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it. Thank you for requesting ❤️

Why am I different?

Eddie was used to being treated differently. It happened all his life and he doesn't think it'll ever stop. He found a good group of friends who treated him like a human.

A new friend was introduced to the gang and Eddie couldn't get a good read on her. She didn't seem shy, very affectionate with everyone. Well everyone except Eddie.

Whenever she arrives somewhere, she greets everyone with a hug. Eddie only got a wave and a small smile. She sat close to others during movie nights, but whenever Eddie sat next to her she had so much space between them.

He was positive she didn't like him or that his rough exterior deserved judgment in her eyes. He was fine if she didn't like him, but he wasn't fine with being ignored and treated differently when he did nothing wrong.

He didn't know that it was the complete opposite. She saw him for the first time and swore she had never seen a man that beautiful. His skin looked soft and his face was flawless. He made her nervous and she wasn't sure how to react around him. So she tended to freeze around him, hoping if she didn't move a muscle he wouldn't notice the crush she had on him.

She would love to give him a hug, but then she's worried she wouldn't ever want to let go. To feel his chest against hers and arms wrapped around her, she'd probably stop breathing. She couldn't give him a kiss on the cheek like the others, she'd lose control and want to kiss his pink lips. She couldn't sit next to him without craving to crawl in his lap and feel his body heat for hours. She tried her best to talk to him but even then she could only get out a few words.

~~~

"Sorry, I'm late," Eddie apologized as he welcomed himself into Steve's place.

"No worries, it hasn't started yet," Steve said as commercials played on the television. Eddie scanned the room and sighed to himself when the only open spot was next to Y/N. He gave her a small smile and took the open spot. Her body tensing up didn't go unnoticed.

Y/N chewed on her lip nervously as Eddie's scent filled the room. Her mind was racing as she tried to distract her body from the fact that Eddie was only inches away from her.

She made sure she was as far to the one side of the couch as she could. Afraid if she touched him electricity would spark.

Eddie felt a small sting as he felt her body scoot away but he kept his eyes on the screen.

~~~

Y/N greeted the older gang with a hug and kisses on the cheek, working through the group. Eddie stood off by himself, watching as she embraced everyone but him.

"Hi Eddie," she said with a small smile, a nod in his direction.

"Hi," he said flatly. His tone caused her eyes to fall away instantly, but he didn't feel bad.

"Let's get this show on the road!" Robin called as she threw herself in Steve's passenger seat. Today, Robin, Steve, Nancy, Eddie, and Y/N planned a trip to the beach, and Y/N felt terrified. Not only would she have to be in a swimsuit in front of Eddie but he'd be shirtless in front of her. She made sure to pack sunglasses so if she found herself staring, it wouldn't be noticeable.

Eddie and Nancy slid in the car, leaving Y/N. She gulped as she noticed the middle seat was the only free spot.

"You don't mind sitting in the middle right?" Nancy asked, a smirk on her face. She knew all about the crush on Eddie and she enjoyed making Y/N's life hell.

"Oh... uh," her eyes looked over at Eddie, "yeah that's fine."

Eddie scoffed as he got out of the car, allowing her to move past him. Once she was squeezed in the middle, she let out a deep breath, glaring at Nancy. Eddie noticed the glare, his feelings a little hurt as he looked out the window.

The entire car ride Y/N was squeezed into Nancy's side, practically on her lap. Eddie wished it didn't bother him, but he thought Y/N was attractive, and he liked the personality she showed with her friends. He wished she would be like that with him, he wished she would give him a chance.

Once they arrived, Eddie fled from the car, stepping aside to smoke a much-needed cigarette.

"I think it bothers him that you ignore him," Nancy said as she watched him stand to the side.

"I don't know how to be normal around him!" Y/N whined, "he makes me nervous."

"Let's just try, small steps."

~

Y/N was soaking in the sun, keeping her eyes shut so she didn't constantly look at Eddie. Luckily, he was busy with Steve, so she had time to settle her thoughts.

She groaned when the sun went behind a cloud, ruining her tan. She opened her eyes, startled to see Eddie standing over her. She gulped as his frizzy hair shines in the sun, and how his sunglasses fit his nose perfectly. He stood shirtless, the sun beginning to soak into his pasty skin.

"We need to talk," he said, not letting her answer as he took a seat right next to her in the sand. His elbows dug into the hot sand as he held his body up, then his head turned to her.

Y/N was frozen, staring ahead as the waves brushed the shore.

"Look at me," he hissed, "and I won't tell you again."

She bit her lip as she ignored how hot her body was getting from his words. She turned her head, locking eyes with him through their sunglasses.

"Do you have a problem with me?"

Y/N shook her head immediately, "no" her voice was soft and shy.

"Then what's your deal?"

"Nothing," Y/N said, "I promise."

"Then why do you treat me differently? I get that we might be very two different people but you are judging me without getting to know me. And that bothers me."

Y/N had to give him credit for calling her out. He dealt with it for a while. She took a deep breath, fighting off the wave of nausea.

"I'm not judging you, and I never judged you. I have a crush on you," she admitted embarrassed, "you make me very nervous and I was scared. I'm sorry that I hurt your feelings." She watched his face for a reaction, holding her breath.

Then he began to smile. "You have a crush on me?"

She rolled her eyes at his cheeky smile and teasing tone. "Don't be an ass."

Eddie apologized, scooting closer. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, looking at her. She matched him, taking off her glasses as she nervously looked into his eyes.

"I think you're pretty and I'd love to get to know you better," his words made her heart race. "How about a date?"

She couldn't believe it. Eddie Munson asked her on a date.

"I'd love that."

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37 @bellaisswagger @arlxthx @ineedmentalhelp123 @emxxblog

[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

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

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

[unicornbeck]

I grew up pretty liberal, but even so, there wasn't language for a lot of things back then. There are so many of us in my and my mom's generations who knew we were different but didn't have the language or nuanced understanding of ourselves on a spectrum, that would have facilitated articulating who and how and what we were.

My children have had access to the best, most comprehensive, science-based education I could find for them, and they have taught me so much about myself. My kids gave me language to express distinctions, taught me structures and names, articulated questions I'd never known how to put into words, how to ask.

Because of my ace enby kid, I've become aware of my own grey-ace-demi-ish tendencies, but also aware of the fact that right now I still don't have adequate language to express exactly what color of the rainbow I fall under. But for the first time, I feel a sense of tentative belonging, like maybe there is a place in the tent for me after all. I've considered myself a staunch and zealous ally for so long, always felt more at home and comfortable among queer people. Turns out, that might be because I'm one of them after all. I still don't feel at ease claiming space there, because I've always been okay presenting as the gender I appear to be, and I've only ever had straight-presenting relationships, romantically. But I know in my bones I'm not what I appear. I'm not aro, and I don't mean to hijack this beautiful post about people who have long gone un-validated, unaccepted, misunderstood.

I'm just so thankful when I read about people who have been so long separated from an understanding of themselves, finally being given the language and tools to express and understand themselves.

I relate to that experience so hard.

I want old aros so badly. I want a history. I want a future. I want tales of lives that I understand. I want to see myself in a future where I’m happy and comfortable.

But I don’t have that, so I’ll have to build it.

[binaliadam22]

I am reaching out on behalf of my dear friend, Mohamad S., who is facing one of the most challenging times of his life. Mohamad is 37 years old and left his homeland in 2015 in search of a safer and better future. He’s a kind, hardworking man, and his small family has always been his greatest priority.

Living abroad, Mohamad has recently endured unimaginable loss and financial strain. Amidst the ongoing conflict in his homeland, his mother passed away, leaving behind his sister and her five young children—the last remaining members of his immediate family.

As the situation worsened, Mohamad managed to help his sister and her children escape to safety in Egypt, covering their immediate needs and securing a temporary refuge for them. Since then, he has been fully responsible for providing everything they need to survive during this transition.

In his efforts to support his family and cope with this devastating loss, Mohamad has found himself deeply in debt. To make matters even more difficult, he recently underwent knee surgery, which limits his ability to return to work for the foreseeable future. This has made it even harder for him to manage his financial responsibilities and the pressing need to provide his family with a stable future.

Mohamad is now working to bring his sister and her five children to join him in Belgium, where he hopes they can find stability and opportunity after all they’ve endured. This transition, however, requires significant resources that he is currently unable to meet alone.

For privacy reasons, we are not sharing Mohamad’s full name, as he has chosen to keep his identity discreet. While he initially refused the idea of asking for help, I couldn’t stand by and watch him struggle alone. I insisted on doing this for him because he deserves a chance to overcome these challenges.

Your contribution will help Mohamad repay the debt incurred during this difficult time, cover ongoing living expenses for his family, and assist with the costs involved in bringing them safely to Belgium.

Mohamad has been a good friend of mine for years, and I’ve always admired his resilience and generosity. Any support, no matter the size, will make an incredible difference in helping Mohamad and his family rebuild their lives after these painful experiences.

Thank you for reading his story and considering helping a man who has always done everything he can for his loved ones.

Adam

✅ Vetted by Association: @bilal-salah0

Donate & share: Donation Link

[dollwrites]

ᴅᴏᴏʀ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ ┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° ʀᴀғᴀʏᴇʟ

ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ｔｙｐｅ ┊ goonette isekai! ( 7k follower event )

ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ｗａｒｎｉｎｇｓ ┊ smut ( minors dni ), fem!reader, pwp, creampie, cum play, titty sucking, all characters featured are aged 18+

ｉｍｐｏｒｔａｎｔ ┊ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

Rafayel is a creampie addict.

whether it’s because he loves the way you look with his cum leaking out of your freshly fucked hole or because it’s his way of claiming your body, marking you as his mate, you didn’t know for sure. the only thing you could be certain of is, whenever he started to twitch and throb inside of you; whenever his balls drew up tight, and his ragged panting melted into a needy chanting of your name on a mindless loop, that he was going to cum inside you.

“Raf, ffffuck!” you crooned, breathless and undulating on the mattress beneath him. your back arched up from the surface to push your chest flush to his face, your right hand buried in his mauve tendrils so deep that you could feel the beads of sweat as they drench his scalp, and the heat of his fever transferring deep into your palm. you were gripping those sticky locks, holding on to them for some semblance of control as he rutted into you with wild abandon, his head dipped low to suck on your swell, whilst his hand fondled with other, his thumb mimicking the way his tongue flicked at your pebbled nipple, swiping over the taut flesh and nudging the little bud from every angle.

it was this lavishing of affection, paired with the rapid-fire, shallow pumping into your core, that had your eyes crossing with unadulterated pleasure, and your body trembling as you drifted closer and closer to a release. “I’m getting close, baby…” you half-plea, rocking your hips up to meet him in a sloppy, slick joining. if Rafayel was anything, he was a skilled lover. he knew that you didn’t need to be stuffed full on every occasion, and so he experimented with how many inches to fuck into you each time you laid together. tonight, though his thrusts were quick and greedy, he was only giving you half of his length at a time, letting the swollen, leaking tip of his cock head bully the spongy cluster of nerves that made up your g-spot until you were shaking and sputtering, instead of fucking you deep and steady.

“Yeah?” he asked upon prying his mouth away with a wet pop. his voice husky and low, and saliva glistening against the pink lower tier of his kiss-swollen couplet. his own complexion, though typically porcelain, had taken on a dusky, rosé glow, especially against the apples of his cheeks, the tips of his ears, and the expanse of his chiseled chest. his mouth, though still parted and panting out puffs of hot breath against your hardened nipple, curved into a strained smile as his eyes searched your countenance, equally lovedrunk. “Wanna cum with me, pretty girl?” he asked, his eyes darkened as he buries his face between the valley of your tits, breathing in the scent of the sweat oozing from your pores. his eyelids fluttered as he drank it in, like a man intoxicated, and you felt the warm, bumpy surface of his tongue flat against your flesh to lap at that essence. “Oh, fuck, tell me,” he murmured, muffled, as the lower quarter of his face disappears into your cleavage, but his eyes gaze up at you, the purple hues within them dim and stormy. “Tell me that you want me to make you finish while I cum in your warm, little pussy.”

you nod, eagerly, your voice breaking out of desperation as you tug on his hair, unsure of whether to pull him up to kiss his lips or smother him between your tits. “Y—yes, Rafayel! Please, make me cum with you!”

you’d hardly gotten the beg out before Rafayel was responding. sitting back on his haunches, he allowed almost every inch to slip from your clutching heat— until only his the bulbous head remained notched just beyond the threshold. you mewled at the lack of fullness in your depths, but your disappointment was soon replaced with pleasure. Rafayel allowed his hands, soft yet strong, to slip under your hips and drag your body close, until your bottom rested on the slope of his legs, keeping your lower half elevated on his lap. “C’mere, baby…” he breathed out, one hand splaying out against your lower belly, fingers stroking beneath your navel, allowing his thumb the reach he needed to paw at your clit in tight, concise circles. your own hands, that had initially reached out for him when he shifted positions, now fell back against the pillow your head rested on, fisting handfuls of it, unneeded, while Rafayel tended to your body. you moaned his name, your head tilting up so you were staring at the ceiling, brows furrowed, focusing wholly on his perfect ministrations.

“You look so cute like this,” Rafayel murmured, more to himself than to you, his free hand gripping the girth of his cock tight. he was still slick with your juices, and he used that to his advantage, pumping the exposed inches instead of plunging into you, to the rhythm same rhythm he assaulted your clit. the treatment elicits of moan from his parted lips, that bubbles up from deep within his throat. “— squirming and needy, chasing your high for me. Come on, pretty girl, cum on my cock for me.”

a few more encouraging words and Rafayel’s thumb running laps over your button is all that you need before you catch that orgasm you were so desperately chasing. you hear his voice, as soon as he saw you were about to be engulfed, whisper harshly, “Look at me,” and you were barely able to obey, your eyes flitting to his face just in time to glaze over. you maintained the unfocused eye contact, stars forming in your peripherals, and Rafayel doesn’t let up, coaxing you with furious strumming on your swollen clit to ride out the orgasm he’s giving you. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked, knowing damn well the only response you could give him was a strangled yip and a half nod, his breathless smile widening, “Yeah? I know, baby, I know. I feel it, too. I’m cumming,” he growled, pumping himself erratically a few more times before he spilled himself inside you. warmth seeps in, spreads through your shallow core, and dribbles out in thick, streamers when Rafayel pulls his sated, softening cock from you. your cunt clenches, one last stitch effort to keep him anchored inside you, which ultimately pushes another rope of his creamy release out of your freshly-fucked body.

Rafayel sat back on his haunches for several moments, panting, with his twitching cock now draped, flaccid, over his sweat-sheened thigh, as he gazed down at his handiwork— his hands finding your trembling shape. he felt along the flare of your hips, up over your waist, his thumbs gently massaging the flesh there as he eased you out of your aftershocks with gentle fondling. “Come back to me, pretty girl, you’re so cute when you’re cumdrunk.” he murmured, drawing shapes over your heated flesh as he coaxed you back from the brink. his palms pressed against your sides, before careening downward, over your lower belly. “I left this pretty pussy all messy again, didn’t I?” he teased, applying enough pressure on your lower belly to force more of his cum to spill out of you and on to the sheets. you whimper at the sensation, your toes curled, and you nod. Rafayel only chuckles, angling his hand so his pointer and middle finger, slender and deft in their movements, can spread open your puffy netherlips. his breath, which had mostly recovered, left him in a soft, awed gasp as he admired the way his cum painted your folds, leaving them sticky and claimed. his cock twitches on his thigh. though hypersensitive, it jumped, as if waking up to the sight.

Rafayel sighs, rolling his eyes, acting as though the mere re-hardening of his cock was burdensome. “Can’t ever just go one time, can we?” he asked, sarcastically, quirking a brow as he stares up at you.

“You make it sound like it’s my fault,” you counter breathlessly, your hands finally unlatching from the pillow. your muscles are sore, but you run your fingers along the shape of his shoulders as he positions himself to take you again.

“Of course it’s your fault. You look too fuckable when you’ve got my cum oozing out of you.” Rafayel rasps, guiding his now-ready cock back into your sloppy hole. it slips inside easily, his cum frothing around it as he almost instantly falls back into his previous pace, bracing you in place when his hands grip the roundest part of your hips. “Fuck, yes…” he stutters a bit, pushing his cock deep enough to hilt it once, before dragging it out slow. you cry out; the nerves in your sex already heightened, so this new round of fucking feels almost statically-charged. his eyes list downwards, taking in the way his previous release cocktailed with your arousal coats his cock in rings as he pulls out, marking the depth of his thrust. “And besides, you take me in even better the second time.” he purrs with a contented sigh.

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

It's the last day of Fluffebruary. My heart. Today's fill is: Marriage Proposals. I do reference the fills for days one, thirteen, nineteen (sort of), twenty-three, and twenty-six in this one. MCU has nothing on me. There's also switching POV, which I note by doing two lines of dashes. Time jumps within the POV are marked by one line of dashes. You can also read this on AO3 here. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary

Buck ambushes Bobby when he gets out of the bathroom, because he’s been trying to get Bobby alone all day.

“I need your advice,” he begs, and Bobby turns toward him with an expectant look on his face. “Is it ethical for me to get my boyfriend really drunk so he doesn’t wake up when I try to measure his ring size?”

Bobby blinks at him and shifts his weight to put his hands on his hips, his body language radiating exasperation and paternal disappointment. “Kid, what the hell do you think my answer’s going to be?”

He winces. “That I should’ve asked Chimney if I wanted a ‘yes’?”

“Probably.” He smiles and reaches out to squeeze Buck’s shoulder, jostling him a bit. “I’m happy for you two.”

“Thanks,” Buck says, smiling and finally not feeling like he’s going to shake out of his skin for the first time since he woke up that morning. “Any ideas?”

“You guys don’t have the same size hands?”

Buck flushes. “No, ah—his are a little bigger. Broader. His fingers are—I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed how big they are.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow, his hand retreating from Buck’s shoulder. “Can’t say I have.”

“Really? It’s, like, the second thing I noticed about him,” Buck says incredulously, and Bobby’s other eyebrow goes up. “Right. Okay, yeah. Straight guys don’t usually notice other guys’ hands.”

“Not unless I need to,” Bobby confirms. “Notice anyone else’s hands that might be the same size?”

Buck thinks about it for a moment and then it hits him. “Actually, yeah. I think I have. Thanks, Bobby.”

“Anytime, kid. Good luck. Let me know if you need anything,” he says, turning and wisely exiting the situation. Buck probably shouldn’t have gotten all gooey about how big Tommy’s hands are. To be fair, they're big and his fingers are thick.

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling out his phone.

Well, he might as well get a reference photo while he’s at it.

–

Sal slides into the booth across from him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Buck drops the beer mat he’s been playing with and looks around to make sure no one’s listening before leaning in. “What’s your ring size?”

He smirks and lifts his beer to his lips. “Why, Buckley, you know I’m a married man. You willing to fight it out with Gina or is this a side-piece situation?”

“Shut up,” Buck groans, sitting back as Sal cackles. “Also, Gina would gut me.”

“And dump you in a river,” Sal confirms. “You trying to make an honest man of our Tommy?”

Buck flushes and shrugs, picking up the beer mat again and running his finger along the edge. “Hoping to.”

“Good for you, kid. Thirteen and a half.” Buck’s head snaps up, and Sal’s got a real, genuine smile on his face. “But you can get ‘em resized pretty easy. What's yours?”

“E-eleven, I think?” he guesses, trying to remember the last time he'd looked. “Maybe a ten and a half. I don't really wear rings.”

Sal grins and holds out his beer. “Better get used to it.”

Buck feels a smile creep across his face and sighs, lifting his own beer to tap against Sal’s. “Hopefully.”

“I think you'll be okay.”

–

–

“Ten and a half,” Sal says, dropping onto Tommy's couch.

“What?” Tommy asks from where he's trying to get a pebble out of the tread of his boots.

“His ring size. Ten and a half, maybe eleven.” He puts his socked feet up on the coffee table and shrugs. “I'd go with eleven, it's easier to size down.”

The knife he's using slips and almost slices across Tommy's hand. “What? How—how?”

Sal smirks. “I have my ways.”

Tommy drops the boot and sits back on his heels with a heavy sigh. “Okay. So—I’m doing this. Am I really doing this? It feels soon, right?”

“Couldn't tell you. But from where I'm sitting,” he says, sweeping his hand across to gesture at the living room or maybe the house or just Tommy's entire life, “you two built something together. Just keep building. We don't usually get to live too long—if it's not a fire, it's a building falling on you or a bolt of lightning or cancer. And you're already middle-aged, Maso. You got your boy, he's not going anywhere. Just put it on paper.”

“You're right.” Tommy stands and shakes out the tingling that’s settling into his hands. “Thanks.”

“‘S why I’m here,” Sal says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And the free booze.”

Tommy snorts. “You thought it was free? Buddy, your tab’s been running for years. I’ll finally be able to pay off the mortgage when you settle up.”

Sal looks offended at that. “Hey, just for that, find a new best man.”

“I didn’t ask,” Tommy points out.

“Who the hell else you gonna ask?” Sal shoots back, getting to his feet. “Your other best friend?”

Sal comes around the table and engulfs him in a tight, back-slapping hug, which just turns into a hug.

“Thanks again,” Tommy says as they pull apart.

“Love you, brother,” he says, holding his face and pressing a smacking kiss to his cheek. He reminds Tommy of his Prozio Aldo so much sometimes, especially when he does shit like that. “Let’s go cut down a tree.”

“We’re just trimming it,” Tommy reminds him.

“Uh-huh.” Sal steps around him to grab his boots and starts walking toward the back of the house. “You say that now, but wait ‘til I get a few more in me. You’ll be lucky to have a yard by the time I’m done.”

–

He’s pacing outside the station until he hears Maddie call his name, and he whirls around to see her approaching with a tray of something. They’re doing a late holiday potluck, having passed Christmas and New Year’s, and Tommy had made sure she would be coming.

“Hey!” he says, folding her into a side-hug before taking the tray from her. “Can we, uh, hang out here for a second? Just waiting for Bobby and Athena.”

Maddie’s brows pinch together for a moment. “Sure. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, realizing he probably looks like he’s going to pass out. “Yeah, I promise.”

Bobby steps around the corner, glancing over his shoulder, Athena close behind. “Hey. Sorry, kid’s trying to get my damn dry rub recipe again and keeps cornering me. What’s going on?”

Tommy looks between their expectant faces and wants to dive head-first into whatever Maddie’s brought, which smells like it could be something with apples and brown sugar. “I wanted to ask you guys something. I kind of thought maybe Howie should be here, but he can’t keep a secret at all.”

“He can’t,” the three agree in unison.

He exhales slowly, realizing he’s been barely breathing for the last few minutes. “I wanted to ask you guys something—”

“You already said that,” Bobby points out, and Athena elbows him.

“I know it’s old-fashioned,” he admits. “And kind of backwards, because it’s really his decision, not yours, but you guys are his family. But I am kind of old-fashioned, I guess.”

“Tommy,” Athena says firmly, catching his eye. “Ask us.”

He swallows and looks at the tray and then back at them. “Can I maybe have your blessing to—to ask Evan to marry me?”

Maddie’s hands go to her mouth as she lets out a gasp, and Bobby’s looking at him with a wide, knowing smile. Athena looks proud, probably having sussed him out the second he walked into the station earlier.

“Yes!” Maddie squeals, hugging him around his middle and almost upending the tray. “Yes, absolutely a yes.”

“Yeah,” Bobby agrees, and Athena nods.

“What’d you think we were gonna say?” she asks, and Tommy shrugs helplessly. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Do you think he’ll say yes?” he asks, letting Maddie take the tray back from him.

“Oh, absolutely,” Bobby says, pulling him into a hug. “I think you’ll be fine.”

–

–

It’s been almost a year since they got back together. Buck doesn’t want to do anything too big, because then too many things can go wrong and there’s all the added pressure. He’s heard horror stories from people who got proposed to in big, public settings who felt obligated to say yes. He won’t do that to Tommy. Tommy melts under romantic gestures, but actually important moments tend to be smaller and quieter. They’d gotten back together in the privacy of a cockpit, they’d agreed to move in together while they were wrapped up in each other on a picnic blanket, they’d talked about marriage and kids in the privacy of their own house and cars and in corners at parties. He’s got no problem screaming how much he loves Tommy from the rooftops, but some stuff is theirs.

He asks Tommy if he wants anything particular for dinner, and Tommy surprises him by saying Miceli’s.

“You really want to risk it?” Buck teases.

“Hey, I like their food,” Tommy protests.

Buck nods. “It’s good. Good enough to risk us breaking up a third time, though?”

Tommy crowds him up against the bathroom counter and wraps an arm around his waist. “You really think I’d let you go again?”

The casual possessiveness does things to Buck, and he shakes his head, swallowing hard as his eyes flick down to Tommy’s lips. “Seven?”

“Six,” Tommy says, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his throat. “I want to get home early.”

Buck shivers, and then he’s leaning against the bathroom counter alone.

“See you tonight, sweetheart.”

He licks his lips and nods. “See you. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Tommy replies, swooping back in for a quick kiss that turns into a long kiss until Tommy pulls his head back with a gasp. “Eddie’s gonna kill me if I flake on him.”

Buck finally releases his boyfriend and waits for him to leave their room and then listens for the sound of the garage door opening. When he’s sure he’s alone in the house, he goes to his duffel bag and digs down until he comes up with a drawstring bag containing a ring box.

“Alright, don’t Buck this up,” he mutters, kissing the box and shoving it in his pocket.

–

–

Tommy is going to have a fucking heart attack. He feels like he needs Valium on an IV drip. He and Eddie are skipping basketball so he can pick up the ring, because Tommy had been too nervous to keep it anywhere Evan could find it.

When he finally has the small bag in his hands, he climbs into Eddie’s truck and has to do box breathing so he won’t pass out.

“Dude, you flew into a hurricane,” Eddie reminds him.

“Uh-huh.”

“People used to shoot at you.”

“Yep.”

Eddie looks at the bag and then at Tommy’s face. “I mean, I get it, but maybe you should chill for a bit before we go to the next stop.”

They’re getting Tommy a new suit, because he has two, and one of them was worn to a cowboy’s funeral and the other one was worn to Maddie and Howie’s reception/anniversary party. Evan’s seen him in both of them, he needs a new one. He’s picked that out also and had to get it altered, because he always has to get suits altered or they hang on him weird.

“No, we gotta go,” Tommy says, trying to relax. “Let’s go.”

–

–

Tommy looks good. Tommy always looks good, but Buck loves seeing him in a suit. He’d loved getting him out of the last one he saw him in, he’s definitely going to love getting him out of this one. It’s simple—black jacket, trousers, and tie with a white shirt—but it’s form-fitting and makes him look like James Bond. He’s glad they’d joked about dressing like they were going to a Michelin-star restaurant, because this is a good look for Tommy.

Buck’s skipped the tie, going for a burgundy suit with a white shirt that Hen had helped him pick out. The shirt has a high collar with no lapels that he’s never worn before and doesn’t use a tie, but it’s also a little tight. Buck hopes he doesn’t somehow stop breathing. Wouldn’t be the first time on a date, and it would suck if it happened on this particular one.

“Look at you,” Tommy murmurs, slipping his arm around Buck’s waist under his suit jacket. “Wanna stay in and fool around instead?”

“Not a chance,” Buck teases, drawing Tommy into a toe-curling kiss. “I wanna show you off.”

–

They Uber to the restaurant, since Buck is too nervous to drive and Tommy says he didn’t get enough sleep. They also want to drink a bit, though Buck’s going to take it slow until he has something to celebrate or needs to soften a rejection.

Their table is a little toward the back, and it’s quiet near them with no one immediately nearby. It’s perfect.

They make it through most of a pitcher of beer and their entrees, and Buck starts to feel like it all might come back up. He taps rhythmically against his knee to ground himself and keep himself from just bursting out everything he’s thinking.

“Hey,” he says, and Tommy looks up from the dessert menu, as though he doesn’t already have it memorized, “so I’ve been thinking about some stuff. Nothing bad, I promise. It’s, uh, good, actually? I think. I hope.”

Tommy sets the menu down and looks pleasantly confused. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s great,” he says, grinning and leaning in a bit, drawn to Tommy always. “I’ve just—there’s so much stuff in our lives that’s unpredictable, you know? Especially with what we do. We talked about this a while ago, I don’t know if you remember? The whole ‘safe haven’ thing.”

“Of course I remember,” Tommy says, smiling and reaching across to take Buck’s hand.

“Good,” Buck says, turning his hand over and wrapping his fingers around Tommy’s. “I’ve thought about it a lot. You’re this steadying force in my life, this thing I’ve been looking for since I can remember. Most of my days are unpredictable, some of them are terrible, and I have an eye in that storm and it’s you. You give me peace and love and comfort. You’re the calm and the safety that I’ve been looking for every single day of my life.”

Tommy’s face softens. “Evan, you’re that for me, too. You’re more than I ever knew to look for. God, I couldn’t have dreamed I’d ever meet someone like you, let alone be lucky enough to love you and be loved by you.”

Buck’s heart starts racing in his chest, because it’s time, and he pushes his chair back so he can get up and come around to Tommy, who looks thrown.

–

–

Evan is standing next to him and Tommy wants to grab him and put him back on his chair, but when he starts to rise, Evan’s hand presses on his shoulder.

“Just—I don’t know what else to say here,” Evan says, reaching into his pocket and lowering himself onto one knee. “I just want to know if you’ll marry me, Tommy.”

That—that’s his line.

Tommy feels like the air’s been vacuumed out of his lungs, and he doesn’t think he has hands anymore. Or feet. The top half of his head might be gone, too.

“Oh–I—oh,” he gasps when Evan opens the ring box he’s holding. His hands are shaking when he does it. “I—Evan.”

He pushes his chair back and reaches into the pocket of his own trousers before kneeling in the cramped space between this side of the table and the wall. Evan’s eyes are teary and a little confused, and then Tommy holds up his own box, opening it to reveal the ring.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, and Evan’s face crumples before he claps his free hand over his mouth to hold back a noise Tommy’s never heard him make. It’s like a laugh, a cry, and a sob all at once. Tommy's own eyes start to flood with tears even though he's also laughing, because this is ridiculous.

They grasp each other’s faces and laugh and kiss, and then they’re hugging. There’s noise near them—clapping?—and Tommy presses his nose to Evan’s jaw.

“That was a ‘yes,’ by the way,” he whispers, and Evan laughs against his shoulder.

–

–

He didn’t know. He’d been so focused on his own anxiety that he hadn’t noticed Tommy’s. But there’s a ring on Buck’s finger, and he can’t stop staring at it or the one on Tommy’s.

“How’d you get my ring size?” Tommy asks.

“Sal,” Buck replies, and Tommy laughs. “What?”

“That’s how I got yours.”

Buck remembers Sal asking him, hadn’t thought much of it because it was relevant to the conversation, and laughs. “God, he’s going to be—”

“Insufferable.”

“—the worst,” Buck agrees.

Tommy brushes his thumb over Buck’s ring and smiles. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked your sister, Bobby, and Athena for their blessing. I asked Howie earlier this week.”

Buck bites his lip and leans in to prop his chin on his free hand. “I asked Bobby if it was unethical to get you drunk so I could measure your finger.”

“It is,” Tommy says, rolling his eyes when Buck shrugs. “But—so everyone knew?”

“Yep.”

“And they still let us—”

“Yep.”

Tommy huffs out a laugh. “Bastards.”

Buck tugs his hand close so he can kiss his knuckles. “Let’s go home.”

Their server appears a few moments later when Tommy flags her down, and she places a bag on the table with a smile.

“Your desserts—packaged to go and on the house. There’s some extras in there, too,” she says, stepping back. “And your dinner was paid for by another patron. Have a great night, guys, and congratulations.”

Someone had already sent them a video and someone else sent photos via AirDrop, and Buck twists around to see if he can figure out who paid. The people who had sent the pictures and video were gone. No one else is paying them any particular attention.

It’s outside, they’re standing in the same spots they had almost two years before, but Buck has his arms around Tommy’s waist this time. This time, they have rings on their fingers, and they’re getting into the same car and going to their home. Where he imagines they’ll have intense celebratory sex followed by celebratory desserts eaten out of take-out containers while they drape themselves over their couch in their underwear.

“C’mere,” Tommy says, holding up his phone.

Buck smiles for the photo, holding up his left hand alongside Tommy’s.

–

–

In the Uber, Tommy sends the photo to the ‘Fire Family’ group chat with the message: We said yes!

There’s a flurry of emojis and congratulatory messages and questions about when the wedding is. He turns the screen off on his phone and links his hand with his fiancé’s on the middle seat.

“Think we can plan a wedding in under a year?” he asks.

Evan scoffs. “Give me a clipboard and a budget, we’ll be married in six months.”

Tommy smiles and leans over to kiss his cheek. “The sooner the better.”

“In a rush?” Evan teases, smiling at him in the dim light.

“To spend the rest of my life as your husband? A little. Kind of wish I could’ve done it a long time ago. Like, years ago, even though I didn’t know you then,” he admits, and Evan smiles, making a soft noise. “Hm?”

“Something Hen said,” Evan says, shaking his head. “‘You’ll go to bed and wake up every day wishing you’d found each other sooner. ‘Cause life is so damn good that everything before him felt like wasted time.’”

Tommy’s heart slams against his sternum. “Yeah.”

Evan lifts their hands to kiss the back of Tommy’s, tucking it against his cheek. “She said that, and I knew I was going to marry you. I didn’t hope I’d do it or think I’d do it. I knew.”

“I was sitting in a park and had just asked you to move in with me, and I knew I’d have eloped with you that day if you asked.”

“So about three weeks after I talked to Hen.” Evan chuckles and turns his head to kiss his hand again before lowering their hands back onto the seat. “You ever think we’re meant to be sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” Tommy agrees lightly, and it’s his turn to kiss Evan’s hand, his lips landing right next to his ring.

[thefrenchfryturtle2]

1. What is you middle name? Don’t have

2. How old are you? MINOR

3. When is your birthday? Somewhere in September

4. What is your zodiac sign? Virgo ♍️

5. What is your favorite color? Gee i wonder…

6. What’s your lucky number? 13 :)

7. Do you have any pets? No :(

8. Where are you from? My mom

9. How tall are you? 5,2”

10. What shoe size are you? 5 and a half

11. How many pairs of shoes do you own? 6… okay that sounds like a lot but two of them are really old

12. What was your last dream about? Uh… I think i forgot

13. What talents do you have? I can fold my tongue into clover, wiggle my ears, flare nostrils, and make my eyebrows do a waveeee

14. Are you psychic in any way? Yeah. Sometimes I can read people’s mind and say things at the same time as them. Just ask @yourfavvvintj and @zerukye

15. Favorite song? Count on Me by Bruno Mars, tho Sweet Tooth by Cavetown is a really close second place

16. Favorite movie? Turtle Tale Sammy’s Adventure lol

17. Who would be your ideal partner? @zerukye lol aka my current one

18. Do you want children? NO THANK YOU

19. Do you want a church wedding? BEACH WEDDING!!

20. Are you religious? No

21. Have you ever been to the hospital? Haha yep-

22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law? No, I’m a law abiding citizen.

23. Have you ever met any celebrities? Do voice actors count-

24. Baths or showers? Showers

25. What color socks are you wearing? Pink and blue

26. Have you ever been famous? My tag game post has over 200 notes which is more than my average amounts combined.

27. Would you like to be a big celebrity? Yeah, but only in the science department.

28. What type of music do you like? Indie

29. Have you ever been skinny dipping? No, and I don’t intend to-

30. How many pillows do you sleep with? 2

31. What position do you usually sleep in? Fetal position or dead positon

32. How big is your house? Medium???

33. What do you typically have for breakfast? Bread and chocolate 😅😅

34. Have you ever fired a gun? Do Nerf guns count?

35. Have you ever tried archery? Yes and I sucked- i want to do it again

36. Favorite clean word? Shoot and dang

37. Favorite swear word? None, I don’t swear

38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep? I’m not sure-

39. Do you have any scars? Loads :)

40. Have you ever had a secret admirer? @zerukye

41. Are you a good liar? Nope-

42. Are you a good judge of character? Absolutely

43. Can you do any other accents other than your own? Bottol o wotor???

44. Do you have a strong accent? No

45. What is your favorite accent? British

46. What is your personality type? INFJ-T

47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing? Glasses

48. Can you curl your tongue? Yep

49. Are you an innie or an outie? Innie

50. Left or right handed? Right handed

51. Are you scared of spiders? Nope, I want a pet tarantula.

52. Favorite food? RAMEN!

53. Favorite foreign food? RAMEN!

54. Are you a clean or messy person? In the middle….

55. Most used phrased? BRUHHHH

56. Most used word? Bruh

57. How long does it take for you to get ready?

58. Do you have much of an ego? Depends on situation—

59. Do you suck or bite lollipops? Bite

60. Do you talk to yourself? In my head

61. Do you sing to yourself? Of course

62. Are you a good singer? Yeah lol

63. Biggest Fear? Needles….

64. Are you a gossip? I’m gossiped about lol.

65. Best dramatic movie you’ve seen? Titanic haha

66. Do you like long or short hair? Short

67. Can you name all 50 states of America? I’m not even going to try… but yeah probably

68. Favorite school subject? SCIENCE 🧪

69. Extrovert or Introvert? INTROVERT-

70. Have you ever been scuba diving? I want to!!!

71. What makes you nervous? The dark-

72. Are you scared of the dark? Terrified-

73. Do you correct people when they make mistakes? Of course

74. Are you ticklish? Yes…..

75. Have you ever started a rumor? No.

76. Have you ever been in a position of authority? Yeah

77. Have you ever drank underage? Uh. I was eight….. we thought it was “tea”

78. Have you ever done drugs? Do antidepressants count-

79. Who was your first real crush? I’m not saying… @yourfavvvintj already knows-

80. How many piercings do you have? 2. One on each ear

81. Can you roll your Rs? Yes

82. How fast can you type? 100 WPM

83. How fast can you run? Not fast-

84. What color is your hair? Black and green and blue

85. What color is your eyes? Boring brown-

86. What are you allergic to? Nothing!

87. Do you keep a journal? Yeah but I don’t update it often.

88. What do your parents do? Love me

89. Do you like your age? I’m a teen, of course I don’t

90. What makes you angry? My sister-

91. Do you like your own name? I would change it to Turtle but that’s weirder than a white girl name.

92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they? Zelda and Link for my future cats.

93. Do you want a boy a girl for a child? I don’t want children so I don’t really care

94. What are you strengths? Singing, creative writing, science, doing two pull up.

95. What are your weaknesses? Running a mile, literary interpretations, balloons…

96. How did you get your name? My parents named me after a president because they want me to be a good leader.

97. Were your ancestors royalty? I don’t think so.

98. Do you have any scars? Yes 👍

99. Color of your bedspread? Navy blue

100. Color of your room? Boring gray

Get To Know Me Uncomfortably Well

PLEASE DON’T LET THIS FLOP AHHHH

1. What is you middle name? 2. How old are you? 3. When is your birthday? 4. What is your zodiac sign? 5. What is your favorite color? 6. What’s your lucky number? 7. Do you have any pets? 8. Where are you from? 9. How tall are you? 10. What shoe size are you? 11. How many pairs of shoes do you own? 12. What was your last dream about? 13. What talents do you have? 14. Are you psychic in any way? 15. Favorite song? 16. Favorite movie? 17. Who would be your ideal partner? 18. Do you want children? 19. Do you want a church wedding? 20. Are you religious? 21. Have you ever been to the hospital? 22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law? 23. Have you ever met any celebrities? 24. Baths or showers? 25. What color socks are you wearing? 26. Have you ever been famous? 27. Would you like to be a big celebrity? 28. What type of music do you like? 29. Have you ever been skinny dipping? 30. How many pillows do you sleep with? 31. What position do you usually sleep in? 32. How big is your house? 33. What do you typically have for breakfast? 34. Have you ever fired a gun? 35. Have you ever tried archery? 36. Favorite clean word? 37. Favorite swear word? 38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep? 39. Do you have any scars? 40. Have you ever had a secret admirer? 41. Are you a good liar? 42. Are you a good judge of character? 43. Can you do any other accents other than your own? 44. Do you have a strong accent? 45. What is your favorite accent? 46. What is your personality type? 47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing? 48. Can you curl your tongue? 49. Are you an innie or an outie? 50. Left or right handed? 51. Are you scared of spiders? 52. Favorite food? 53. Favorite foreign food? 54. Are you a clean or messy person? 55. Most used phrased? 56. Most used word? 57. How long does it take for you to get ready? 58. Do you have much of an ego? 59. Do you suck or bite lollipops? 60. Do you talk to yourself? 61. Do you sing to yourself? 62. Are you a good singer? 63. Biggest Fear? 64. Are you a gossip? 65. Best dramatic movie you’ve seen? 66. Do you like long or short hair? 67. Can you name all 50 states of America? 68. Favorite school subject? 69. Extrovert or Introvert? 70. Have you ever been scuba diving? 71. What makes you nervous? 72. Are you scared of the dark? 73. Do you correct people when they make mistakes? 74. Are you ticklish? 75. Have you ever started a rumor? 76. Have you ever been in a position of authority? 77. Have you ever drank underage? 78. Have you ever done drugs? 79. Who was your first real crush? 80. How many piercings do you have? 81. Can you roll your Rs?“ 82. How fast can you type? 83. How fast can you run? 84. What color is your hair? 85. What color is your eyes? 86. What are you allergic to? 87. Do you keep a journal? 88. What do your parents do? 89. Do you like your age? 90. What makes you angry? 91. Do you like your own name? 92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they? 93. Do you want a boy a girl for a child? 94. What are you strengths? 95. What are your weaknesses? 96. How did you get your name? 97. Were your ancestors royalty? 98. Do you have any scars? 99. Color of your bedspread? 100. Color of your room?

[l-starsz]

Billie convincing reader to let her eat her pussy on her period

I'm inlove with your fics, you're such a damn good writer 🫶🏽🫶🏽

a/n: this probably isn’t great because i’m SOOO tired and my head is pounding rn but i hope it’s good at least🥲 and thank you so much ml!! i’m so sorry this took ages for me to write🫶

billie and i were laying in bed together, watching a movie. her back was resting against the comfy pillows on our bed, whilst my back was resting against her front. i was sat between her legs, and her hands were lightly resting against my thighs. we were both intrigued in the movie, or so i thought. whilst i was watching, and keeping up with the storyline, billies hands began to wander. they roamed up my stomach, cupping my boobs gently, before moving down again to this time, rest against my inner thighs.

i really tried to focus on the movie, but i just couldn't with her hands all over me. i knew nothing could happen, i was on my period, which meant that i had to wait a few more days until she could touch me. i'd been so horny. i was desperate for her, but we both knew that nothing could be done about it. well, she could fix my horniness, but i felt bad for asking her to do that when i was on my period. so i waited, and somehow put up with the feeling of being unbearably horny almost all day, every day.

soon enough, i felt her pressing light kisses behind my ear, down my neck, before lightly whispering in my ear.

"can i try something, baby?"

i slightly turned in her arms so that i could see her face, before answering her in a hushed tone.

"and what would that be, hm bil?"

"please can i taste you?"

my eyebrows furrowed and i looked away as i wondered why she was even asking. she knew i was on my period. she'd practically been taking care of me for the last few days. grabbing me a hot water bottle, or holding me in her arms whenever my cramps worsened. getting me whatever food i wanted when i was craving something. making sure i was drinking plenty of water. she really was the best. i just didn't understand why she was asking this now.

"i.. baby, you know i'm still on my period."

"i know.. i just can't wait!! i want to taste you please, love. i'll do anything."

i hesitated slightly. what if i made a mess, and then she got mad? what if i didn't taste good? she must have noticed the look on my face because she began speaking again.

"if you're not comfortable with this, then we don't have to do it. but i promise you that you don't need to overthink it, there should be no what if's filling your mind. you know i love you no matter what. i think you're the most perfect girl in the world."

how did she know?

it was like she could read my mind.

"pleaseeee? pinky promise i'll take great care of you, angel. just like always. pretty please?"

if i hadn't been so horny for the last few days, i probably would've said no, but that side of my brain just took over. i needed her so so bad. i reminded myself that she would always love me. this wasn't going to change that. she wanted this just as much as i did.

"if i say yes, can you put a towel down? you know.. just in case?" i mumbled, slightly embarrassed.

"of course, angel. whatever makes you feel the most comfortable." she answered me, placing soft kisses on my forehead.

once i'd spent a short amount of time thinking about it, i looked back into her eyes and nodded.

"i need you billie."

she just smirked at my words, before sitting me up slightly so that she could move from behind me, and settle in between my legs instead.

it didn't take her long to leave the room and grab a towel, folding it slightly and placing it underneath me. she sat on her knees at first, slowly pulling my pyjamas and underwear down so that she had the perfect view of me. once our clothes had been discarded in a messy pile on the floor, she leaned down to lay on her stomach, getting even closer to my core. i let out a needy whine when all she did was lightly blow against my pussy.

she could already see how wet i was. i hadn't told her about how needy id been for the past few days, but i think that as soon as she caught a glance of how wet i was, she immediately realised. she didn't bother to waste any more time, diving straight in. her tongue ran a long stripe up my pussy, before focusing on my clit. she was trying to get me wetter, it wasn't like she needed me to be wetter, she just wanted to tease. i reached my hands down to grab her hair, pulling her impossibly closer to my core in an attempt to get her to move faster.

we both knew that i was already pretty sensitive because of how long i'd needed this, so it wouldn't take her long to get me close, which was why she was trying to drag it out as much as possible. she wanted me to last as long as i could.

her tongue flicked my clit, before licking and slurping, just doing as much as she could to bring me pleasure. after what felt like an eternity, she finally moved to push her tongue inside of me. she worked her tongue against my tight walls as they squeezed against her. my orgasm was approaching fast, and my arousal must have been dripping all over the lower half of her face. at that point, i'd completely forgot that i was on my period, and i think billie had forgotten too. we were both too focused on me finishing.

i was so close, and to add to the pleasure, she pressed her fingers on my clit, quickly rubbing circles against it, making my moans as loud as they could get. i couldn't hold it any longer. no matter how hard i tried, i was too desperate.

"billie! baby, can i cum for you? please?" i moaned out.

"that's ittt." she praised, "cum for me, my love."

as soon as i heard those words, my orgasm hit me. my moans and cries were broken whilst i let the feeling consume me. my back was arching off the bed, and my hands were still tangled in billies hair, gripping onto it tight to ground myself slightly.

as i started to come down from my high, my grip loosened on her hair, and i felt one of her hands gently rubbing my stomach to help me calm down. when i finally flopped against the bed, trying to catch my breath, billie pulled her face away from me, looking into my eyes with a proud smile. all i could see was a mixture of my arousal, and blood dripping down her chin and coating her lips.

my cheeks turned red and i covered my face, embarrassed even though i knew billie was just happy that she'd made me feel good.

i didn't even notice her come closer to my face until i felt her carefully grabbing my wrists to pry my hands away from my face, and i heard her pretty voice.

"don't be embarrassed, angel. can i go clean you up now?"

"please." i nodded and thanked her, allowing myself to be lifted up in her arms, my head resting on my shoulder out of exhaustion.

once we took a long shower, and pampered each other, it was time for us to get back in bed and watch movies for the rest of the day, enjoying each others company just like usual.

[admiringlove]

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

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

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

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

➵ word count. 17.2k.

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

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, that makes it worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Skipping dinner, are you?"

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

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

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

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

"Ah," you mumble.

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

Or maybe it’s just an excuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff. "I really don’t."

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

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

A week passes. Then two days.

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

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

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

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

Something in the way he moves.

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

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

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

Now, though, this is different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do I need to call Madam Pomfrey?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Satoru, what are you—"

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

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

Scars.

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

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

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

How you didn’t know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How had he been living like this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff. "I’m always right."

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

"You’re one to talk."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head vigorously. "Absolutely not."

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

"Gojo."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shh, princess. Just me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How do we know that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Almost did."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She grins, scribbling something down with newfound determination.

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat. "Uh, professor?"

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

He tilts his head. "Yes?"

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

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

There’s a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence answers you.

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

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

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

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

Most of these are in the Restricted Section.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magick Moste Evile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

Footsteps.

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

Then his voice, low and easy.

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

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

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

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

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

“Too much of a risk.”

“Or the owlery.”

“Too many owls.”

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

There’s a pause. A long one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toji raises a brow. "Yeah?"

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

Toji snorts. "Sounds like a loud group."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Looks like it."

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

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

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

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

You don’t know why you feel so tense.

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

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

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

“Fawkes, hold on a second—”

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

“Fawkes.”

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

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

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

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

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

You flinch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment, neither of you speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I have to!”

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is it, Satoru?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you didn’t care to tell me?”

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

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

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

“I-I can’t—”

“Who is it, Satoru?”

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

He’s fighting it.

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

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

“I want a name.”

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

For a long moment, he says nothing.

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

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

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

“…It’s Suguru.”

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

Your fingers tremble where they press into the wood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gojo flinches. Just barely. But he does.

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

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

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

You take another step forward, and he steps back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You don’t like him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Everyone stops.

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

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

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

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

And then Gojo scoffs. Loudly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. "Only fifteen minutes."

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

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

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

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

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

"Nervous, sweetheart?"

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

"Not at all," you lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like what?"

"Like my future."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s the difference, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It’s on me this time, yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he says it.

"I’m going back."

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

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

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

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

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

And then you feel it. A stare.

Your eyes lift.

Kento.

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

Your throat tightens.

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

And he nods.

He nods.

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

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

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

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

And then you move.

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

Now you know. Who sent the notes.

It was Kento.

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

[adverbally]

Intention

Written for the @stmarchmm prompt “courting rituals” | wc: 913 | rated: T | cw: none | tags: Steddie, Steve & Wayne, omega Steve, alpha Eddie, alpha Wayne, early relationship, asking permission to court, non-traditional relationship dynamics

———

Steve hesitates on the Munsons’ front porch. The trailer is familiar and comforting with its worn screen door and peeling paint, the warm light and organized chaos he knows to be hidden inside. This place has become more of a home to him than the house he grew up in.

He doesn’t want to lose that now.

But he thinks about Eddie nervously asking him on their first real date, hiding his grin behind the lock of hair he tugged across his face when Steve said yes; the way Eddie’s eyes had sparkled in the glow of the streetlight outside Steve’s house when he dropped him off after dinner, just before he leaned in for the best first kiss Steve has ever had; how Eddie had carefully brushed his wrist along the cuff of Steve’s sweater so he could still smell Eddie’s smoky ginger scent for the rest of the evening.

Steve wants that, all of that and more. The promise of that has to outweigh the fear of screwing everything up.

He knocks on the door.

It feels like an eternity before Wayne answers, already dressed in his work clothes for that evening’s shift. He seems surprised to see Steve, but he pushes open the screen door between them and waves him inside anyway. “Did Ed not tell you he has band practice? He should be home soon but you’re welcome to wait.”

“No, I…” Steve takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets so he doesn’t start fidgeting with his jacket zipper. “I wanted to talk to you, actually, if you have a minute?”

Wayne looks even more baffled now but gestures for Steve to take a seat in one of the mismatched chairs surrounding the small dining table. He doesn’t join him immediately, instead going into the kitchen and silently filling two glasses with water from the tap. When he returns, he sits in the seat across from Steve and slides one of the cups over to him.

“Thanks.” Steve’s mouth is so dry that his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, but he’s not sure he can take a drink without spilling or choking on it. Not until he says what he needs to say. Keeping his gaze on the scratched tabletop, he begins, “I think you probably know why I’m here.”

“I think so,” Wayne agrees. “And I think you know I need to hear you say it anyway.”

Steve nods, thinking of Eddie’s spicy warm scent to steel himself. “Eddie said you’re not very traditional. Your family, I mean. He offered to do this because he thought I wanted to do it, and I know he would’ve, but my dad…” He cuts off his rambling with a shake of his head. “Sorry, I’m nervous. Eddie said I shouldn’t be–”

“Steve. Take a breath.”

He does, then sips from his glass. Wayne doesn’t say anything while Steve gathers his thoughts for a long moment. Finally, he speaks again, deliberately. “Eddie is incredible. I care about him. I want to be with him.” It’s a gross understatement but if he starts elaborating, he might never stop. “I don’t give a shit what my dad thinks, but it matters to me what you think. Because it matters to Eddie. You’re the most important person in his life. He’s an adult and he can make his own decisions, so I’m not asking for permission, but… I wanted to inform you of my intention to court your nephew.”

Wayne nods, a slight tilt of his head acknowledging Steve’s declaration. “I accept it.”

“Okay.” He nods back, taps his fingers along the side of his water glass, listening to the quiet ping of his nails on its surface. “Thank you.” It’s almost disappointing how anticlimactic this was. He had stressed over it for days, and Wayne just… accepts him, just like that?

Like he can read Steve’s mind, Wayne leans closer. “You’re a good kid, Steve. You saved Ed’s life, you make him happy, you take care of that pack of kids. I think you’re good for him. Mellow him out some.”

“Yeah?” The compliment makes him warm from head to toe. Steve grins down at the table. “I think he’s good for me too.”

Wayne drains the last of the water in his glass. “I’d’ve given my permission, too, if you’d asked. Not that you need it.” He rises from his chair with a groan. “I gotta head to work now, but you’re welcome to wait for Ed. Make yourself at home.”

Steve stands as well, accepting the handshake Wayne offers him. “Thanks again, sir, I appreciate it.”

“Call me Wayne, son.” His mouth twists in a wry smile. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” He claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder, then shrugs on his coat. “Make sure you’re being safe, now. I’m not ready to be a granddad yet.”

Wayne can surely see him blushing as Steve stammers, “No, we— I mean, we haven’t, I’m not—” When he realizes Wayne is fighting back his smile, he sighs, embarrassed but relieved to be in on the joke. “Okay, laugh it up.”

He waves to Wayne from the doorstep, watches the beat-up old truck kick up dust until it turns onto the asphalt outside the trailer park. The alpha’s scent lingers in the trailer, more woodsy than Eddie’s but still warm. Familiar.

Steve thinks he could get used to it.

[dannitarot]

The Good Stuff for March 🕯️🤍

Pile 1-> 2-> 3-> 4

Pile 1

You will be feeling more confident in yourself. You may low-key become obsessed with yourself lol. I’m seeing you guys go through some kind of glow up. All eyes are on you this month so strut your stuff, Pile 1. If you’ve been feeling inspired to try something new, I’m seeing it’ll work out for you. A lot of you may try a new hairstyle or hair colour. You’ll be getting a lot of attention especially the romantic kind. You’ll be stepping into your power. Some of you need to beware of negative attention though because I do see jealousy for some of you. Those of you interested in someone that is at a distance (esp physically), I see them reaching out to you or closing the distance in some way. This person could be a fire sign ( Leo, Sagittarius or Aries) or have a prominent fire placement in their chart. Fixed sign as well ( Aquarius , Leo, Scorpio or Taurus). Doesn’t have to though. This person is a soulmate. This feels like someone you already know. This person could be new for a few of you.

Pile 2

You could be in school. I see your grades being good or better than expected. Others of you could be starting a new class or something like that. You will be doing good financially. You may receive some money from a family member or friend. You’ll probably receive a gift(s). You will feel very motivated this month. You’ll feel full of energy and ready to take on your goals. A lot of you will cut back on screen time successfully. You may pick up a hobby you’ve done in the past. For some of you, it’s gardening or something in nature.

Pile 3

You are stepping out of a difficult period of your life. For a lot of you, this could have to do with finances. You are moving into abundance. You are finally at a place of abundance. You could have been trying to manifest something specific for the past three months and I see that coming into fruition for you. Some of you need to ask for help where necessary. Practice accepting help. Practice receiving. Just know that it’s ok to let others help you. Allow others to help you. If someone offers you a cup of coffee, accept the offer. You can also reach out to your spirit team for guidance. This month, you’re in the process of shedding the old self that no longer serves you and attaining a higher level of consciousness. You are more connected to God/Source. Blessings are pouring in for you.

Pile 4

Someone is into you and they’re making it known. They’ve been watching and waiting and now is the time. They’re ready to confess their love for you. They’re thinking about asking you out on a date. Some of you already know this person and probably had some falling out with them. They’ve thought long and hard and they believe you’re the one for them. They see you as their soulmate. They very well could be a soul mate or have some kind of spiritual bond with you. You guys were meant to meet. This meeting was meant to transform you both. Potentially had a past life with this person.

Thanks for reading. Hope you all have a good month🤍

[jobean12-blog]

Need You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 500

Summary: You and Bucky get all dolled up for an event and he can barely make it through he needs you so badly.

Author's Note: He looks so yum tonight for the Oscars and here we are again thirsting.Just a little drabble I blame Seb for. Haha! Thanks so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy!🥰

Warnings: semi public sex, dirty talk, domish Bucky but he's still soft, a needy quickie.

He presses his mouth to your ear with a warm exhale.

“Doll face.”

“Yes Bucky?”

“Let’s get out of here.”

His hand tightens at your waist and his chest begins to heave. “Don’t make me go another minute without you.”

He keeps you pressed close as he meanders through the crowd, his eyes searching the space for a hidden place.

“Fair warning, doll, I don’t even have a minute of foreplay in me.”

You throw him a flirtatious smirk. “I don’t need it.”

His tortured groan is drowned out by the sound of him kicking the door open and as soon as the it locks behind him he reaches for the zipper of your dress.

With a finesse that could only come from practice he pulls it down, loosening the fabric around your body until it pools at your feet in a luxurious pile.

You turn and he growls out your name.

“Fuck, I could come from just looking at you.”

You gasp as your back makes contact with the wall and his lips travel the slope of your neck and shoulder.

Your back arches on a stuttering exhale, his fingers digging into your hips as he moves his mouth down between your breasts.

Desperate to get you closer, he wedges his thigh between your legs and drags you into his chest. His hands move to your ass, taking hold of your soft skin so he can ride you up and down his thigh.

You writhe around on the thick muscle as he focuses on your breasts, kissing and nipping every sensitive spot. He flexes between your legs, his grip bringing you back and forth, back and forth.

“Bucky,” you breathe out.

“Come on my thigh, baby.”

You suck in a breath and grip the collar of his shirt, his bow tie now askew and his face flushed pink.

“As soon as you’re done coming in your panties, I’m going to put my cock so deep inside you,” he whispers, mouth now an inch from your ear.

Your response is lost in the sounds of your orgasm, hands twisting in the front of his shirt, your mouth gasping against his lips.

He slides you off his thigh and falls to his knees, dragging the damp material down your legs.

“Kick them off doll face. I don’t want anything to keep me from spreading these gorgeous legs.”

While you do as he asks, he starts to pull the shirt from his pants, hastily undoing all the prim trimmings to his tux.

He crowds you against the wall, rubbing the head of his cock through the wetness between your legs and groaning hoarsely into your neck.

Your eyes lock as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until there’s not a breadth of space left between your bodies and before he starts to move his hips he catches your lips with his, whispering, “I love you,” over and over again as he fucks your brains out.