#and this is from the magic book of spells

[randomshyperson]

practical magic - wanda maximoff oneshots

summary: study nights with wanda were supposed to be all about magic theory… until you discover the private magic Wanda’s been exploring - and what she’s been using it for.

warnings: smut, bottom!wanda, enchanted strap; overstimulation; suggestive dialogue; fingering; creampie; vampire feeding; mild roughness; humorous, soft aftercare; friends to lovers; emotional intimacy; reader is a vampire | words: 6.388k

a/n-> accidentally posted the unfished version before, just pretend i didn't. this was written with a mission, we need more bottom wanda fics.

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

You've been friends with Wanda for a little over three years now.

When she officially joined the Avengers, you were still elbow-deep in the impossible task of recruiting more witches for what was not-quite-yet a coven. Agatha refused to call it that - “a nosy vampire and three witches who had one joint spell session does not a coven make,” she'd scoffed.

She had a point. The so-called group was mostly chaos: Agatha and the girls argued every other day, Jen technically wasn’t doing magic anymore, and Lilia had a rather violent aversion to the concept of community, possibly because of the whole plague situation. Still, you were trying. Someone had to.

So when the new Avengers were announced and vampire networks started buzzing about humans playing gods again, it wasn’t just politics or prophecy that drew your attention. It was the unmistakable pulse of magic laced in Wanda’s powers, bright and wild and untrained.

The others warned you against mingling with the superhero crowd, especially dragging magic into mortal affairs. But as usual, you ignored them. You knocked on the Tower’s door anyway - literally - and extended an invitation to the witch who didn’t yet know she was one.

Wanda had resisted the label as much as your group had resisted hers. But something softened over time. Bit by bit, routine rooted itself in the quiet moments: delivering spellbooks to the Avengers Tower every week, practicing basics on quiet Sunday mornings, sharing rituals and stories passed down through your centuries-long memory.

You grew close. Agatha would tease - “maybe too close,” always with that knowing lilt - but you both pretended not to hear her.

Which is how you found yourself, for the fourth time this week, sprawled across Wanda’s bed like you belonged there, magical books open in a circle around you. One hand flipped a page absently while the other nursed a stolen blood bag (donation room, New York Hospital - nobody missed it).

You looked up just as the door creaked open. Wanda entered slowly, flushed from her last training session of the day. Hair tousled, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, she offered you a soft, worn-out smile.

“I guess you don’t do doors anymore, huh?” she asked, voice light but teasing.

You paused mid-drink, fangs still out, mouth curved in a guilty little grin that made her look away too fast. She found sudden interest in the dirt on her sneakers.

“Portals are more efficient,” you said with a lazy blink.

Wanda smiled despite herself, that warm kind of smile she tried to hide. “Make yourself at home,” she muttered, already peeling her hoodie off, adding over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom, “As usual.”

You mumbled something back - half smirk, half acknowledgment - but your attention had already started to slip.

The blood was sweet, warm enough to relax every taut line in your shoulders. You let your head tip back, fangs still buried in plastic, arm tucked under your neck, legs crossed at the ankles in the middle of her bed like you lived there.

Maybe you did, in a way.

You didn’t mean to listen. You didn’t try to notice the way her footsteps padded across the carpet, or the soft rustle of clothing falling to the floor. You didn’t mean to hear the sigh she let out as the hot water hit her back - or the way the scent of soap slowly replaced sweat, steam curling through the air like incense.

But you noticed anyway.

It wasn’t the first time you found yourself a little too aware of Wanda. Of the way her energy shifted when she entered a room. Of how the scent of her skin after a shower made your brain short-circuit for reasons you refused to unpack.

You blamed the blood. It was easier.

You discarded the empty bag in the container she’d sweetly labeled for you months ago - “blood trash 🩸🗑️ only” - and made a valiant effort to gather the books. Your limbs felt too relaxed to cooperate. Your brain, fogged with warmth and the remnants of adrenaline, wandered somewhere it shouldn’t.

She could skip tonight’s lesson. You weren’t really in a teaching mood, anyway. A movie under the covers sounded more tempting by the second.

By the time Wanda stepped back into the room, towel around her neck and damp hair dripping onto her collarbone, you’d transformed the bed into a cozy nest. Pillows fluffed, blankets piled just right, snacks from the Tower kitchen arranged with near reverence on a tray between the two of you.

Wanda’s gaze softened instantly.

“You spoil me, you know that?” she murmured, walking past you with bare feet and warm skin. One hand ruffled her damp hair, while the other reached out to give your shoulder a playful squeeze. The casual intimacy of it sent a flutter through your chest you definitely ignored.

She climbed into bed with a tired sigh, half-buried herself under the covers, and smiled at the little altar of treats you’d made for her.

“Although I love it… if I keep skipping our lessons like this, I’ll only learn the fundamentals by the time I’m thirty.”

You smile at her, the corners of your mouth twitching with playful softness as you click your tongue.

“We can do a whole day of studying tomorrow,” you say, voice low and warm as your fingers move to the buttons of your shirt. “Tonight, I can sense the exhaustion in your skin, sweetheart. You deserve a break.”

There’s the faintest blush on her cheeks at the nickname - she pretends to focus on drying her hair, but you catch the way her eyes flick toward your hands.  Your shirt is halfway unbuttoned now, revealing a smooth stretch of skin.

Wanda’s brow furrows almost instantly.

“What are you doing?” she asks, eyes narrowing as if trying to read your intentions.

You shrug, lips twitching upward in mock innocence. “Getting more comfortable for bed?”

She lets out a breath of a laugh, light but incredulous, her gaze trailing, just for a second, along the exposed line of your collarbone before she catches herself and lifts a finger in warning.

“I know you came here straight from one of your vampire errands. There is no way you’re sleeping in my bed with whatever blood-slicked demon germs you picked up tonight.”

“But I was already in there - ”

Her look is sharp. Final. You sigh, dramatic and defiant, arms dropping to your sides.

“Fine,” you mutter, letting your shirt fall open completely as you pad toward the bathroom. She calls after you, “Towels are in the bottom drawer!” - with a grin in her voice that only deepens when you growl back, “I know where the goddamn towels are.”

Wanda’s still chuckling softly to herself when her eyes catch a glimpse of your silhouette in the ajar door.

She was not expecting the sound of the shower to affect her the way it does - soft splashes, the shift of your body behind thin walls, steam curling like lazy magic through the cracks. Her mouth goes dry. She tells herself to focus on the screen. Instead, she finds herself watching the way your shadow moves behind the glass.

By the time you return, the scent of her shampoo lingers on your skin, mingling with the heat of the shower in a way that’s almost intimate. Familiar. Her breath catches when she glances up - and then immediately flicks her gaze away again.

You step into the room like it’s yours, skin still damp, droplets trailing down your collarbone and disappearing beneath the towel slung low around your waist. You hum under your breath, hair dripping onto your shoulders, leaving little wet marks on her floor.

Wanda makes the mistake of looking again - just a peek - and nearly chokes on her own breath.

You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell with you.

A low chuckle slips from your throat as you move toward her dresser, digging through drawers like you’ve done a hundred times. “What the hell are you watching, Maximoff?”

Her eyes go wide, a guilty flush creeping up her neck. She thinks you caught her - thinks the heat in her chest must be visible somehow. But you add, casual as ever, “Your heart just skipped. Don’t tell me you’re scaring yourself with horror movies again.”

Lucky. Very lucky.

Wanda exhales, relief blooming like smoke. “Guilty,” she says quickly, flashing a nervous smile as she gestures to the screen. It’s some old monster flick - practical effects, over-the-top gore, and all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Something Natasha lent her as a joke.

You glance over your shoulder and laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s what got you riled up? Weak.”

She’s about to retort, something equally sarcastic on the tip of her tongue, when you let the towel drop.

Wanda stops breathing.

There’s nothing between her and the sight of your bare back, the elegant lines of muscle, the quiet strength carved into your form like poetry.

She’s seen you naked before. You were once a maid, then a pirate after your transformation - sharing cramped quarters with others became second nature, which explains your complete lack of modesty when it comes to nudity. But for Wanda, lately, it’s felt less like a habit and more like a divine trial of restraint.

You don’t seem bothered. Not at all. You stretch, slow and cat-like, and turn just enough for her to see the faint veins beneath your skin beginning to darken, the glow in your eyes blooming red for a heartbeat.

“Honestly,” you say, voice lower now, more playful, “I don’t know why you’re impressed. You’ve seen me transform a hundred times. Real-life horror movie, free show just for you.”

To prove your point, you flash her a half-formed vampiric grin - sharp fangs, darkened veins webbing lightly across your cheeks, just enough to make her pulse stutter.

Wanda groans, her thighs pressing together under the blankets as she throws herself dramatically onto the pillows. “Don’t do that,” she mutters, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re gonna give me nightmares.”

You laugh again, completely unbothered.

What she doesn’t see - what she misses, because she’s too busy pretending she’s annoyed and not aroused - is the way your eyes linger on her just a second longer than necessary. The way your smile softens when she hides her face in the pillows. The way your hands move a little slower now, as if savoring the comfort of being here, in her space, like it’s something sacred.

Wanda makes the mistake of not noticing where your hands are searching now. She’s too distracted by her own thoughts - by the fire licking at her skin, the way her body is betraying her with every heartbeat.

You find a shirt that’s comfortably oversized - definitely Wanda’s - and pull it over your head. As you fold a few other pieces and rummage through the drawer for something else to borrow, your fingers close around something far too structured to be clothing.

You freeze for a second. Then a slow, wicked grin curls your lips.

You’ve shared a house with Agatha Harkness for more than a century - there are very few enchanted accessories you haven’t seen. And besides, you lived through the entire pro-discovery, post-puritan, human-rights-to-sexuality era, so your fingers wrap around the leather strap with practiced curiosity rather than shock.

But enchanted magical straps? Those are always tethered to the witch who conjured them.

So when your hand tightens around it and lifts it ever so slightly from the drawer, you don’t miss the snap of Wanda’s head in your direction - eyes wide, mouth parting slightly in panic, cheeks already flushed a deep rose.

“Well, well,” you begin, voice dripping amusement, “what do we have here - ”

Before you can finish the sentence, the item yanks itself from your hand with a rush of scarlet magic and flies back into the drawer, which slams shut with finality.

You burst into laughter, fully delighted.

“Oh my god, Wanda. You don’t have to panic like that!”

“Shut up,” she hisses, crossing the room fast - but her voice is trembling and her face is practically glowing red. “Not a word about this!”

“Too late,” you grin, teasing mercilessly. “I love that you’re getting creative with your magic. Really taking your spellwork into… practical territory.”

She groans, turning away from you, face buried in her hands for a moment.

“I knew Agatha would be a terrible influence when I brought you into the coven,” you continue, folding your arms, expression mock-thoughtful.

Wanda wheels around, cheeks still pink. “Agatha has actually been… very mature about this. Extremely helpful.” She points at you, flustered but trying to sound stern. “You’re the one being insufferable.”

Your grin only widens as her hands press to your shoulders, gently but insistently trying to steer you away from the closet. You’re still laughing, still half-dressed, still entirely enjoying yourself.

But then you cheat.

Vampire speed kicks in, and in a blur, you’ve crossed the room, the object once again dangling from your fingers. Wanda’s horrified gasp echoes off the walls.

“Y/N!”

You hold it up between two fingers, smile cocky, eyes glittering with mischief. “You do know Agatha invented this spell, right? I’m just curious - did she teach you all the tricks, or just the basics?”

Wanda groans in frustration. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

But she doesn’t use her magic to pin you down, not yet. She’s chasing you the mortal way, half-hearted, half-laughing through her mortification, her fingers swiping at the air just inches from your hand every time you dodge.

“Come on,” you tease, voice lilting. “We’re all adults here. Sex is natural. Magic-enhanced sex? Even better.”

“You’re the absolute worst. Worse than Agatha.”

You laugh harder, and that’s when she finally has enough - her magic tugs sharply at your wrist, yanking your arm down and finally letting her seize the toy. But as her fingers close over it, so do yours. Neither of you lets go.

Your eyes meet.

There’s a sudden shift - like the breath is sucked from the room. The laughter lingers on your lips, but something deeper pulses underneath. You tilt your head slightly, tone dropping lower, velvety.

“As your mentor, Wanda… It’s only natural I keep up with the kinds of spells you’ve been exploring.” Your voice is a caress now, the teasing thick with heat. “I just want to make sure you’re reaching your full potential.”

Her breath hitches - she feels the pulse of magic through the toy, the heat it responds to like a heartbeat. Her heartbeat.

You step a little closer, gaze locked to hers. “I could’ve helped you, you know. If you’d told me about this. We could’ve crafted something together. Something designed just for you.”

Her fingers tremble where they hold the object. She tries to speak, but it comes out as a half-broken, “I - I…”

You let go of the strap and take her wrist instead, the shift in contact gentle but commanding. Your other hand rises slowly, carefully, to cup her cheek, and she leans into the touch before she can stop herself.

Your thumb strokes her jaw, and when you speak again, your voice is barely a whisper, warm with sincerity beneath the sultry lilt.

“It’s no problem, really. I still know a few tricks… and I’d be more than happy to teach you. If you want me to.”

There’s a question in your eyes - no pressure, no assumption, just quiet patience. Wanda stares at you, breath shallow, caught between the rhythm of her own desire and the weight of her affection for you. You’re looking at her like she hung the stars, like you’d follow her anywhere if she only asked.

Her voice fails her again. So she nods, slowly.

And the way your smile shifts - softer, sweeter, reverent - makes her stomach flip.

“Oh, Wanda,” you murmur, voice like a promise. “The things I’d do for you... If you only asked.”

Her heart skips.

The hand you still have around her wrist begins to guide hers lower, slowly, deliberately - until it rests just above your waist. Wanda’s breath catches, her lungs refusing to function properly under the pressure of what that might mean. Her mind is racing ahead, heart in her throat, and nothing - nothing - prepares her for what you do instead.

“We’ll have time for you to lead another night,” you murmur, your voice raspy, grounding, commanding in the softest way. “Right now, I’m the one in charge.”

It’s only then that Wanda looks down to where her hand connects with yours, and the sight stops her breath entirely.

The strap, deep crimson and laced with faint magical etchings, is no longer simply something she was holding. It’s now fastened snugly to your body, the enchanted harness shimmering with scarlet runes, secured perfectly around your hips like it belonged there all along. Magic. Old, tailored magic. Magic that listens to arousal.

Her fingers twitch, then squeeze instinctively - and your body jolts forward slightly with a soft, fractured groan.

Wanda’s mouth falls open.

“I bet she didn’t teach you this trick,” you manage through your teeth, your smile strained by the pleasure that flashes visibly across your features.

Wanda doesn’t reply right away. She just releases the strap, palms sliding up to your shoulders instead - firm, grounding, trembling with adrenaline and something deeper. Her eyes lock with yours, voice low but resolute.

“Please stop talking about other people.”

And you’d agree to anything she asked in that moment.

The kiss she gives you is tentative at first, almost uncertain - like she’s afraid you’ll pull away, even though she’s the one fully dressed and you’re still barefoot and mostly naked in her bedroom. Her lips brush yours gently, a silent question.

But when she pulls back, cheeks flushed, eyes searching your face for any flicker of hesitation, you only stare at her like she’s the answer to a question you’ve been afraid to ask for centuries. You don’t need telepathy to know what she’s thinking: Am I crossing a line?

You don’t let her linger in that doubt. Your hands are already cupping her face, guiding her back to you. This time, the kiss is deeper, hungry in the way repressed feelings always are, tender in the way confessions often feel.

It’s the kind of kiss that anchors you. That rewrites the air in the room.

You lose yourselves in it for a while, long minutes of breath shared, lips parting slowly, tongues moving with lazy, reverent rhythm. Wanda's fingers twist into your hair, nails grazing your scalp in ways that make your knees threaten betrayal. And yet it’s the way her hips start pressing forward, restless and seeking friction, that truly tests your restraint.

She’s beautiful like this - messy and warm and open. Lips swollen from your mouth, skin flushed from the weight of wanting. Her whole body hums against yours.

When you finally pull back, it’s only to bury your face in the slope of her neck, placing slow, burning kisses along her collarbone, each one landing with weight. She shudders, fingers tightening around your arms. You feel her lean into you, legs weakening.

Then your fang grazes her skin - barely, a passing scrape - but Wanda’s response is immediate: a high, needy whimper that stokes something primal in you.

“You can feed,” she whispers, breath hot in your ear as she tilts her neck for you. “I don’t mind.”

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly as your grip on her waist tightens. The scent of her skin, still laced with soap and arousal, clouds your thoughts.

“I already have,” you murmur against her throat, voice hushed with restraint. “I don’t really need more tonight.”

Your tongue replaces the fang, a slow, wet stroke against her pulse point - soothing. Grounding.

But Wanda doesn’t want you grounded.

She reaches down suddenly, hand wrapping firmly around the base of the strap between you. The pressure is immediate - blinding - and the groan that rips from your chest is not subtle.

Her voice drops an octave. Confident now. Taunting even.

“I’m offering,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Don’t be rude.”

The enchantment responds at once, feeding off her arousal and yours, sending waves of stimulation back into your body. Your knees nearly buckle at the sensation, and your fingers dig into her hips just to stay steady.

The room spins slightly, heat swirling around you like smoke, thick with magic and want. You swallow hard, regaining your footing - but your fangs have already dropped, lips parting as you hover at her neck again.

There’s something sacred about the way she leans in, baring her throat to you like it’s instinct.

And something dangerous about how much you want her.

She whines sharply and low,  the sound of it vibrating in your throat like a tether pulled too tight. Her back arches into you, desperate for friction, and just as your fangs sink into her neck with controlled precision, her fingers move again - this time teasing the very tip of the strap.

It’s too much. Too much.

A sharp jolt runs through you, spine tightening, and you lose your rhythm in feeding as your hips press forward on instinct. Wanda gasps, not from pain but from impact, because the two of you stumble across the room, limbs clumsy and tangled, until her back hits the wall with a dull thud.

You try. You try to keep your fangs in her skin, your lips at her throat, to hold your body in check and drink without falling apart - but she’s a natural at destruction. Her grip on the toy doesn’t loosen. She keeps moving her hand with shameless precision, masturbating you through the strap like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And maybe she does.

You’re panting against her throat now, ragged and struggling, blood thick on your tongue and arousal hotter than anything you’ve felt in decades. Her power sings under your skin, and it’s not magic, it’s her. Wanda.

She giggles - soft but wicked - and the sound is a spark to dry kindling.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” she purrs in your ear, voice molten. “Let go.”

Your fangs scrape her skin again, unintentionally, because your whole body is shaking from how tightly you’re holding the knot low in your belly.

“I want to see the big, bad vampire break for me.”

Then her tongue flicks your earlobe, her breath warm and wet. Her hand tightens once, twice - and it’s done.

You come undone in her hand with a raw, guttural groan. Your body convulses, the force of it dragging a cry from deep in your chest. One of your hands slams against the wall for balance, the strength behind it splintering the paint, your fingers flexing as your release pulses through you hard and hot. You’re left shaking, panting, head bowed against her shoulder, clinging to her waist like she’s the only thing keeping you from burning alive.

Wanda giggles again, and it’s unfair how pleased she sounds - mischief and something softer curled around her smile. Her hand finally goes still, slick with your cum, and when she lifts her palm to look at it, her expression flickers with something curious.

“I wasn’t sure that would happen,” she says, a little breathless, a little stunned. “But I’m definitely not disappointed.”

It takes a moment for your brain to connect the dots. She's not talking about the sex. Not exactly.

Her eyes flick back to yours, questioning but hesitant. “Is it…?”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

Still catching your breath, you manage a nod and a rough, low reply.

“Mine. Real. Yes.” Your voice is hoarse, but steady now. “Functions like the traditional kind… if you want it to. Witches have very creative, non-male methods for building families.”

You kiss her quickly, nothing but warmth, grounding yourself, then pull back, fingers pried from the wall with effort. Cracked drywall and bruised pride. But worth it.

Wanda’s biting her lip, the implications of your words flickering behind her eyes. It makes her look so devastatingly her -  intellect and feelings always working together. You use that second of distraction to inhale, gathering some of the control she just stole from you.

Not because you mind her leading. You don’t. You love it. But you're not about to let yourself lose control of your strength - not in this space. Not with her. She deserves better than unbridled force. She deserves intention.

You let the back of your knees find the bed, falling into a seated position, legs spread, arms behind you for balance.

The enchanted strap is still vibrating faintly between your thighs - hard and slick, pulsing in tune with the magic it fed off. A bit of your cum leaks down your thigh, gleaming in the soft lamplight.

You look up at her.

“Take off your clothes, darling.”

The flush that blooms over her cheeks spreads down her neck. Still, she doesn’t look away. Her hands move to the waistband of her pajama bottoms, fumbling slightly, awkward in a way that makes your stomach ache with affection.

You sigh, all heat and hunger.

“If you take too long,” you warn, “I’ll rip them off you.”

That gets her.

Wanda swallows hard, visibly trembling. She lets go, magic sparking in the air around her, and in one motion she’s out of her shorts. But her panties are still clinging to her hips when your patience runs out completely.

Your hand reaches up, fast, closing gently but firmly around her wrist. In one motion, you pull her down into your lap, chest to chest.

Centuries old. You've fought monsters, conquered cities, danced with death, and kissed gods. But nothing - nothing - compares to the feeling of Wanda Maximoff grinding into you, panting into your mouth, whispering your name like it’s holy and begging to be fucked.

Your grip on her waist tightens, enough to bruise if you weren't careful, but you’ve never been anything but careful with her. It’s hard when she’s like this, moving her hips in frantic circles, riding the enchanted strap nestled between your legs like her life depends on it.

You manage a breath, a brief second of stillness, just enough to let your mouth travel down her body. Open-mouthed kisses trace along her collarbones, then lower, tongue teasing one nipple, then the other. You suck her tits until she's trembling above you, grinding halted, too overwhelmed to do anything but shake and whimper under the weight of your mouth. Her hands dig into your hair, and her chest heaves, breaths ragged. You didn’t expect her to be this close already.

But because the strap is magically connected to her arousal, her orgasm takes you out of orbit. You don't come physically - but you feel it, the echo of it, the way the spell is designed to drag you along with her, the throbbing ache of your own desire flaring bright. Your hips jolt. You groan into her chest.

She whines, too, writhing, overwhelmed, and pretty sure she's going to combust if you don’t fuck her now.

“I need- ” she pants, trying to pull away just enough to yank off her panties, still in the way because you were too impatient before. But you grab her hips and hold her against the strap, grinding her down onto it. “I’m just - just trying to-”

You rip the fabric with a single swipe of your hand.

“Really?” she protests, glaring for a second. “Those were nice.”

But you’ve already flipped her onto her back, pinning her against the pillows. “I’ll buy you new ones,” you promise, eyes flicking down as your hands part her thighs. “I’ll buy you everything. The whole damn world if you want it.”

Wanda laughs, cheeks flushed. “God, you’re such a sweet talker.”

Scarlet sparks hum around her fingers as they tug your shirt away. Her hands hover nervously at her sides, the way they always do when she’s trying not to tremble.

“I’m not,” you murmur, gaze locked between her legs. You’re barely listening, distracted by the sight of her - dripping, swollen, aching for you. “I’m cranky. Suspicious. You just bring out the version of me worth loving.”

Her expression softens, and she reaches for you, not for a kiss, not for your hand.

No, she’s guiding you. Down, between her legs, until your fingers find her heat and sink inside with an obscene wet sound. She moans, breath hitching.

You take your time with this, one finger, slow and deliberate. Then two. Twisting, curling, finding the spot that makes her clench around you with a cry.

“I want- ”

“I know, baby.” You hush her, your voice thick. “Just stretching you first. You’ll take me easily like this.”

She mewls, hips stuttering, her hands clenching the sheets. And just as you're adjusting, the strap between your legs pulses hard - your body jerks, gasping. Wanda came again.

It’s fast, sharp - her body is too sensitive now - but it still rocks through her like a wave. Her cunt flutters around your fingers, and you don’t know how much longer you can wait.

“Please,” she begs, voice high and thin. “Please, I can’t-”

“I know, shh,” you murmur, soothing her while you line up the strap with her soaked entrance. You press the tip against her, barely nudging inside, dragging it through her slickness just to hear her whine. “You’re so ready for me. You’ve been ready.”

You try to keep teasing her, only because you can. Because centuries have taught you patience in the face of primal hunger.

But then-

Scarlet sparks push at your back, a rough shove that drives your hips forward. You sink in, deep, with a single sharp thrust.

Both of you cry out.

The strap fills her completely, pulsing with her magic, thick and hard and vibrating just enough to keep you both panting. Her heat wraps around you, squeezing like her body’s trying to keep you there forever. And you're a goner.

The bed creaks violently with each thrust. Your hips snap forward, steady and punishing. Wanda claws at your back - literal blood under her nails - but you barely feel it. She's shaking, gasping, her legs wrapped around your waist so tightly there's no air between your bodies.

You don’t relent.

Your pace is ruthless, fucking her deep, fucking her through it. The room smells like sex and magic and sweat, and your hand finds her clit mid-thrust. She sobs at the contact.

"Fuck-!" Her whole body jerks, her fourth orgasm slamming into her so hard the lights above flicker.

You falter, nearly losing rhythm, groaning against her throat. “Wanda-fuck-where should I-?”

“W-What?” she gasps, dazed.

“Should I pull out?” you manage. “Or - ”

“What?” she says again, this time angry. Offended. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Y/N.”

Her ankles lock around you.

You don't argue. You can’t.

You slam into her, thrusting hard as your orgasm rushes through your whole body. You bury your face in her neck, a long, drawn-out groan leaving you as your hips roll forward, grinding deep inside.

The strap pulses, spilling your cum into her in thick, slow waves that make you both tremble.

Her cunt is a soaked mess around the toy, slick and clenching, and when your hips roll again just to stay grounded in her warmth, the wet noise that follows is so obscenely loud it makes her eyes roll back.

And still, she doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t let you pull away. Her legs hold you in place, her magic curling around your spine.

You're both still struggling to breathe, lungs heavy with the weight of satisfaction, limbs warm and slack after the intensity of climax. But you fight the sleepiness clawing at your body - fight it hard - because Wanda lets out a soft, desperate whine when you try to pull away.

“I gotta pull out, sweetheart,” you murmur, biting back a groan when she clenches around the strap, undeniably on purpose. You push gently against her hips, trying to ease out of her hold.

“I don’t want you to,” she breathes, less demanding now, her voice languid and soaked in exhaustion. Her ankles have slipped from behind your back, but the longing in her tone still tugs at something primal inside you.

You laugh, quiet, honey-sweet and it makes her blush. So does the tender kiss you press just beneath her ear.

“Oh, I know you don’t, baby,” you whisper, adjusting slightly. The enchanted toy slides out of her, and you both sigh at the loss, overstimulated nerves fluttering. Your voice drops, playful but rough with restraint. “But this kind of magic runs on intention. And I’m having all sorts of unholy thoughts right now. I’d rather not knock you up by accident.”

Wanda chuckles breathily at that, but doesn’t protest further. Her body, well-fucked and trembling, is already past its limit. Even your gentlest touch now makes her flinch more than melt.

You slip the strap off with the same ease you'd show removing a coat, as though tonight - the spellbound lust, the raw confessions, the whole fucking-your-best-friend-into-the-mattress thing - was just another Thursday.

“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, Maximoff,” you tease, catching her eyelids fluttering. Her tired smile is pure surrender. She tries to respond, but her body’s already slipping. “We made a mess, sweetheart,” you murmur, brushing her sweat-damp hair back from her face. “Don’t you want me to-”

Scarlet sparks answer you before she does, pulling you back down and holding you there, face resting on your chest, her magic clinging to your skin like a second blanket. That’s all the answer you get.

And honestly? It’s more than enough.

You settle in with her, bodies tangled, her breath steadying into your collarbone. She’s asleep within seconds.

It doesn’t take long for you to follow.

-

It isn’t the warmth of the sun that wakes Wanda  -  it’s the absence of yours.

The chill that slips into the sheets in your place is subtle but unmistakable. Still tangled in sleep, her hand stretches across the linen instinctively, searching for your body. When she finds only the faint impression of your form on the mattress, her brows knit together in a drowsy frown.

Footsteps shuffle across the wooden floor. The sound is light, familiar. The rustle of fabric follows  -  and something in Wanda's sleepy brain registers it as you.

"It's too damn early, Y/N," she rasps, voice rough with sleep, eyes only half-open. But she doesn’t flinch from the light bleeding through the window  -  because even as her voice breaks the silence, she sees you standing there, reaching up to draw the heavy curtains closed.

"I know, sweetie. That's exactly why I got up," you reply gently, not looking over your shoulder, too focused on shielding the room. "We forgot to close the curtains last night."

It takes a second  -  two, maybe  -  before her still-sleep-fogged mind catches up to the words. Vampire best friend. Sunlight. Her eyes snap fully open.

“Sorry,” she mutters, suddenly wide awake, guilt flooding her features as she tries to sit up.

But you're already crossing the now-dim room, waving off her concern with a shake of your head. “It’s alright. Didn’t get me,” you reassure her with a soft smile, and she breathes out, easing back into the pillows just as you crawl up onto the bed  -  and settle on her waist.

It’s a position that feels far too natural for something so new. And Wanda feels her cheeks bloom red at the thought  -  at how much she wants you to stay exactly like that.

"I know I promised you a day of studying," you murmur, eyes drinking her in like you haven’t seen her in years, “but I was thinking… maybe I could take you on a date instead? What do you say?”

Her answer doesn’t come in words  -  it comes in the small sound she makes when your lips press against hers, hungry and warm and deeply familiar. It steals her breath. She only manages a weak, dazed nod as you pull back with a teasing laugh.

You lean closer to press another kiss to her cheek, but your gaze lingers, catching sight of the scattered constellation of hickeys and bite marks blooming across her collarbone. It makes you pause, and your voice drops as you murmur, “I’ll be gentler next time. I promise.”

Wanda immediately frowns. “Don’t you dare,” she counters, and you snort at the conviction in her sleepy voice.

"Very kinky of you." You grin, and she rolls her eyes, sticking her tongue out at you like a defiant schoolgirl  -  except her fingers are already curling around your hips, pulling you down against her again.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” she says, gaze sharp despite the blush on her cheeks. “I know how much you like leaving your mark, Miss Vampire. The thought of showing me off must drive you crazy.”

You raise an eyebrow at her smugness, and the glint in your eye is all the warning she gets before you strike  -  fast, fluid, effortlessly dominant.

You pin her wrists above her head, your palms encasing her wrists like cuffs of silk and fire. She gasps, startled, and then gasps again as your hips grind into hers with calculated force.

“Oh?” you purr, low and dangerous, “You’ve been reading my mind, you naughty witch?”

She flushes, caught between embarrassment and arousal, unable  -  or unwilling  -  to deny it. Her thighs shift beneath yours, trying to find friction, but you don’t let her.

You adjust your position, sliding your thigh between hers. The slow, deliberate pressure makes Wanda moan  -  long and breathless  -  as her hips press down against you.

“Just practicing what you taught me,” she whispers, voice trembling, eyes wide with want.

“Let me teach you more, then,” you say, tone dipped in velvet, watching as she tries again to grind against you  -  only for you to shift back just enough to make her whimper.

“This,” you say, voice thick and sinfully sweet, “is called edging.”

Wanda's breath hitches. She opens her mouth to ask  -  what it is, why you’re doing it, maybe even to protest  -  but your lips are already back on hers, and your next words are spoken against her mouth like a spell:

“Questions are only allowed at the end of class.”

[arachnidseyes]

─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

MEETINGS AND MOTHERS

Damian Wayne x Constantine! Reader

A/N: It's time to meet the mother! I think I got Talia's characterization down mostly? I mean, considering how inconsistent she can be in comics :( wc: 1.9K. Full series

Another restless night.

It's not because of any monster hiding under the bed (you checked to be sure). No, it’s like an uneasy feeling has burrowed in your stomach and won’t leave.

You scoop another spoonful of cereal into your mouth. The white light from your phone screen and the moonlight from the window cast a dim glow in the kitchen of your tiny hotel room.

The screen displays John's last text to you in what could scarcely be called a chat log.

“Will be off the grid for a few days.”

“Dimensional shenanigans”

“will let u know when I'm back luv”

All sent about an hour ago. You swallow some cereal and try typing up a reply again.

“stay safe dad”

Your thumb hovers over the send button. Would he think that's stupid? Would he laugh? Should you even care?

You sigh and hit the backspace button, instead sending a trusty,

“👍”

You down all the milk left in the bowl and shuffle over to the sink, ignoring the feeling of being watched as you usually do. Demons don't do sneak attacks, they like the waiting game. Watching the paranoia build up, it must make the taste better or something.

In any case the prickling on the back of your neck is ignored while you wash your bowl. You flick your hands dry and when you turn away from the sink a sudden strike to the gut renders you on the ground wheezing.

It happened that quickly. One second you were fine, then the next you're seizing on the cold tile floor. You heave, just trying to keep the cereal from coming back up, as your gut spasms from the direct hit. Demons definitely do not attack like that, not actual demons anyway.

You hear a scoff and try to look up from where you kneel. Above you stands a tall, beautiful woman with silky green clothing and familiar, yet frighteningly foreign, green eyes.

Her gaze is seething and unforgiving. She shakes her head, dark hair falling gracefully with the small movement. For a moment you actually feel terrible, like you're disappointing her, like you've done something wrong. Only for a moment.

Those good old survival instincts kick in when she lifts her leg, ready to deliver another ferocious kick.

“Ezeerf”

The woman freezes mid kick, her leg bent in the air in perfect form like an illustration from a guide book. Thank hell for Zatanna, she's only taught you very few spells but she maintained you only needed very few and of course, she was right.

You clamber up to lean against the sink, hand still clutching your definitely bruised torso. Right where your stitches healed too. You open your mouth to try to speak and then promptly throw up in the sink.

You'd be embarrassed if it wasn't literally all her fault. You wash your mouth with tap water and turn towards her, leaning heavily on the sink.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

You ask her this incredulously. You obviously knew Damian's mom was an assassin lady and you’d expected her to be a little scary but you really didn't expect her to just attack you with no reason.

Her glare gets even angrier, defying your hastily cast spell. You mull over what to do next. Teleport away? Get Damian? Teleport her away? You’d rather sort this out yourself than get Damian involved and make this very messy family dynamic even messier.

Your stomach groans in pain again and you whine before huffing in irritation.

“Right, we’re gonna talk this out. Okay? Like adults.”

Her frozen sneer doesn't inspire confidence.

You steel your nerves. Now that you're on guard, she won't be able to hit you again anyway. This is the whole reason John had you learning only defensive magic until you were even better than him at it. Well, this probably isn’t the specific reason, but nevertheless.

“Ezeerfnu”

Talia regains her balance as soon as she unfreezes and immediately tries to land another deadly kick to your stomach, only to be stopped by a yellow barrier between you.

“Wow, right for the gut?”

She tries to land another one, you can't help but flinch just imagining the force behind such blows. After trying a few more hits, and noticing her attacks aren't wearing you out at all, she steps back to the other side of the kitchen.

You stupidly take this as a truce.

“Uh, look, Damian and I-”

Before you can finish she grabs a knife from the knife board behind her and throws it at you, point blank to the chest. It hits the barrier and clutters to the tiled floor next to your sock clack feet.

You're stand there, a little in shock. What exactly would she do if it hit you? Would she just leave? What would she even say to Damian? You'd like to think he'd be a bit upset if you were found dead in your hotel kitchen with a knife in your heart. How could she do that to him?

“That's enough.”

She grabs another knife aiming it for your feet this time, probably hoping that area is less guarded. You snap your fingers and the knife in her hand as well as the knives in the knife board disappear.

“I said that's enough. What's your goal here?”

“You are not worthy.”

Her voice is like silk on rough stone. So soft yet the words are said so harshly.

“Well, he seems to disagree.”

She scoffs, looking you up and down with detestation.

“Unhand my son of the sorcery you have him under.”

“Oh, piss off, I'm sure you trained him to be smarter than that. What’s this really about?”

“You are not worthy of my son.”

He spits it this time. You sigh and rub your tired eyes, leaning back against the sink again. Why does everything have to be so hard? You look back at her unwavering glare. This has to be fixed now, you can’t just teleport out of this. She may be actively trying to kill you but she’s still your boyfriend’s mom and, to be honest, you should have expected something like this when you decided to date a guy called “The Demon’s Grandson”.

“I don't have to prove myself to you, but I guess I can.”

With no further warning, you snap your fingers and, before Talia can blink, she’s standing on a wooden terrace, squinting in the sunlight. She whirls around, assessing her new environment.

A cafe, tiny but quiet, with just a few tables and an elderly man working the counter. You sit at one of the little tables, with a complete change of clothing, quietly watching her reaction.

“Where have you taken me, witch?”

She hisses, drawing some attention from the few people sitting on the cafes terrace.

“Somewhere in Nepal, It's just one of the places Damian likes.”

You gesture towards the seat in front of you as a waiter, the old man, walks up to the table. You point on the menu to the drink you want and the waiter nods with a smile that suggests familiarity. When he looks at Talia she regards him for a moment before saying something in Nepali and the waiter nods before walking off.

Talia slowly takes the seat in front of you, she doesn’t let her posture relax for even a moment, her eyes asses your every movement. You take in a long breath for what feels like the fifth time tonight.

“Look, I love Damian. And I don’t mean puppy love or just infatuation or something. I mean like...something genuine.”

You expected a scoff or grimace but all you get is a stony expression. Not sure if that's a good thing or not, you carry on.

“Sure, we’re still young and it’s only been 4 months but I think we’re... really good for each other and I’m committed to making this work, even if I have to make you my enemy to do it."

Her face definitely changes then, you quickly add.

"Which I would really rather not, since I know Damian loves you too and I think he’s seen enough of his loved ones fighting each other.”

You keep your hands clasped on the table, trying not to nervously fidget or slouch or break eye contact, and you thought talking to Bruce was nerve wracking. A tense silence settles and you really try not to shrink under her stare.

“We both want him to be happy and we can do that better if we’re not at odds with each other. I also know that you’re wanted and not exactly allowed to see him. I could help you with that too.”

You wave your hand, gesturing to your general vicinity to emphasize your point. She looks at you now like you’re the worlds most interesting mystery.

The waiter delivers your drinks and you both politely thank him. You sip your drink, looking out at the view of the mountains and Talia finally takes her eyes off of you for the first time since sitting down to gaze beyond the terrace as well, at what might be the most beautiful view in Nepal.

After a long while, she breaks the silence.

“How is he?”

You try not to look shocked at her initiating any conversation with you.

“I think he’s doing pretty well. I think he misses you but he's conflicted about if he should or not. Maybe you should ask him yourself.”

She huffs and looks towards the skyline over the snow peaked range.

“It is not that easy”

“Yeah, I know. Trying to mend a relationship as messy as yours is going to be really hard but...I think you both want to. Do you even call him?”

She gives you a look. As if to say, “Are you serious?”

“Text?”

Her expression is still stiff but you think you see the slightest bit of uncertainty.

You sigh heavily and pull out a notepad from your coat pocket.

“Yeah, he isn't the best at keeping in touch either. I guess he gets that from you. He's gotten a lot better though, since we started dating.”

You scribble some numbers on a page and tear it out, handing it to her.

“This is his number, just text him.”

She picks up the little piece of paper, not looking very pleased with this conversation at all but she places it in her pocket.

"Look, I don't know you, but I do know how futile trying to fix a really broken relationship can be… but you came all this way to assassinate me just because you were worried about your son. If you’re willing to go that far, I’m sure a text or two wouldn’t hurt.”

She stares into her tea and you sit in another long silence, an easier one. Potted plants hang over the terrace railing, blowing in the gentle breeze, carrying the smell of green through the air. When the waiter eventually comes to fetch your cups, you both thank him. You pull a thick stack of rupees from your sleeve and set it on the table.

“Well, I think it’s past my bedtime.”

You say with a tired stretch, wincing a little when you feel a pang in your stomach.

“Leave me here.”

You glance at her quizzically, looking around you.

“Are you sure?”

“Please child, I’ll be just fine… And I don’t want to go back to that forsaken city you call London.”

You burst out laughing, drawing a few eyes. You try to stifle your laughter with your hand and wave apologetically to the man behind the counter, who waves you off with a smile.

“I’ll see you around.”

You give her a little wave before leaving the cafe and you dare to think you catch her lips twitch upwards a little. Just a little.

─⋅⋆⁺.

Cutlery clatters against porcelain in the dining room of the Wayne manor as the brood of bats have their breakfast. Damian's phone buzzes in his pocket and he suppresses a smile. Only for all his cheerfulness to be wiped away when he sees that the message isn't from his girlfriend but from an unknown number.

“Hello my son, It’s your mother.”

“I met your partner tonight.”

Damian almost chokes on his cereal, his spoon drops into the bowl with a splash as he abruptly stands from the table. His father and siblings ask him what’s wrong but all he can do is watch those little floating bubbles as he waits for the next text.

“I approve.”

“For now.”

He collapses back into his chair with a heave. Relief, fear, confusion —mostly confusion— soar through his body. At least Tim got a fun story to tell you about how Damian almost fainted at breakfast because he thought his mother assassinated you.

─⋅⋆⁺𖤐

[ihasafandom]

Dr. Cottage hates Ward Duty. He gets out of it as often as he can, claiming that his talents were better spent elsewhere. Like that interesting new Zombie epidemic. Was it viral? A passive curse? An active spell? Spiritual, perhaps? Regardless, his duties explicitly require it of him and Dr Slashy was on his back about it. So here he was, chalk in hand, refreshing today's designated section of the magic sigils covering every inch of the Protected Wing.

Uugh, this was exhausting, and tedious, and worst of all boring! If it didn't need the specific dedicated attention of everyone who considered themselves important personnel for the stupid things to function properly, he'd just invest in a permanent marker and a laminator. Or maybe some cement, so he didn't have to look at the runes for even a second longer. They made his eyes hurt and teeth itch, and his bad leg was always worse in their proximity, the wards interacting poorly with the necromancy even when he was the one charging the damn things.

Wait! That's it!

"Wish-dóttir!" He raised his hand up expectantly.

His friend sighed but obligingly detoured from his conversation with a nurse to fetch Cottage his shillelagh from where he had tossed it to the other side of the hall earlier, then awkwardly haul him to his feet.

Normally he'd make a jab about Wish-dóttir's prospects with the nurse, but there was no time to be snarky. They had to book it to the alchemist; if he was right, they were going to need a whole lot of bone dust and quartz, stat.

The urban fantasy show I actually want to see is a hospital drama with a dedicated wing for supernatural illnesses.

Vampirism. Lycanthropy. Cheap spells gone wrong. A woman brought in for her prenatal has to be told her baby is a lindworm. Someone is literally being followed by the anthropomorphic personification of the Black Death.

Someone somewhere out there is having their perception of the world irreparably shattered by the knowledge that magic is real, and at the other side is a team of doctors who have to roll their eyes and pull out Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales because some high school kid tried to go Carrie with a cheap spellbook and turn all the kids at prom into frogs, and the doctors have to wrangle a couple dozen teenagers into admitting if they have a true love who can break the spell.

[lumosflairr]

Hey (first of all, I just want to say I love your writing) I’d love to request a Fred Weasley fic inspired by To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, like the reader’s letters getting out and Fred being kind of like Peter Kavinsky. Sorry for any mistakes, English isn’t my first language. I love your writing, take care!

𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲

summary: When a stack of private love letters accidentally gets out, you and Fred Weasley agree to fake-date to save face—and maybe make someone jealous. But between forehead kisses, stolen jumpers, and a Quidditch pitch kiss that feels way too real, pretending starts to feel a lot like falling… for real.

warnings: suggestive joke, once.

word count: 10.2k

taglist: @aouoo @plumbum4 @D3ad-Daisyz @moramaybe @iluvhrj @losers-want-to-win @billieeilishkisser @divineani @lilians17

You always knew it was a dangerous game — bottling your feelings into ink and parchment. But it had always been safer that way. No heartbreak, no awkward stammering, no regret. Just you, your thoughts, and your stack of love letters tucked in a charm-locked, enchanted tea tin hidden behind your Charms textbooks.

There were five letters.

Each one carefully written under candlelight, sealed with a wax stamp you made from the base of your wand and a spell you found in Magical Sentiments: The Private Art of Wizarding Love Letters. You never intended for anyone to read them. That was the point. You wrote them to let go — to spill your heart in a place where no one could see the mess.

They were to:

1. Cedric Diggory – The golden boy of Hufflepuff. You admired him from afar during your second year when he picked up your books after Peeves knocked them over and smiled like he had all the time in the world. That smile lived in your memory longer than it should have.

2. Roger Davies – Brief, intense, and fizzled out like a dropped wand spark. You sat next to him in Ancient Runes for one term and swore he smelled like fresh parchment and mint. He never knew your name.

3. Oliver Wood – Oh, that was a phase. An intense, Quidditch-fueled phase where you convinced yourself you were in love with his drive, his voice during practice, and the way he said “bloody hell” under his breath every time someone dropped the Quaffle.

4. Fred Weasley – The most dangerous letter of them all. Not because it was the most passionate, or the most embarrassing, but because it was the most real. It was scribbled when you were fourteen and hopelessly stuck in a limbo between friendship and something that never quite happened. Fred, who once snuck you chocolate frogs after a bad exam. Fred, who danced with you once during a Gryffindor party when no one else asked. Fred, who made your heart feel like a fizzing whizzbee and never once noticed.

5. Michael Corner – A brief crush that died the moment he started dating Ginny Weasley. You wrote his letter half-heartedly, just to get it out of your system. It worked.

Five letters. Five pieces of your heart, written with no intention of ever being sent.

And yet, somehow, they were gone.

It happened on a Monday. A normal, average, nothing-out-of-the-ordinary Monday. Until it wasn’t.

You returned from breakfast to your dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, ready to grab your bag and rush off to Charms. But when you went to pull the tin from behind your books — a spot no one ever looked — it was gone.

You stared at the empty space, blinking. Maybe you moved it? Maybe you took it out and forgot? You pulled books down, tossed aside your spare quills and loose parchment, even looked under your bed.

Nothing.

Panic crawled up your throat.

“Winnie?” you called to your roommate, who was brushing her hair in the mirror, “Did you move anything from my shelf?”

She glanced back, half-paying attention. “No, why?”

You swallowed. “The tin I kept behind my books. It’s missing.”

Winnie shrugged. “Isn’t that the ugly one with the pink lid? Thought it looked like something from Honeydukes. I saw George Weasley messing with something pink yesterday. Near your side of the dorm. I assumed it was one of his prank sweets.”

Your heart stopped.

George. Bloody. Weasley.

You didn’t even wait to process. You stormed down the spiral stairs of the girls’ dormitory, sprinted past confused first-years, and nearly tripped over a couch cushion as you beelined toward the only people on Earth who could take a harmless enchanted box and turn it into your personal social doom.

Fred and George Weasley.

When you got to the common room, Fred was leaning back in one of the armchairs, boots kicked up on the table, an open bag of Every Flavour Beans resting on his lap. George was beside him, half-laughing, holding what looked suspiciously like—

No.

No, no, no.

A letter. Your letter.

The wax seal had been cracked.

Fred was holding another one. He turned it over in his hands with curiosity and a smirk, reading the front quietly to himself before glancing up at you. “To… Fred Gideon Weasley,” he read aloud dramatically, eyes twinkling. “Well, well. I don’t recall ever getting love letters before breakfast.”

You froze mid-step. “Fred—”

George grinned like the devil himself. “So, these are yours, huh? They just showed up in our dorm this morning. No note, no explanation. Bit mysterious. Naturally, we opened one.”

“I didn’t open any!” George said quickly. “That was him.” He pointed a smug finger at his twin.

You took a breath, heart racing. “Give. Them. Back.”

But Fred was already standing, holding your letter to him just out of reach. “Hang on, love. You wrote this?” His voice wasn’t teasing. Not yet. “You liked me?”

Past tense. You clung to it like a lifeline. “It was years ago.”

Fred’s brow lifted. “Says here I made you laugh during Potions and that you thought I had nice hands.”

Your entire face went hot. “Fred—”

“I do have nice hands, though,” he said thoughtfully, examining them. “Long fingers. Very useful for pranks and snatching love letters out of the air, apparently.”

You made a desperate grab for it, but he pulled it away with ease. “This is serious! These weren’t meant to be read!”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have written them,” George said brightly, though he handed back the other letters with a sheepish shrug. “Sorry, we thought it was a prank box. You know, one of those joke confession things.”

Fred’s gaze hadn’t left the letter. He tapped it against his palm, quiet now.

You glared at both of them. “If you tell anyone—”

Fred cut you off, voice calmer. “I won’t.”

You looked up, surprised.

He tucked the letter into his coat pocket like it belonged there. “But you and I,” he added with a grin slowly spreading across his face, “should talk.”

Your stomach flipped.

He looked intrigued.

And that was much, much more dangerous.

Maybe he’d make a joke of it. Maybe he’d bring it up at dinner, toast to his “secret admirer” in front of the whole Gryffindor table and watch you go crimson. Or maybe, worst of all, he’d just forget it happened. Toss the letter in the bin, let it fade like every other school crush in history.

But Fred Weasley didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he kept the letter. And the next day, he cornered you after Transfiguration with that same maddening glint in his eye — equal parts amusement and curiosity, like he was halfway between setting off a prank and solving a puzzle.

You barely had time to open your mouth before he grabbed your arm and steered you into an empty corridor.

“Let me guess,” you said flatly, yanking your arm free. “You want to frame it? Hang it over your bed so you can admire yourself more efficiently?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It’s very flattering, by the way. All the stuff about my eyes and laugh and — what was it? — the way I said ‘bugger’ like it was a love language?”

You groaned. “Fred—”

“I’m kidding,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Sort of. But I’m not here to take the mickey out of you, alright?”

You eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m actually here to make you a deal.”

That got your attention. “A deal?”

He looked around dramatically, then leaned in like he was about to reveal the location of a secret passageway Filch didn’t even know about. “We fake-date.”

You stared. “We what?”

“You and me,” he said, pointing between the two of you. “Public hand-holding, flirty looks across the Great Hall, sitting next to each other at meals, all that. We give people something to talk about.”

“Why?” you asked, blinking. “So you can mess with me more efficiently?”

“Because,” he said, voice lowering slightly, “Angelina’s seeing someone.”

You tilted your head. “Angelina Johnson?”

He nodded. “Started hanging around some Ravenclaw bloke last week. Tall. Prefect badge. A personality made of stale toast.”

You blinked. “Wait, you like Angelina?”

He made a face. “Not like-like. Just… we’ve been mates for years. We’ve snogged a few times after Quidditch wins. I thought maybe there was a thing there.”

“Ouch.”

He sighed. “Tell me about it.”

You crossed your arms, frowning. “So let me get this straight: You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend to make her jealous?”

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds a bit manipulative—”

“It is manipulative.”

He held up a finger. “It’s also mutually beneficial.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How?”

He grinned. “Because everyone’s talking about those letters now. I overheard two Hufflepuffs debating whether you wrote one to Snape.”

You winced. “Merlin.”

“And if we pretend to date,” he continued, “it gives you a way to spin it. You’ll look confident. Mysterious. Like you had options and you chose me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like it benefits you a lot more than me.”

He shrugged. “You get plausible deniability. And the satisfaction of making me act like a charming, devoted boyfriend for a few weeks.”

You studied him. “Why not ask Alicia? Or Katie?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because they’d see right through me. And they’d laugh.”

You tilted your head. “And I won’t?”

“I mean,” he said, flashing that signature smirk, “you already had a crush on me. So technically you’re more invested.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was fourteen, Fred. That crush died years ago.”

He leaned in slightly. “Shame.”

The air shifted just slightly between you.

You cleared your throat. “So what exactly would this… fake thing entail?”

Fred shrugged. “We do the basics. Walk together between classes. Sit a bit too close in the common room. Maybe a stolen kiss in the corridor to really sell it.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’d… want to kiss me?”

His expression softened just a little. “Only if you’re alright with it. It’s just for the act.”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked down at the floor, then back up at him. Fred Weasley, asking you to play pretend. To act like everything you’d dreamed about years ago was real — only for someone else’s attention.

It was insane.

It was stupid.

It was tempting.

“How long?” you asked quietly.

Fred tilted his head. “A few weeks. Just until Angelina realizes she let something brilliant slip away.”

“And then what?” you asked. “We just break up publicly? Fight in the middle of the Great Hall for added drama?”

“I was thinking something more tasteful,” he said, grinning. “A mutual parting. We stay friends. Maybe you slap me for cheating. Up to you, really.”

You shook your head slowly. “This is ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

You paused. “If anyone finds out—”

“No one will,” he promised. “We’re professionals. Well, I am. You’ll catch on.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then finally sighed. “Fine.”

Fred’s grin exploded across his face. “Brilliant!”

“But if you so much as hint at anything in that letter—”

“I swear on my broomstick,” he said solemnly.

You hesitated, then added, “And don’t think I’m swooning over you just because I once said you had nice hands.”

He held them up again, wiggling his fingers. “They are nice, though.”

You turned to walk away, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks.

Behind you, Fred called, “So does this mean I can call you darling in public now?”

“Try it,” you called back, “and I’ll hex your eyebrows off.”

By dinner that night, you had almost convinced yourself he’d forgotten the whole thing. Fred wasn’t exactly known for his attention span, and George had already started an indoor Dungbomb relay in the common room, which should’ve occupied his entire brain.

But when you entered the Great Hall, you spotted him instantly — already sitting at the Gryffindor table with his arm stretched along the bench, eyes scanning the entrance like he was waiting for you.

You paused in the doorway. He caught your eye, and without missing a beat, he patted the space beside him. You took a deep breath and walked toward him, ignoring the way your heart was starting to pound again. He looked unreasonably smug as you slid onto the bench.

“Evening, sweetheart,” he said with a wink.

You nearly choked. “You promised.”

“No eyebrow hexes yet,” he said, reaching for a roll. “I’m just playing my part.”

You glanced across the table — and sure enough, a few students were already whispering. Even Angelina, who sat three spots down, looked over at you both curiously.

Fred leaned closer. “Smile. You’re in love with me, remember?”

You resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

Instead, you plastered on what you hoped was a convincingly lovesick smile and leaned just a little into his shoulder. Fred tilted his head toward yours, his voice low.

“Convincing,” he murmured. “Maybe too convincing.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered.

“I’m not. That was a genuine compliment.” He reached forward and served you mashed potatoes — unprompted. “You’re glowing, darling.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If you say that word again, I will make it so you can’t say any word again.”

Fred only grinned, utterly unfazed. “You’re very violent for someone in love.”

You risked another glance at Angelina. She was laughing at something her friend said, but she glanced over again, just for a second. Her eyes dropped to where Fred’s arm was still resting behind you on the bench.

Fred noticed, too.

He shifted subtly, letting his fingers brush against the back of your shoulder. You stiffened. He leaned in like he was about to whisper something sweet — but instead, he whispered, “She’s looking.”

“Then stop acting like you’re narrating a spy mission.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to miss the moment my fake girlfriend has a public meltdown.”

“I’m this close, Weasley.”

“Good,” he said brightly. “Keep that fiery passion. It makes the whole performance feel more alive.”

You stabbed your fork into a piece of roasted carrot.

Then — to your surprise — he softened.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Fred said, quieter now. “I’m not doing this to mess with you. And I’m not going to make fun of the letter. I swear.”

You glanced at him.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think you could pull it off,” he added. “You’re brilliant. Everyone’s going to believe it.”

That… shut you up.

You looked back down at your plate, cheeks warming again — and not from embarrassment this time.

Before you could form a response, Fred turned his head slightly and spoke again, louder this time. “We should head to the library after this, yeah? I want to spend some time with you before practice.”

You blinked. “You hate the library.”

“It’s romantic now,” he said, standing and offering his hand like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on, darling.”

You hesitated — then placed your hand in his.

Fred laced your fingers together, and just like that, every whisper in the Great Hall tripled. Angelina looked up. Fred didn’t acknowledge her. He was too busy smirking at you as he pulled you gently toward the doors, swinging your joined hands between you like it was all real.

And maybe, for a single second, it almost felt like it was.

As the week progressed, Fred didn’t drop the act — if anything, he doubled down.

He started walking you to class like it was routine. At meals, his thigh always pressed just slightly against yours under the table. During breaks between lessons, he’d appear out of nowhere to drape his arm over your shoulder and press a casual, too-natural kiss to your temple. Always in sight of someone.

At first, it caught you off guard — the way he played the part so easily, so convincingly. He’d slip his fingers into yours in the middle of the corridor, flash a grin at anyone who looked confused, and say things like “She’s mine, sorry lads” without missing a beat.

He called you darling, angel, sweetheart, and once — just to see you nearly combust — love of my life.

It was maddening. And unfairly effective.

The strangest part was how quickly everyone else started believing it.

By Friday, your friends had fully accepted the performance as truth. You’d walked into the Gryffindor common room late one evening to find Katie, Alicia, and Winnie sprawled on the couch, quizzing each other on Astronomy charts. They all looked up at once when you entered — and Katie practically launched forward.

“Oh my Godric’s beard,” she gasped. “You and Fred?”

You blinked, heart skipping. “What?”

Alicia grinned. “Don’t play dumb. He walked you to class again today. And you let him hold your hand the entire way down the corridor like it was nothing.”

“Also,” Katie added, narrowing her eyes, “he kissed your forehead right in front of Slughorn’s office. That’s practically domestic.”

You sat down slowly, trying not to panic. “Okay, yes — but—”

“But?” Winnie cut in, smirking. “Since when has this been a thing?���

You shrugged, forcing a casual smile. “It’s… new. Kind of a secret thing.”

Katie raised an eyebrow. “Secret?”

“I didn’t want to say anything unless I knew it was mutual,” you said, and technically, it wasn’t a lie. “Didn’t want to jinx it.”

Alicia clutched her chest. “That’s adorable.”

You gave a helpless laugh. “It’s not— I mean— we’re not—”

“You’re definitely something,” Katie cut in with a wicked glint in her eyes. “And if he’s not sneaking off to see you later tonight, I’ll eat Peeves’ socks.”

You froze. “W-what?”

Her grin widened. “Oh please, we’ve all seen the way he looks at you. I wouldn’t be shocked if you wandered off to his dorm sometime around midnight.”

Your face went pink so fast, it was like a charm had hit you.

They howled.

Even Winnie, usually the most composed of them all, was laughing into a pillow. Alicia threw an arm around your shoulder.

“You’re blushing,” she teased.

“Am not,” you lied.

Katie leaned forward, practically vibrating with delight. “Just promise you’ll tell us everything if something happens, yeah?”

You covered your face with both hands. “Nothing is happening.”

They all giggled again, delighted, and settled back into their conversation like they hadn’t just shattered your composure.

But as the fire crackled and the room softened into late-night warmth, you caught yourself smiling behind your hands — because somewhere between the teasing and the pretending, Fred Weasley had started to feel dangerously real.

And maybe that was the scariest part of all.

Because somewhere between the forehead kisses and the hand-holding, somewhere between his arm draped lazily around your shoulders and the quiet, stolen looks he gave you when he thought no one else was watching — you started to wonder if you were slipping.

Not just pretending.

Not just playing along.

But feeling again.

It was terrifying. Because you remembered how it felt the first time — years ago, when your heart was younger and your crush on Fred was sweet and harmless. Back then, liking him had been simple. It had lived in glances and giggles, in letters you never intended to send.

But now?

Now it felt different. Sharper. Deeper. Like something had cracked open and let all that buried affection bleed out again, stronger than before — fed by every smile he threw your way, every quiet moment he leaned in close enough to make your breath catch.

You weren’t supposed to feel this way.

This was fake.

You knew it.

You knew it.

And yet your heart fluttered every single time he touched you. Every time he called you darling in that lazy, affectionate voice like he’d been doing it for years. Every time he tugged you toward him just a little too gently. Every time he rested his chin on your shoulder in the common room and sighed like being next to you was exactly where he wanted to be.

The worst part was… he made it look so easy. Like all this affection — all this closeness — meant nothing to him. Like it was just a performance, no more meaningful than pulling off a prank or slipping a Dungbomb into someone’s bag.

For you, every second of it was a storm. And for him, it was just weather.

It made your stomach ache, the way he could be so casual about it — laughing, teasing, touching you like it was nothing. Like he didn’t see the way you froze every time his fingers brushed your cheek. Like he didn’t notice the way your eyes lingered on his lips when he got too close.

Like he didn’t feel it too.

You kept telling yourself it would end. That it had to end. That Fred would get what he wanted — Angelina’s attention, her jealousy, her interest again — and the charade would fade. You’d go back to being just friends. Or classmates. Or nothing at all.

But until then, you were caught in this in-between. This sweet, aching lie you both agreed to live in — one where he looked at you like you were his and smiled like he meant it.

And no matter how hard you tried to protect yourself, your heart was slipping.

Falling again.

Maybe it had never really stopped.

And Merlin help you, but a part of you was starting to wish that Fred Weasley wasn’t acting at all.

So you told yourself to keep your heart guarded.

To stop overanalyzing every smile, every look, every gentle touch. To remember that Fred Weasley was just playing a role — and you were the one who signed up for it.

But then he said something like, “Girlfriends should hang out with their boyfriend’s mates at least once in a while,” and next thing you knew, you were sitting in the courtyard on a lazy Saturday afternoon with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, sunlight pooling over the stone benches as laughter bounced around you.

It was… easy. Too easy.

The four of you were tucked beneath one of the arched colonnades, eating from a shared bag of Honeydukes sweets and trading stories about Filch, Quidditch, and the time George accidentally blew up the third-year cauldron closet.

Fred sat beside you, thigh pressed to yours, occasionally stealing your chocolate frogs and tossing every third one into Lee’s open palm like they’d made some silent agreement. You kept telling yourself to relax, to enjoy the sunshine and the way Fred laughed with his whole body and nudged your knee whenever you looked too serious.

You didn’t even realize you were smiling so much — until George teased, “You’re awfully quiet, lovebird. Cat got your tongue or are you just busy memorizing Freddie’s jawline again?”

You rolled your eyes and opened your mouth to argue — but before you could respond, Fred shifted closer and said smoothly, “Let her admire me. It’s character development.”

Lee snorted. “More like a tragic case of brain rot.”

“Oh, shut it,” Fred said, smirking. “She’s got excellent taste.”

You turned your head, ready to fire back something smart — when you saw Angelina.

She was walking across the grass just a few meters away, hand-in-hand with a tall Ravenclaw boy whose name you didn’t know. Her laugh was soft, the kind she reserved for people who got past her walls, and her head tilted affectionately toward the boy beside her as they strolled by like they hadn’t a care in the world.

Fred saw her, too.

His jaw shifted. Just slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

And then — without warning — he turned to you and murmured under his breath, voice low and casual, but firm:

“Don’t be alarmed by what I’m about to do, love.”

Before you could ask what he meant, his arm slid around your waist and pulled you clean off the bench — right into his lap.

You landed with a surprised “oof,” half-sprawled across him, your hands catching instinctively on his chest. Your entire face turned pink.

George choked on his sweet. Lee let out a sharp whistle.

“Merlin’s bloody beard, Fred!” George laughed. “Warn a bloke before you get all handsy!”

“She’s fine,” Fred said easily, arms loosely wrapped around your waist now like you belonged there. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You blinked up at him, heart pounding. His face was so close now. Playfully smug, lips curved, eyes warm and a little too focused on yours.

He was acting.

You knew that.

And yet… you didn’t move.

“Dizzy,” you said flatly, “from the whiplash.”

Fred grinned. “That’s my girl.”

George and Lee were already cackling.

Lee pointed. “Can’t lie, that was smooth. The kind of move that makes seventh-year girls write poetry about you.”

Fred beamed. “I do inspire great art.”

“And tragic regret,” you muttered.

Fred’s gaze dipped down to your lips for half a second — just enough to make your stomach do a weird little flip — then back up to your eyes. “Regret? Is that what you’re calling this?”

“I’m calling it reckless.”

“You wound me.”

You tilted your head. “Not yet, but I’m considering it.”

His grin widened. “Keep talking like that, love, and people might start thinking you enjoy this.”

You didn’t answer.

Because, maybe — just maybe — you did.

And it scared you how easy it was to flirt back. How natural it felt to have his hands on your waist, his voice low in your ear, his breath close enough to warm your cheek.

You didn’t miss the way Angelina glanced back once, eyebrows raised slightly — and how Fred’s hold on you tightened, just a little.

But you didn’t say anything.

Because as fake as this all was supposed to be, part of you was starting to forget where the act ended and your heart began.

Fred’s arms remained draped around your waist long after George and Lee had stopped laughing.

He was still smirking, still playing the part — but there was something softer in the way he held you. Like he wasn’t just showing off anymore. Like maybe, just maybe, he liked having you close.

And you hated how much you liked it, too.

The four of you stayed there in the courtyard, the golden afternoon light warming the stone beneath your feet as the conversation shifted. It wasn’t long before talk turned to Quidditch — as it always did when Fred and George were around.

“We’ll absolutely demolish them,” George said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Slytherin doesn’t stand a chance. Their Beaters couldn’t hit a Bludger if it was floating still.”

“They’re too busy adjusting their hair in the reflection of their brooms,” Fred added. “Though I’ll admit, Malfoy’s perfected that windblown pout.”

Lee snorted. “You better back that talk up on the pitch, mate.”

“Oh, we will,” Fred said, grinning like the arrogant show-off he absolutely was on game days. “I’ve got a whole new move planned. Haven’t even shown George yet.”

“You mean the one where you do a backflip and nearly break your spine?” George muttered. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather not be scraping your body off the turf.”

Fred scoffed. “Dramatic.”

“Suicidal.”

You couldn’t help but smile at them — all of them, really. There was something contagious about their energy. It made you feel like you belonged there, tucked between laughter and bickering and banter like you’d always been part of it.

Fred’s hand moved absentmindedly along your hip, his fingers curling through the belt loop of your jeans like he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He looked down at you suddenly, his voice low enough that only you heard it.

“Come up to my dorm later tonight.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

“I’ve got a gift for you.”

George, who was very much not far enough away to miss that, let out a groan. “Merlin’s sake, Fred. In front of my butterbeer?”

Lee laughed. “Bit early in the relationship for that kind of gift, isn’t it?”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “Who says it’s that kind of gift? Maybe I’m just a thoughtful boyfriend.”

“Ha!” George snorted. “Now that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved at Fred’s shoulder. “You’re all so bloody annoying.”

Fred just winked. “But charming, yeah?”

“Not even slightly.”

But he was grinning at you like he knew you didn’t mean it.

And unfortunately, he was right.

Fred’s arms remained draped around your waist long after George and Lee had stopped laughing.

He was still smirking, still playing the part — but there was something softer in the way he held you. Like he wasn’t just showing off anymore. Like maybe, just maybe, he liked having you close.

And you hated how much you liked it, too.

The four of you stayed there in the courtyard, the golden afternoon light warming the stone beneath your feet as the conversation shifted. It wasn’t long before talk turned to Quidditch — as it always did when Fred and George were around.

“We’ll absolutely demolish them,” George said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Slytherin doesn’t stand a chance. Their Beaters couldn’t hit a Bludger if it was floating still.”

“They’re too busy adjusting their hair in the reflection of their brooms,” Fred added. “Though I’ll admit, Malfoy’s perfected that windblown pout.”

Lee snorted. “You better back that talk up on the pitch, mate.”

“Oh, we will,” Fred said, grinning like the arrogant show-off he absolutely was on game days. “I’ve got a whole new move planned. Haven’t even shown George yet.”

“You mean the one where you do a backflip and nearly break your spine?” George muttered. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather not be scraping your body off the turf.”

Fred scoffed. “Dramatic.”

“Suicidal.”

You couldn’t help but smile at them — all of them, really. There was something contagious about their energy. It made you feel like you belonged there, tucked between laughter and bickering and banter like you’d always been part of it.

Fred’s hand moved absentmindedly along your hip, his fingers curling through the belt loop of your jeans like he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He looked down at you suddenly, his voice low enough that only you heard it.

“Come up to my dorm later tonight.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

“I’ve got a gift for you.”

George, who was very much not far enough away to miss that, let out a groan. “Merlin’s sake, Fred. In front of my butterbeer?”

Lee laughed. “Bit early in the fake relationship for that kind of gift, isn’t it?”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “Who says it’s that kind of gift? Maybe I’m just a thoughtful boyfriend.”

“Ha!” George snorted. “Now that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved at Fred’s shoulder. “You’re all so bloody annoying.”

Fred just winked. “But charming, yeah?”

“Not even slightly.”

But he was grinning at you like he knew you didn’t mean it.

And unfortunately, he was right.

Later that night, you found yourself standing just inside Fred Weasley’s dorm room.

The space was cluttered, loud in the way boys’ rooms always were — half-empty boxes of sweets, a tangle of worn Quidditch gloves and broomstick wax, and a few fading posters plastered across the walls. His bed was unmade (shocking) and smelled faintly of mint and broom polish.

Fred was rifling through one of his drawers while you sat gingerly on the edge of his bed, trying not to overthink literally everything.

“Close your eyes,” he said over his shoulder.

“I’m not five.”

“Do it anyway.”

You huffed dramatically but obliged.

Something soft landed in your lap.

“Okay, open.”

You blinked — and stared.

It was a thick maroon Quidditch sweater. Slightly oversized, clearly worn, and unmistakably his. The back had his last name “WEASLEY” stitched in bold letters with the number “3” beneath it.

You looked up, startled. “Is this… your jersey?”

Fred leaned back against the bedpost and crossed his arms, a pleased smirk tugging at his lips.

“Very good deduction, darling.”

You blinked again. “Why are you giving this to me?”

He raised a brow. “Because it’s what girlfriends do. Wear their boyfriend’s number. Show their undying devotion. Obsessively cheer them on from the stands.”

“I do not obsessively cheer.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I clapped once.”

“It was passionate.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re serious? You want me to wear this at the match?”

Fred pushed off the wall and strolled over, leaning down slightly until your knees bumped. He plucked the sweater from your lap and held it up with both hands, sizing it against your frame. His voice dropped low — teasing, warm.

“Picture it: You, in the crowd. This on you. My name on your back, yeah? Everyone sees it. Angelina sees it. You’re mine.”

You rolled your eyes, but heat crept up your neck anyway.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“No, I’m—”

He gently tugged the sweater over your head before you could stop him. You yelped as the thick fabric slipped down your arms and past your waist, swallowing you entirely. It smelled like him — cinnamon and wind and something warm you couldn’t name.

Fred stepped back and nodded appreciatively.

“See? Perfect.”

You stared down at yourself. The sweater reached your thighs.

“This is practically a dress.”

Fred’s grin deepened. “Wouldn’t mind seeing that either.”

“Fred.”

“What? Just making observations.”

You tried not to smile — and failed miserably. He flopped onto the bed beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. “It suits you. Just saying.”

You glanced at him, heart thudding uncomfortably loud in your chest.

“Why does this feel… weirdly real?”

Fred’s expression faltered — just for a second — before the smirk returned.

“Because I’m very convincing,” he said, softer now. “Dangerously so.”

You laughed under your breath. “Yeah. You really are.”

You didn’t take the sweater off that night.

Not even when you got back to your dorm and had to answer your roommates’ endless questions. Not even when you crawled into bed, Fred’s name still stitched across your back, warmth lingering like a phantom where his fingers had brushed your waist.

And certainly not the next morning, when you tugged it back on and headed down to the Quidditch pitch — pretending like this was all normal, like you hadn’t been lying awake half the night replaying everything in your head.

The stands were alive with energy, the Gryffindor section decked in red and gold. Banners rippled through the wind, students painted their faces, and someone had even charmed tiny lions to roar out house chants every few minutes.

You sat wedged between Hermione and Alicia Spinnet, your knees bouncing with nerves — although, if you were being honest, you weren’t nervous for the match.

You were nervous about him.

“Look at you,” Hermione said with a knowing smile, nudging your side. “In your boyfriend’s Quidditch sweater. How adorably cliché.”

You groaned, pulling at the too-long sleeves. “It’s not—he just gave it to me. For the match.”

“Right,” Alicia teased from your other side. “Totally not because he wanted everyone to see you wearing his name. Very casual.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks heating. “You’re both insufferable.”

“Oh, we know,” Hermione said sweetly, then pointed toward the sky. “Look — they’re out!”

The players zoomed into view, a blur of scarlet robes and glinting broomsticks. The roar from the stands swelled. You leaned forward on instinct, your eyes scanning the team until you spotted him.

Fred.

Hair windswept, bat clutched in one hand, flying in perfect tandem with George. His eyes were sharp, focused — until they weren’t. Until they flicked up toward the crowd.

He found you instantly.

Your breath caught.

Fred grinned.

And then — right there in the middle of the match, without a care in the world — he blew you a kiss.

You blinked, stunned, and then laughed — warm and giddy — as you blew one right back.

Hermione let out a mock gasp. “Scandalous.”

Alicia giggled. “You two are actually sickening.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, still smiling like an idiot.

Down on the pitch, Fred twisted midair just in time to whack a Bludger clean across the field, sending it spiraling past the Slytherin Chaser with barely an inch to spare. He high-fived George mid-flight, who whooped in celebration.

The match was fast-paced and aggressive, with both teams locked in a tug-of-war for control. Fred played like he had fire in his veins — sharp turns, daring dives, calculated hits that had the crowd shrieking. Every time a Slytherin tried to close in on a Gryffindor Chaser, Fred or George was already there, knocking Bludgers like guided missiles.

And then — twenty minutes in, Lee Jordan’s voice blared through the stadium, frantic and excited:

“Potter’s seen the Snitch—he’s diving—COME ON, HARRY—YES—HE’S GOT IT!”

The stands exploded.

Red and gold erupted into the air. Flags waved wildly. People screamed, threw their arms around each other, stomped the bleachers until the whole structure trembled.

You were already on your feet, heart racing with joy. Gryffindor had won.

You clambered down the stands with the rest of the crowd, your sweater bouncing against your thighs as you pushed through the sea of students pouring onto the pitch.

The team was already on the ground, dismounting and hugging and yelling over the chaos. You caught Fred’s eyes the moment your feet hit the grass.

He was grinning so wide it looked like his face might split.

“Fred!” you called, weaving toward him.

He didn’t say a word. Just strode forward, scooped you up, and spun you in a full circle, his arms locked around your waist, his laughter rumbling against your ear.

“You were brilliant,” you managed, breathless and flushed.

“And you look bloody adorable in my sweater,” he said with a grin. “Reckon it brought me luck.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he was already gazing at you — eyes roving over your face like you were something rare. Like he didn’t want to miss a single detail.

His hands tightened ever so slightly at your waist.

And then — just like that — he kissed you.

Right there on the Quidditch pitch, surrounded by noise and celebration and way too many witnesses, Fred Weasley kissed you.

It was soft at first — gentle, like he was testing the waters. But the moment you didn’t pull away, his hands slid up your back, and the kiss deepened.

Your fingers curled into his jersey. The crowd melted around you.

Someone whistled loudly.

“THAT’S MY BROTHER!” George yelled obnoxiously. “GET IT, FREDDIE!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, whistles, and catcalls, but neither of you moved.

When Fred finally pulled back, he was slightly out of breath, his grin wide and lopsided.

“Hi,” he said simply, voice lower than usual.

“Hi,” you whispered back, dazed.

Your cheeks were flaming. You couldn’t stop smiling.

Fred’s fingers brushed your cheek, lingering there for a beat too long. You were still close enough to feel the afterglow of his kiss, to see the glint in his eyes that looked way too real.

And then George jogged over, throwing an arm around his twin with a proud grin.

“That was bloody brilliant,” he said to Fred, before turning to you with a wink.

Fred opened his mouth to respond — but you weren’t even listening anymore.

Because over George’s shoulder, your eyes caught on Angelina, who stood off to the side near the goalpost, still talking to her boyfriend. Laughing at something he said. Unbothered. Unaware.

She hadn’t even looked.

She hadn’t seen the kiss. Hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t flinched.

Which meant…

Fred hadn’t kissed you to make her jealous.

He had just… kissed you.

Your heart pounded.

You looked up at Fred — and he was already looking at you.

The smirk was back, but his eyes told a different story.

And suddenly, the lines between fake and real had never felt blurrier.

The common room was buzzing.

Someone had charmed the wireless to blast The Weird Sisters. Butterbeer bottles clinked together in cheers. Laughter rang from every corner, people draped in Gryffindor scarves still riding the high from the win.

You were curled into the corner of the red velvet couch, tucked beneath Fred’s arm, your legs stretched across his lap. His fingertips absentmindedly traced patterns along the sleeve of your jumper — his jumper — and every time his knuckle brushed your wrist, your heart skipped a beat.

He smelled like grass and soap and wind. You’d spent the better half of the match yelling yourself hoarse, and the other half trying not to think about the way his lips had felt against yours.

But you were failing miserably at that second part.

Because the truth was, you’d thought about that kiss a lot.

Over and over, like some dumb record stuck on repeat.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t tell if it was all still pretend.

Fred was laughing now at something Seamus had said from the armchair across from you. His chest shook against your side, and his arm pulled you in closer as if it were second nature. As if you belonged there. As if this was always supposed to happen.

You tilted your head toward him, a soft smile teasing at your lips.

“You’re in a suspiciously good mood tonight,” you said, nudging him playfully.

Fred gave you a lopsided grin. “I did win a Quidditch match and kiss the prettiest girl on the pitch. Can you blame me?”

Your heart did that stupid flutter again.

You scoffed through your blush, trying to act unfazed. “That kiss was for show, remember?”

“Was it?” he asked, smirking — and you couldn’t tell if he was teasing or being honest. It was always so hard to tell with Fred.

Before you could reply, George sauntered over with a smug look on his face and a Butterbeer in hand.

“Oi, Freddie,” he said with a knowing grin, “taking her up to your dorm again tonight?”

Fred raised an eyebrow, amused. “Jealous?”

George let out a dramatic whistle and wiggled his eyebrows in your direction. “Didn’t know we were playing house already.”

You threw a cushion at him, laughing. “Hush it, Weasley.”

George caught the cushion with a grin and winked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Fred chuckled beside you. “That’s a very short list.”

As George wandered off, you looked up at Fred and cocked your head. “So? Was that an actual invitation?”

Fred leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “Only if you’re in need of some quiet. It’s chaos down here.”

You blinked. “Didn’t take you as the type to run from chaos.”

His grin deepened. “I don’t. But I do prefer my chaos in smaller doses. Select company.”

You bit your lip, trying to hide your smile. “Well then. Lead the way.”

His dorm was dim and warm, the walls cluttered with posters and Quidditch memorabilia. One wall was plastered in clippings from old Daily Prophet articles and Wizarding Wheezes product drafts — messy handwriting and colorful doodles trailing in the margins.

Fred tossed himself onto his bed and sighed dramatically. “Much better.”

You stood awkwardly near his desk, taking in the room.

A tower of Chocolate Frog boxes stood on one bookshelf. A broomstick leaned against the far wall. A pair of well-worn boots were kicked beneath the bed, and a half-eaten box of Bertie Bott’s sat open on his trunk.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Your room is exactly how I imagined it.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“No, it’s just…” You walked slowly around the room. “You in room form.”

He chuckled, then stretched like a cat, arms over his head. “M’gonna shower. Try not to snoop through my deepest secrets while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

He winked, grabbing a towel from his bed. “Be right back, sweetheart.”

You tried not to react to the nickname as he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, the sound of running water following soon after.

And then… it was just you.

You sat down on the edge of his bed, fingers trailing across the worn comforter. Your eyes drifted again to his side of the room — the shelves lined with broken toy prototypes, half-taped sketches, and what looked like a book of Quidditch strategies stuffed beneath a stack of Exploding Snap cards.

And then you saw it.

Tucked neatly beneath the amber glow of his bedside lamp — a folded sheet of parchment. Crisp. Clean. Unmistakably familiar.

Your heart skipped.

You reached for it slowly, your fingers shaking ever so slightly as you picked it up.

Your handwriting.

The first line was visible before you even unfolded it.

“Dear Fred Weasley, I know I shouldn’t still think about you like this, but sometimes it hurts not to.”

It was one of your letters.

And not just any letter.

The letter.

The one you wrote when you thought you’d finally buried the last of those feelings. The one where you told the truth — the messy, unfiltered, honest truth about what he’d meant to you before everything got too complicated. The one you thought no one would ever read.

Yet there it was.

Sitting under his lamp like it belonged there.

Like he’d read it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The weight of the parchment in your hand suddenly felt like a thousand pounds.

Because if he’d read it—if Fred Weasley had really read this letter—then every single wall you’d carefully built between your heart and this fake relationship just came crashing down. It was no longer some silly game, no longer pretend.

You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or laugh at how stupidly vulnerable you felt. At how real it all suddenly was.

And maybe the worst part?

A part of you hoped he had read it.

Because this version of Fred—warm, affectionate, always looking at you like you hung the stars—wasn’t that different from the Fred you wrote about all those months ago. The one who stayed up late telling you his wildest ideas, who tugged on your braid during lessons just to make you smile, who made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t even realized you needed.

But none of that was supposed to leave the page.

This was supposed to be safe. Controlled. A fake relationship to protect your real feelings.

Now?

Now your feelings were inching toward the surface again—loud, reckless, and entirely out of your hands.

You took a shaky breath and slowly folded the letter, placing it back exactly where you found it, beneath the lamp. Out of sight. Not out of mind.

Just as you sat back down on the edge of the bed, the bathroom door creaked open.

Fred stepped out with a towel slung around his neck, hair damp and tousled in every direction, a black shirt clinging to his chest and a pair of maroon-and-gold pajama pants hanging loosely on his hips.

“Miss me?” he asked with a grin, rubbing a hand through his hair.

You rolled your eyes, doing your best to play it cool despite your racing thoughts. “You were gone for ten minutes.”

He plopped down next to you on the bed, shaking his head like a wet dog. “I know. Tragic, wasn’t it?”

You laughed softly, your voice a little quieter than usual. “You were brilliant tonight, by the way. In the match.”

Fred paused, turning to look at you with an expression that wavered somewhere between smug and sheepish. “Yeah?”

You nodded, offering him a genuine smile. “Seriously. I was proud of you.”

He blinked, and for a second—just a second—you saw a soft pink color dust the tips of his ears. But Fred being Fred, he recovered quickly, flashing a smirk.

“Careful, darling. Keep talking like that and I might think you actually like me.”

You snorted, bumping your shoulder into his. “You wish.”

But the truth was, part of you did.

The conversation drifted into easy laughter again, the two of you trading stories, teasing each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it was so effortless—so dangerously close to everything you’d ever wanted—that your chest ached with the weight of it.

You stayed longer than you meant to.

Eventually, you glanced at the clock on his wall and sighed. “I should probably head back to my dorm.”

Fred looked at you for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he nodded. “Alright, sugarplum. Don’t let the staircases trip you on the way down.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, standing up and smoothing down your jumper. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said with a wink, “you keep coming back.”

You smiled, your heart squeezing in your chest.

God, you were so screwed.

The next morning came far too quickly.

Despite the weight of everything that had happened the night before—the letter, the kiss, the way Fred had looked at you like you were something he didn’t want to let go of—you somehow managed to fall asleep, only to wake up feeling like your chest was still holding onto something it hadn’t finished processing.

And now here you were.

Sat at breakfast in the Great Hall beside Fred Weasley, his large hand resting comfortably on your thigh beneath the table, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles into the fabric of your skirt as if it were second nature to him. Like this was something he did every morning. Like this was just… you two.

You’d barely taken a bite of your toast because your heart was thudding so loud it practically echoed in your ears.

Across from you sat George, Katie, and Lee—all in the middle of one of their usual chaotic, early morning debates. Something about who had the best aim in the entire Gryffindor Quidditch lineup (Katie said her, George argued himself, and Lee just kept saying “It’s obviously Angelina, she nearly broke my nose during practice once.”)

You were laughing, lips curled around the rim of your orange juice goblet when Fred leaned over toward you, muttering just low enough that only you could hear, “You look real cute when you laugh like that, sweetheart.”

You turned your head slightly, giving him a skeptical look, but the way his eyes were already focused on you—bright, amused, and just the slightest bit hungry—sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re full of it,” you murmured, but your lips betrayed you with a smile.

Fred grinned, inching closer, his nose brushing your cheek. “Maybe. But you’re still smiling.”

And then, with the kind of confidence that came so naturally to him it made your head spin, he pressed a kiss to your cheek. Soft. Warm. Barely there.

But it stole your breath all the same.

George didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he groaned around a bite of eggs. “You two are worse than Bill and Fleur.”

Katie laughed. “I think it’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Lee added with a grin. “Cute in the way that makes me want to hex something out of jealousy.”

You flushed, burying your face slightly into your goblet just to hide the way your cheeks had gone scarlet, but Fred only chuckled beside you and tightened his hand on your thigh, fingers squeezing gently before continuing their slow, teasing strokes.

As the day went on, the lines between real and pretend blurred further.

Fred’s hand found yours in the corridor as you walked beside him, fingers laced tightly together. He leaned in during class breaks, whispering jokes against your ear, your skin tingling where his breath brushed it. He kissed your lips before Charms—right in the middle of the corridor—without a care in the world, and there wasn’t a single soul around to witness it who mattered. Not even Angelina.

And somehow… that made it worse.

Because if he was doing it just for show, there would’ve been an audience.

But there wasn’t.

There was only you.

And the soft, casual way he held you like you belonged to him.

And maybe that was the scariest part of all—because part of you wanted to belong to him. Again. Completely.

The rest of the castle moved around you, friends teasing, classes dragging, owls swooping down mid-day with care packages and letters—but you? You were somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere in the way Fred’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of your sleeve during lunch. Somewhere in the way his lips pressed to your temple before heading off to a prefect meeting, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Somewhere in that hazy space between fake and dangerously close to real.

And you were falling all over again.

The Gryffindor common room was already buzzing with noise by the time you made it downstairs. The party was well underway—music echoing off the stone walls, glowing orbs of red and gold light bobbing above everyone’s heads like fireflies, and the unmistakable scent of pumpkin pastries and Honeydukes chocolate wafting through the air. Laughter spilled out from every corner—someone had charmed the butterbeer to refill itself, and someone else (likely George) was passing out Ever-Bouncing Berries that ricocheted off the ceilings like magical confetti.

Before all that chaos, though—you were still upstairs.

Your red top hugged your frame perfectly, and the short black leather skirt had felt like a bold choice… but when you looked in the mirror, you knew it worked. You looked good. You felt good. Alicia let out a low whistle the second she saw you step out of your dorm.

“Well, damn,” she said, smirking as she eyed your outfit. “If Fred isn’t staring at you like you’ve hung the bloody moon, I’m hexing him.”

Katie grinned beside her. “Yeah, prepare yourself, love. His hands are going to be all over you tonight.”

That made your cheeks flush instantly. “You guys are awful.”

“Just honest,” Alicia said, bumping your hip with hers. “You look hot.”

Still flustered and smiling through it, you grabbed your wand and smoothed down your top one last time before making your way out of the girls’ dorm. As you descended the staircase, the music got louder, laughter and chatter layering into it all. The common room had been transformed: strings of golden lights wrapped around the banisters, cushions charmed to float midair, and the fireplace crackled with an unnatural red flame that matched the celebratory chaos perfectly.

Your eyes scanned the room, trailing over the crowd of students packed in shoulder-to-shoulder—some dancing, some chugging butterbeer, some sprawled on couches in various states of intoxicated euphoria.

Then you saw him.

Fred was tucked into the corner, drink in hand, laughing along with Seamus and Dean. The second your eyes met, it was like time stopped. He froze—mid-laugh, mid-sentence, mid-everything. His expression slackened slightly, like he hadn’t been prepared to be completely knocked off his axis.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Hard.

You smirked.

The moment was yours now.

With slow, deliberate steps, you crossed the room, weaving between bodies until you reached him. Fred blinked down at you, mouth parted ever so slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“Close your mouth, Weasley,” you teased, tugging on the hem of your top playfully. “You’re going to catch a Snitch in it.”

He blinked again, then broke into that familiar, heart-stopping grin. “You tryin’ to kill me, darling? ‘Cause I think you just succeeded.”

Your cheeks burned despite yourself. “It’s just a skirt.”

“It’s not just a skirt when it’s on you,” he replied smoothly, his voice dipping just slightly as his gaze flicked down and then back to your face. “Merlin, you’re going to be the death of me tonight.”

“Flatterer,” you said, brushing your fingers over his arm. “You look decent yourself.”

“Decent?” he scoffed. “Sweetheart, I’m hurt.”

You laughed, and his hands found your waist—pulling you just a little closer. There was a soft beat of music pulsing through the floorboards beneath your feet, but it was nothing compared to the rhythm of your heart in your chest.

Before you could respond, you heard Katie’s voice from across the room. “Oi! Come dance with us!”

Alicia and Angelina were already waving you over, motioning toward the dance floor that had formed in the middle of the room. You turned back to Fred, who let out a small, exaggerated sigh and slowly removed his hands from your waist.

“Go on, then,” he said, giving you a crooked grin. “But don’t blame me if I come steal you back.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would,” he murmured. “I absolutely would.”

With a breathy laugh, you turned and made your way toward your friends, letting the music pull you in. You swayed with the beat, arms lifted as you danced beside Alicia and Katie. The rhythm buzzed in your veins as you let go of everything else for a moment—just letting yourself be in the music, the laughter, the warmth of the room.

But you felt it—before you saw it.

A presence behind you. A shift in the air.

And then, his voice—low, teasing—right against your ear. “Merlin, you’re making it really hard to behave tonight.”

You turned, heart skipping, to see Fred standing behind you, a grin dancing on his lips.

“I knew you’d come back,” you said with a raised brow.

He stepped closer. “Couldn’t stay away. Not when you’re dancing like that.”

Your stomach flipped as he offered you his hand with a slight bow. “May I have this dance?”

You took it without hesitation.

He spun you around effortlessly, your laughter ringing through the room as you stumbled into his chest. The two of you danced—really danced. Spinning, laughing, holding onto each other as the crowd blurred around you. Fred dipped you playfully, caught you in his arms, and whispered flirty little remarks that made your face burn and your heart race.

But eventually… the laughter died down.

Your giggles slowed.

And then it was just the two of you.

The music faded beneath the sound of your breathing. Fred’s hands settled on your waist, your palms resting against his chest. You looked up at him—really looked. And he looked back.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then rose to meet your gaze again.

“Careful, Freddie,” you whispered, voice low and teasing. “You’re starting to make me think this is more than a game to you.”

Fred’s lips twitched, but his eyes didn’t waver. “Who says it isn’t anymore?”

Your breath caught.

You stared at him, chest tightening, mouth parted slightly in stunned silence. His hands gently trailed from your waist, fingers brushing your sides until they landed on your cheeks.

And then—he kissed you.

No games. No teasing. No charade.

Just him.

Just you.

His lips were warm and familiar and dizzying all at once, his kiss deep and full of something that set your nerves on fire. You kissed him back without thinking, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as he held you close, not caring that people around you had stopped to look.

When you both pulled away—breathless, flushed, reeling—Fred still hadn’t let go.

“Come outside with me,” he said, his voice quieter now, more serious. “I need to tell you something.”

You nodded, heart hammering in your chest.

The cool night air was a stark contrast to the warmth inside, but it helped clear your head just enough to process that something was changing.

You turned to him once you were a few steps from the common room door.

Fred was staring at the stars—then at you.

“I… I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he began, voice a little shakier than you’d ever heard. “This was supposed to be pretend, yeah. Just a stupid idea. Make Angelina jealous, whatever. But…”

His eyes met yours again.

“After the second day, it didn’t feel fake anymore. Not even a little. And then you wore that stupid jumper. And kissed me back. And stood there in that crowd looking at me like I was worth something—and I realized I’ve always loved you. Always. I just didn’t let myself admit it.”

You blinked, your heart splintering at the edges.

“And now,” he added with a sheepish grin, “you’ve gone and ruined me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, then stepped forward, placing your hand gently on his cheek.

“Fred Weasley,” you whispered. “You absolute idiot. I never stopped loving you. I just… never thought you’d actually feel the same.”

He leaned in again, nose brushing yours.

“I do,” he murmured. “So much.”

And then—you kissed him again.

This one slower. Sweeter.

Filled with everything that had been left unsaid.

When you finally broke apart, you were both smiling, hands still tangled together.

“So,” Fred said, his voice light again. “Does this mean I get to call you mine?”

You smirked. “If you behave.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

“Good.”

And just like that, it wasn’t a game anymore.

You were his.

And he was yours.

Officially.

[marixrose]

Solomon Headcannons

Solomon flirts like it’s his second language. He’s always smirking, leaning too close, and saying things like: “Careful, you might fall for me… oh wait.”

He conjures magical gifts just for you. A charm that glows when you’re happy. A flower that never wilts. A pendant that warms when he’s thinking of you.

He teaches you simple spells by guiding your hands. His fingers wrap around yours, his voice low and close to your ear: “Just like that. You’re a natural, you know.”

Solomon loves it when you call him out. Teasing you is his favorite pastime, but if you sass him back or fluster him, he’s secretly thrilled. “Tch… so bold. I like it.”

He never says “I love you” the same way twice. Sometimes it’s in a wink. Sometimes in an ancient language. Sometimes whispered against your skin.

He journals about you. Pages filled with your quirks, memories, little sketches, and magical theories inspired by you. He keeps the book hidden but will read you a line if you ask sweetly.

He has an enchanted mirror that shows your reflection laughing. When he’s away on long missions, he checks it just to see your smile.

Solomon uses magic to sneak into your room—not to scare you, but to surprise you with breakfast in bed. “Don’t worry. I washed my hands before casting the levitating eggs.”

He casually drops historical facts with romantic flair. “Did you know the last time the stars aligned like this, two lovers were reunited after 300 years? Not that we’ll ever need that long.”

Solomon can’t cook—but he tries for you. And he absolutely sets the kitchen on fire at least once. “Okay, so maybe I should’ve used a love spell on the oven.”

He loves slow dancing in random places. The kitchen, the library, your bedroom. No music, just the sound of your breathing and his soft hums.

He casts a spell that makes your name glow whenever he speaks it. Just for the aesthetic. And maybe a bit of drama.

He gives you enchanted cloaks to keep you warm. Bonus: they smell faintly like him. “Call it insurance. You never know when the temperature drops—or when you miss me.”

Solomon pretends to be nonchalant but melts when you’re affectionate. A forehead kiss from you? He shuts up for five minutes. Cuddles? He’s a puddle. “I’m fine. Totally fine. Please don’t stop.”

He wants to grow old with you, even though he doesn’t age. “I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes, but the one with you is the only one I want to remember.”

[erospandemos]

I WANTED YOU (Repost)

Why weren't you at prom?

Heejin x Male Reader

6074 Words

Smut

Songs are tales. They are little stories compressed into three minutes audio pills. Every note that is played, how the instruments sing their voices, how the singers voice their feelings, and the rhythm that ties it together; this complex makes a story. It is often more effective than a book because words have to go first through your eyes and to your brain, where they are stitched together, washed, hanged to dry in a dark room and only then a picture might appear and you might understand it. Music appeals to the rawest of feelings, through your ears and running straight to your heart. Whether you understand the language or not, whether there is a singer at all, the right music will tell you a story. Actually, it will make you write that story. 

Because someone needs to tell your tales, and no one is more suited than you. Mundane daily life or fantastic profound novels. That tale belongs to you in every way. That is your magic, because there are many kinds of magic, after all. Like that girl. The magic in that girl is a gentle type of magic, a kind one. And the story you tell, you wish she was there. But she’s so special that it’s even hard to imagine her with you.

A knock on the door. The first time, you don’t notice it. A repeated knock. This time you take your earphones out, interrupting the paragraph in the making. The knock was indeed your door. Neighbors don’t usually need anything from you and you didn’t order anything either. You leave your room and open the door, it was Heejin. 

Standing in front of the door frame; like a statue, that can be viewed from all angles, to enchant its viewers, freezing them, like her, still as statues.

The woman wears a dress somewhat similar to a bridal gown, simplified and slimmed out. Her legs are wrapped in white stockings, her feet encased in elegant thin heels. Her hair is brushed out in soft waves, sliding down to her shoulder, adorning her already beautiful frame. There was a golden aura around her gorgeous figure, she didn't look like the typical Heejin at all, but when she smiled you recognized her. Her smile is adorable.

You remain frozen in your spot, under her spell, her magic. “She cannot be real,” you remark in your mind. But Heejin spoke, with the most real velvety voice, low and warm.

“Hey, Y/N.”

“Heejin?” you ask in confusion, rapidly blinking at her light.

“Yeah, it’s me. May I come in?”

You nod, letter her in. She steps inside leaving her typical scent in the air, a perfume you came to recognize and love. 

“Uhm… you��� uh… why are you here?”

“I understand you’re surprised to see me. Can I sit down before I explain? My feet are killing me… Walking this far with high heels was not the plan I had for tonight.”

“Oh, come to the couch,” you said, bringing her to the living room.

“Great, thanks.” She flopped down lifeless. She grabbed her heels and threw them to the ground. “God, it feels really nice to have the shoes off. You’re lucky you’re a man so you don’t have to suffer like this.”

You looked around, scratching your temple, an increased difficulty in finding the right words blocked your tongue. You were still confused at her visit.

“You've got a really nice flat. I wish I had a place like this. And your couch is a godsend right now! Really comfy…” she slipped down more, getting engulfed in the softness. A satisfied grin appeared on her lips, puffing her cheeks out, she looked so small between those pillows. Heart attack. 

“I should be asking you why you aren’t at prom. But… I think I have a good guess,” she said with a gloomy expression. 

“I didn’t have a date to come with, so I stayed home. I had better stuff to do anyway,” you confessed, but she sat there with a pinched expression, tapping her foot with crossed arms. Although she looked annoyed, there was a cuteness in her sulking that made you smile. Truth be told, Heejin was the cutest girl you’ve met.

“Yeah. When after about an hour I still hadn’t seen you I started asking around. I found some of your friends, or classmates at least, and asked if they knew anything about that jackass, ehm…” She raised her eyes, trying to remember his name, unsuccessful. “I honestly don’t even know his name… The big football dude in your class who’s always fucking with you. Anyway, he heard me asking and started going off about how he had told you a bunch of nasty things. You know what, you don’t need to hear it! But you will want to hear what happened next.” Heejin bashed out, shaking her fist in the air. You chuckled softly, but she glared at you, quieting immediately.

“Well, he’s right. I don’t have a date, no one wants to come with me.”

“Shut up!” she exclaimed. “After he had said all his bullshit he acted all high and mighty. I think he honestly believed that he was cool and tough for picking on you. Well, that didn’t last for long. Everyone was silent for like 10 seconds after he was done talking… Then all of a sudden his date threw her drink on him!”

“Wow, really? Isn’t her date like the popular girl of the cheerleading group?”

“No, I’m not kidding! Right in his face! Then she just walked away. He was so shocked! God, it was just like in the movies. And honestly, If she hadn’t done it, I would have. I was furious. Everyone around was too. I was told he left a while after that. I didn’t stick around. I left as soon as his date threw her drink on him. I was told the rest through texts on my way over here.”

“Why did you leave?” you asked.

“Why? Because I wanted to see you,” said Heejin nonchalantly. Why does she always stuff like this so casually, you were already trying to move on. She was honest. You hoped the reason wasn’t because you were friends. But some of your friends said she has a soft spot for you, fortunately they were right.

“But you waited for the prom all year.” You remember her reminding you of the event with shining eyes through your study sessions. She chose the dress months before the event, always asking you who you were going with, very curiously. But the answer remained the same until now.

“No, don’t worry about it. I didn’t care much for the prom anyway.”

“Did you leave your date there?” 

“I didn’t walk out on my date. I didn’t have one to begin with.” That’s strange.

“Why? Everyone would’ve asked you.”

“Well, because the right person didn’t ask me I guess.”

“You should’ve asked him then,” you said. She frowned.

“You’re right, I should’ve asked him. I thought we’d meet up there though but that didn’t really go as planned,” she sighed, playing with the edge of her dress. 

“Oh, I think I know who.”

“Yeah? Who?” she asked and her body perked up, raising her eyebrows, sliding closer to you.

“It’s soobin isn’t it?” You said but she frowned, tightening her face.

“Oh my god, no way. You’re so oblivious…” Heejin snorted. “Anyway, what do you wanna do? You have me here for tonight.”

“All night?”

“Yup, I’ll stay until you kick me out,” she exclaimed with a wide smile. The last time you played together was months ago. She used the study session as an excuse to spend more time with you, you were good friends after all… yeah, good friends.

“I’m sure you have other people to meet, better people to be with and have more fun,” you said and she sighed, slumping her shoulders. She furrowed her eyebrows in annoyance and grabbed your shoulder, looking straight at your eyes.

“Real talk for a second… okay? Let me scoot over to you.” She slid close enough to touch your leg with hers. “Give me your hand.” 

“Why?” you asked, giving your palm to her.

“Because I want you to know I’m here,” Heejin said naturally, squeezing her hand. “Now listen. We haven’t known each other for very long. But I have learnt a lot about you the last few months. You’re sweet, you’re funny and most importantly you’re just a nice person to be around. You lift other people up, I’ve seen how you always want to make people happy! Sometimes to a fault. You forget about yourself. You help everyone else with their problems, but you never ask for help with your own!”

You lowered your gaze in embarrassment. She wasn’t completely wrong. But she was still the popular girl and you, her invisible companion.

While walking to your classes, inside the school, everybody would stop by waving at Heejin. Everyone greeted her hoping for more but only got a small smile. It was no exaggeration to say the whole school adored her, some considering her a small sister and others viewing her as the ideal woman. It was quite annoying for both of you to come home and listen to her whining about the upteenth rejection she had to give. It was because no one was good enough but you knew some guys there were good enough and were worried when their turn would come and what she would say.

You always talked to her and comforted her when things were getting more difficult, when the pressure was getting more difficult to endure, when she needed studying. You were there for her.

Now she was there for you.

“Okay, I will.”

“Netflix and chill then, yeah?” Your mind turned R-18 and you almost choked on your saliva.

“Do you even know what you’re saying?” You asked, astonished.

“Yeah, I know. I’m pretty funny!”

“Let’s just chill.”

“Just chill? Absolutely, we can just chat. It’s about time we spend some real time together. But let’s get comfy! Here, lie down and rest your head on my lap. I’ll play with your hair a bit if you want me to?”

“Are you for real?”

“Yes, really! I mean, only if you want to. I wouldn’t mind if you say no.”

“I would like that.”

“Great. Then here’s your pillow!” Heejin said and clamped her legs, inviting you. Her thighs looked very comfortable indeed. You laid your head down slowly, looking up she had a smug grin, and when your head touched them you couldn’t leave anymore. They were so soft, so thick and full-bodied. They were the perfect pillow, soft skin and an irresistible scent. You were speechless and could only softly stroke your face on her smooth, your knees pulled together, curled like a baby.

“Comfy? I can see you think this is embarrassing, and that’s adorable!” she patted your head.

You became so red.

“Aww, you’re blushing. Let me run my hand through your hair and I’m sure you will feel relaxed soon. Wow, it’s really soft actually. Most guys I know don’t even bother with conditioners. But you really take care of your hair, don’t you?” She giggled but her eyes weren’t as joyus, they were more relaxed and serene. She traced her finger along your jaw, looking at you with attention.

“I need to trim them a little.”

“I don’t think you need to trim it at all. I like your haircut.”

“I like your hair too.”

“You like my hair too? Thanks, I did try my best to fix it for prom… No one said anything about it over there though so I really appreciate you saying that.”

“I think you’ve done a good job. Your hair looks great and your make up makes you look gorgeous but you’re as cute as always.”

“You’re so sweet. You’re pretty cute too,” she thanked you, her cheeks were heating up.

“I would prefer to be handsome.”

“Too bad! You’re a sweetie and a cutie!” She ruffled your hair and you covered your face.

“Oh, come on, don’t cover your face like that. I want to see your smile,” she whined, lowering her face to you. Her pointy nose was right above your face. “Was it really that embarrassing? You realize it just makes me want to tease you even more when you act like that, right?” You two wrestled a bit so that she would take your hands off your face. You were so close, you could smell her strong perfume. 

You looked at her beautiful features. Her eyes were deep, profound with emotion, the eyelids rolling around her pupils softly and gently like a calm wave of a morning sea. Her lips were curvy and plump, they looked so kissable and the way they moved when she spoke, when she laughed and sang, hypnotized you. You couldn’t keep eye contact with that beauty and looked away.

“Why won’t you look at me?” Heejin asked shyly, tugging on your shirt.

“You’re too beautiful Heejin, I feel so lucky I can look at you but it’s too much. I can’t.”

“Oh…. Okay, now I’m blushing.” A flush creeped across her cheeks and a tingling sweeped up to the back of her neck across her face. 

“I… I don’t mind you looking though,” she said, hiding her face with her hair. Looking at her you could understand she wasn’t speaking about looking only at her face.

“Why?” you asked as you couldn’t find an answer in your head.

“Well, for starters, I wore this dress to get attention from you… erhm… I mean, you guys at prom!” Someone’s attention? You sighed dejectedly. Who was she looking for? You couldn’t figure out a face in your mind, no one really was her type from what she told you. No one deserved her, but no one less than you.

“Is there anyone specific you wanted to look good for?”

“Are you really asking me that? God, you are more dense than usual today, aren’t you?”

“What? What are you saying?” you asked in confusion.

“Wow, do I actually have to do this…? Fine… Close your eyes.” ordered Heejin.

“Why?”

“Just do it, okay?”

“Okay,” you said and closed your eyes. You felt a soft sensation on your lips and opened your eyes. Was it her fingers? Heejin was looking down, unable to meet your eyes and fidgeting with her fingers.

“What was that?” 

“What do you mean what was that?! It was a kiss! I kissed you!” she screamed.

“Oh…” You brought your hand to your mouth. That’s why it was so soft.

“What do you think it means?” she asked with a loud voice.

“That you like… me?”

“Yes! Finally! I like you! I like you a lot.” She blurted out, grabbing your face. Your eyes remained still without a direction to look at, your mouth was left wide open.

“Please say something…” Heejin murmured.

“Are you for real?”

“Yes. I mean, would I kiss you if I wasn’t?”

“Was it really a kiss?” You still didn’t believe her.

“You want another kiss?”

“Yes,” you said. 

“Alrighty then!” she accepted with a throaty laughter and went to you. Heejin placed her hand on the back of your neck. She pulled you toward her. And kissed you. She kissed you. And she kissed you. And she kissed you. And she kissed you. And you kept kissing her back.

You were left in the same position and expression before the kiss. Breathless. “I like you too,” was all you could say with a small smile.

“Thank you, it makes me very happy to hear you say that,” she confessed with a grin. “How come I’m the one blushing now and not you?”

“I’m just really shocked my greatest love likes me too,” you said and Heejin beamed.

“I’m so happy I finally told you how I felt, I’ve wanted to do it for a long time but never had the courage to,” she said.

“Don’t you regret leaving prom?” you asked and she laughed loudly.

“No, I do not regret leaving prom for this. This is very nice.”

“Why do you like me?” 

“Oh, there is so much I like about you. I can’t possibly explain all of it,” she said. “Well, like I said, you’re a sweetie and a cutie! That’s important. But you’re also so kind and compassionate. And you’re reliable. I know that if I told you I was feeling sad you would do everything in your power to make me happy again. And I love that about you.”

She stopped talking. Her eyes trembled, observing your lips, you did the same. You just regained enough conscience to talk and look at her, and her mouth was already waiting like a question. And you’re kissing her. Once, twice, until she had a taste and realized she’ll never have enough again. You’re everywhere up her back and over her arms, kissing harder, deeper, with an urgent need she had never known before.

“Let’s move to the bedroom,” Heejin suggested with a low voice, tempting words. You obliged and carried her. A little squirm escaped her lips, starting to laugh happily. She was very light and you were very quick moving to your room. Once there, you laid her down the bed, her dress and hair spread out on the covers looked like a work of art, she was so gorgeous, and so alluring. 

Heejin grabbed your head, forcefully pulling you in another kiss. Both of you moaning in your mouths, your tongues finally meeting and dancing together. Your arms tried to keep you up, but her kiss was too good and you fell into her body, so welcoming. She liked your weight on her, she liked you, she wanted you all over her.

Both of you wanted to kiss each other forever. Blocking out all thoughts about what this was, what it might mean… You kissed until reason seeped out through your pores and you became a living desire, conscious only of what you wanted to do to each other... And suddenly you were crashing around the bed, too small for your energy, all hands and lips and, oh, God, the scent and taste and feel of her. It was like tiny fireworks going off all over you, bits of you thought dead coming back to life, only for her.

Your lips moved down to her neck, kissing it, licking it, showing love. It was fair and pale, but smooth and warm. And then you pulled out your teeth, softly biting her sensitive skin.

“Don't bite me like that. No, wait, stop,” Heejin said suddenly and you stopped, the thought of having hurt her was a terrible prospect in your mind.

“Did I hurt you?” you asked worryingly. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s okay. Really, it’s not something you did. You didn’t do anything wrong, if anything you were doing exactly right. It’s just, well, I don’t want you to think I’m weird or anything but… I’m a virgin. I know it’s not a bad thing or anything, it’s just that I wanted you to know. And I really like you,” Heejin admitted shyly. The girl of your dream was ready to give you her most secret and most personal gift, her chastity. You were ready to accept it and most of all accept her, if you ever deserved her.

“I’m actually a virgin as well,” you said. She knew, of course, it was obvious.

“That makes me happy,” she commented. “Can we take it slow?”

“Of course. We can just do foreplay for today, if you’re more comfortable. I can wait.”

“I knew you would’ve been nice about it. You always understand.” Heejin hugged you. But her innocence soon disappeared. “I’m…I’m never like this. My heart is beating so…so fast, and I just feel this…this ...like I can’t control myself…” she confessed. “This…this is crazy, right? Like, us? Making out? But—it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels like, all along, I wanted this. I wanted you.”

She went for another quick peck but stepped back when things got too hot.

“May I…May I feel it?” Heejin whispered and you nodded. Her hands slowly walked down to your pants, gently rubbing through your pants. “It feels really good. Really hard. I knew this dress would get to you. Open back… Low neckline… I’d be lying if I didn’t want you to look.”

“You really looked so gorgeous with it, I couldn’t keep my eyes off you,” you said and she smiled.

“Help me get this dress off. I don’t want to ruin it. Let me get your clothes off too…” You were careful to remove her dress but extremely fast.

Heejin opened her bra slowly, twisting the clamp with her thumb and index, then running her finger along her breastbone. When her bra finally fell open, freeing her breasts, you were speechless. “So, do you like them?” she asked. Beautiful fair skin, round and delicate, her pair was big but not overwhelming. When your fingers caressed her softness, her skin shivered, her nipples hardening towards you in anticipation. 

“I love them,” you confessed.

“I’m glad. You’re the first person to get a real look at my figure, I wanted only you to see it.” Her nipples sticked out so hard now that they breathed free air. They were so perky and stiff… you wanted to suck them.

“Go ahead. Suck on them,” Heejin invited you and you did. Your tongue, trailing slowly around, her skin was salty but tasty. A sudden sharp moan escaped her lips, her arm coming to your neck, to hold you closer.

“Don’t just lick them, suck them,” she whined softly. You took one of them into your mouth, doing your work greedily. She moaned harder and hugged you tighter. Her heavy breasts tasted so good and you sucked them with animalistic hunger. Raising your eyes a couple times, you could see the bliss in her eyes. Heejin whined, you could see the intense desire in her pretty eyes. 

“Ever since my tits fully developed they… they got so much more sensitive.” She had to swallow and breath shakily to gain enough air to talk.

“Sometimes when I play with them, I can make myself cum just from touching and pinching my nipples. You’re the first person to suck on them though…” Her moans grew with a faster irregular rhythm mixed with her airy gasps and the wet pops that came from her nipples.

“Oh god…” Your left hand palmed her flesh, playing gently with her hardened button. Heejin trembled even more, raising her legs helplessly, clamping your body, squeezing your head.

“Oh fuck… suck them faster,” she gasped. “Suck them harder.” You switched sides and ate them with more energy, more hunger. She squealed, breathing rapidly. Her orgasmic moans reaching a crescendo. 

“I’m… cumming…” she gasped and both her legs and arms squeezed into her body, shaking into your mouth, as she finally unleashed her breathy orgasm. She breathed in slowly and deeply and then pulled out and stared into your eyes intensely with lust.

“What the hell is happening to me?” said Heejin. “I think I’m going crazy on you. It’s just like I imagined so many nights before…” Then her gaze lowered down to the shape in your boxers.

“Lay down,” she commanded. Her hand caressed your belly as her mouth approached your groin. She slipped down your boxers with a swift motion and her eyes widened in delightful surprise, staring directly at your erected penis. “It’s so hard, is it for me?”

“Yes,” you barely said as her thin fingers trailed around the base and its body, they were looking like tentacles wrapping around it gently. Heejin stroked you with her delicate hand but you could see her mouth salivating. It got closer and closer, she perked her lips, leaving small kisses along your length all the way down to your balls, her nose brushing against your shaft. 

Then finally she opened her mouth, giving small wet licks around the head, between the foreskin, making sure her tongue explored every spot of your penis. Heejin was drooling and some of it landed on your legs. 

Heejin couldn’t wait anymore. She opened her mouth and engulfed your penis. You groaned, spreading your legs and laying your hands on her head, running through her hair. She was sucking intensely, her wet liquid dripping down all the way down your legs to the blankets.

“It’s almost like I can’t help but suck it once it’s in my mouth. Oh, you twitched. That means I’m doing it right?” she asked, taking it out of her mouth, keeping her hand busy and stroking it. 

“That feels too good,” you said, both of your hands holding her head. Heejin twisted her tongue around, you couldn’t contain your moans, but “I really like your moans. With your head pulling back,” she said. So you didn’t hold yourself. Heejin stroked your throbbing penis carefully, letting her fingers go everywhere, cupping the head with her palm, running her fingers between the head and the foreskin before aligning her lips with new found hunger. You both groan as your tip enters her. Every cm enters her agonizingly slow until it touches the back of her throat. Heejin’s throat is painfully tight and painfully good.

Her head bobs up and down. You can feel her tongue touch your balls when she comes down and her mouth sucking harder on top not to let it escape. You didn’t do anything, Heejin fucked her throat herself, relentless. She moaned on your cock, making it throb harder than before. Her gag reflexes disappeared as she got used to it and she slightly upped her rhythm, widening her eyes as saliva started pouring out from her mouth.

"Mmm-mmhm!" Heejin murmured, a small vibration adding to the pleasure. She could feel it twitching, signaling your orgasm is about to arrive. She felt it growing inside her mouth and held your hips with both of her hands, bobbing down your dick with even more enthusiasm.

"I’m gonna… I will-" You struggled to speak. Heejin didn’t stop until your orgasm finally arrived. You came in her mouth with a generous amount of thick, warm, creamy cum, filling it. Heejin tried to take it all, pushing her head down to your groin but it leaked from the sides of her mouth and dripped down your legs. Your orgasm didn't finish instantly as your tip still oozed out little spurts of cum, she remained with her mouth open to take it all. Once done, she raised her head to face you and opened her mouth to show your cum that filled her pretty mouth. Her tongue swirled around the while liquid before gulping it down, using her hand to clean the droplets around her mouth and licking her fingers.

“It tastes better than I imagined,” said Heejin. “Let me… clean it all.” She went back to your cock with gentle slow licks to get it all off. At this point your penis was too weak and sensitive so she was extremely careful. “There… all in my belly,” she claimed, satisfied, with a great smile.

“Where did you learn this?”

“I don’t know. I always imagined it and I guess once it was in my mouth, I couldn’t stop anymore,” Heejin admitted, blushing. You get up and kiss her once more, to catch your breath and recover a bit. But seeing your eyes you realized that she was very far from being satisfied. 

You lowered towards her womanhood. She shyly hid it between her legs but you could see it was so wet, its liquid dripping to the blankets. With a finger you collected her honey, she shivered. It coated your finger nicely, there was so much. After a taste your brain melted and you had to taste more.

You grabbed her meaty thighs as your fingers dipped into her flesh. You spread her legs open to reveal her bare pussy, glistening, looking juicy and succulent. Heejin’s body shivered after feeling your breath and her pussy throbbed as if inviting you in. You stuck your tongue out and dived into her flesh. 

“Yes, please…” said Heejin. After a first lick in her entirety, your tongue traced along her lips, she was starting to feel it. You continued, the ticklish sensation was starting to get to her, she flinched and laid her hands on you, just like before. She starts to release more luscious juices, her sweet nectar, awakening the fountain in her. 

Only sex and love together can create ecstasy. When she closed her eyes she felt you had many hands, which touched her everywhere, and many mouths, which passed so swiftly over her, eating her with hunger, your teeth sinking into her fleshiest parts. 

After spotting her clitoris, you sucked on it, the sudden amplification of pleasure shocked Heejin and her thighs instinctively pressed on your head harder. They were so soft and firm, indeed a good way to go, crushed between her thighs - anyway Heejin started to buck her hips into your face as you slurped more violently: her orgasm is near. Her hands held your head in place as she started to really slam her crotch into your mouth. 

“Your tongue is so good..” she said as she moved more and more. Until her walls violently clenched around your slimy tongue and a liquid escaped her pussy. Heejin exploded and it hit your face, mostly going to the sheets. Your mouth doesn’t stop as you overstimulate her body, making her tremble under the pleasure, continuing to spasm for another minute.

Looking up at her eyes you were almost scared, Heejin was still not satisfied. Her mouth went closer to your ear, whisper, “I know I said to go slow but can we fuck? Please? Your cock is so close and I just… I need it. I need to feel it inside me.” You could feel her innocence and how fragile she was.

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“Yeah I’m sure. It’s okay. I’m okay. It’s you after all…”

“Fine.”

“Okay. Can I grab it? I have to guide it.”

You nodded.

“Okay, yeah, good.” Heejin reached down and spread her pussy hovering right above your penis. She put an arm on your chest for balance and gulped. Her wet touched the tip and she pressed slightly, starting to feel the wetness slightly clenching around it. 

“Oh my! Careful,” she exclaimed and took it out. She looked at you with an amused smile, then inhaled and went down. The moist warmth enveloped the head of your cock, a breathy gasp escaping your mouth. There’s a certain hunger in you to take her hips and just slam it deep inside, but it doesn’t give in, because you care about her too much. Heejin continues to slide down, your tip delving deeper into her flesh, so warm, so wet, so welcoming. And then your hips finally meet, your entire cock impaling her, she finally lets out the breath she was holding.

“It feels so good,” Heejin says, “I’m gonna move now. I think I’m there. It’s getting deeper. You’re really inside me.”

Then her lust was finally unleashed as she started to ride you. Her moans were louder and livelier than before, she was tired but feeling your cock inside her, casting your shape inside her, a new energy got her. “This…” she started, an aggressive moan interrupting her, “You like it?”

“Yeah, yes,” you barely said and she giggled.

“Good. Because I just want more. I want to ride you harder, and harder, because I want to cum so bad. So fucking bad…” You had to please her but more than that she was pleasing you, so much, it seemed like you were going to cum any time soon. It was impossible to hold yourself back. Her hips rocked back and forth, slamming onto you, always pushing down as much as she could to make sure your cock was deep buried inside her, all the way, as far as it could go. 

“Give it to me. Please,” Heejin pleaded, arching her back. Her arms went back to your legs, with her chest in full display, her breasts moving back and forth. She was looking so beautiful. “Just…grab my hips and take me. Pull me…” Both your hands grabbed her ass, fingers deep in her cheeks. 

“Yes, like that! Come here,” she said, coming down to your face and kissing you deeply, her hips still moving. “I can’t believe this is happening. I never thought we’d actually…fuck like this… I never thought it’d feel this fucking good.” You blinked quickly, becoming light-headed. You kneeded your hand into her ass in a desperate attempt to slow down her movements. But it felt so good. 

“Let’s… change position,” you suggested. She agreed and changed, now as she was at the bottom you could rest a little, while your dick was still inside. Now, between her legs you started to trust again. 

She enjoyed your weight on her, enjoyed being crushed under your body. She wanted you glued to her, from mouth to feet. Shivers passed through her body. Her small cute whimpers of pleasure serenade your ears as you thrust deep into her. She hugs you and shoves her face in the crook of your neck trying to stifle her louder moans. Heejin nearly screams from the growing pleasure of the quickening pace. You maintain a steady pacing, going inside and out of her body, as she held you tight. Suddenly her legs wrap around you, between arm and legs, you can’t do anything but go deeper.

Suddenly Heejin gasps. “Can you do it again? That spot that you just hit… yeah!” After you found her g-spot you kept hitting it over and over. “I’m — oh — oh shit. Fuck. Am — am I gonna cum?” she said, overwhelmed. You can feel something building within you. Her hands can’t decide between digging into her bedsheets or squeeze you as her toes curl from the force of her orgasm. “No way—no fucking way—I—fuck—I’m—I’m cumming!” she exclaimed. “I can feel you like twitching.”

“I’m close too.”

“Can we cum at the same time? Is that a thing people do? Cum inside me!” You couldn’t do anything else, being trapped inside her leg lock. You hurriedly push your tip inside up to her cervix, the loving strokes of her hungry pussy drive your cock insane from the stimulation. “Oh my god yes!” Heejin cried. Shot after shot of warm cum batter coats Heejin’s insides in a thick, milky white. What doesn’t fit inside her leaks out in the tide of slick, dripping from her sex in a loving brew of raw passion. Heejin keeps hugging you. 

“I can’t believe…I came that fast… That’s never happened before. Like, I’ve cum, but not like that...”

“I’ve never felt this good ever too.”

“Something about our night together, and the feelings between us, I just couldn’t stop. I had this insanely strong drive…”

“What did it feel like?” you asked, hoping you satisfied her.

“Heaven,” Heejin answered simply, watching you on the side with a satisfied smile. “You breeded me…” she whispered.

“You were wonderful for me, how are you doing?” she asked.

“Just really tired I guess. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so good all my life,” you said. She rolled up to you and hugged you as you two started cuddling. She brushed your hair, pulling her body closer to you. Her heat calmed down, but it was the same one she felt when loving you. And she felt yours too, it reassured her. You wouldn’t leave her.

“I love you Heejin,” you said. That was the first time someone said that to her, with the honesty and the passion you had. She smiled softly and squeezed, putting her face into your neck.

“I love you too!” she exclaimed. “Since now you are my boyfriend. Yes, Boyfriend, you know the rules. Don’t pay attention to other women, look at me. You have to be a bit selfish in love.”

“Well, you’re great but…”

“Have you seen a woman like me? I got everything you need,” said Heejin with a smug.

“You’re right,” you agreed and dreamt about the days to come with her. Her magic was love.

THE END

Written, 27 Jun 2022 - 29 Jun 2022

[nocturnao]

Could’ve Been, Should’ve Been

Synopsis: After the war, she died saving him. He never got to say goodbye.

Years later, Harry stumbles upon a cursed magical object—one that shows him the life he could’ve had if he'd chosen her. A peaceful life. Married. Laughing. Home by the sea. It becomes his secret addiction, a place where she’s still alive, still his. But every morning, he wakes to silence.

pairing: harry potter x ravenclaw!reader

cw: angst angst angst

a/n: this is my second story!! yey!! I will apologize in advanced if this hurts but yk I live for the angst

requests:open

The war ended, but not all the battles were done. It happened in the clearing just beyond Hogsmeade, a week after Voldemort fell. A rogue group of Death Eaters, desperate, furious, hunted Harry like a shadow. And you—you were always at his side. You saw the spell hurtling toward him. You didn’t think. You stepped in front of it.

The green light hit you first.

The world never quite righted itself after that.

---

Harry didn’t cry at your funeral. Not properly. He stood at the edge of the lake in silence, shoulders stiff, jaw tight. He spoke three words to the water and no one else: “She saved me.”

But it wasn’t just that.

You were the reason he “survived” the nights at Grimmauld Place. The reason he could sleep, sometimes, when war was heavy on his chest. You snuck books from the Ravenclaw common room. You brewed calming draughts in secret, whispered theories about Horcruxes, and challenged him to chess when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You were his sanity. His safe space. His“what if”

And he never told you. Not properly. Not in words that mattered.

---

A year passed.

Then another.

He found it tucked in the back of a ruined shop in Knockturn Alley—a mirror, half-shattered, pulsing with quiet magic. The vendor didn’t know what it did. Just muttered, “Cursed, maybe,” and sold it cheap.

The first time Harry looked into it, his breath caught.

You were there.

Not just standing, but alive. Laughing. Hair windblown. A ring on your finger—his ring. A home behind you, ivy-covered and warm. A sea in the distance. Peace in your eyes.

He dropped to his knees.

---

He kept coming back.

Every night.

Each time he touched the mirror, the world changed. It showed a life where he'd chosen differently. Where he'd told you how he felt. Where he kissed you that night after the battle instead of brushing past you to check on the others. Where he let himself love you.

In the vision, you would wake up next to him and say, “You talk in your sleep, Potter.”

He would laugh. Not the hollow laugh he carried in reality. But something real. Something “whole”.

And then—he’d blink—and the vision was gone. Just the dusty attic again. Just silence. Just the hum of grief between his ribs.

---

The others noticed.

Ron asked why he looked exhausted. Hermione asked why he wasn’t eating. Neville invited him for dinner. Luna sent letters from Sweden. He ignored them all.

Because they weren’t “you” .

You were behind the glass. Smiling like you had everything.

And he had nothing.

---

One night, he broke.

He pressed his forehead to the mirror and whispered, “I should’ve told you.”

The reflection—you—stood across from him, a firelight glow in your eyes.

“I didn’t say it,” he choked. “And now—now you’re just a ghost in my head.”

You tilted your head. Said nothing. Because you weren’t really “you” Just magic. Just longing. Just pain.

“But I loved you,” he said.

He said it again. And again. Until the words collapsed under their own weight.

---

Sometimes, the mirror changed.

Showed your wedding. Your child in his arms. Your laugh in the garden.

He’d stay in those visions for hours. But it always ended the same.

He’d wake up in his flat. Alone. No footsteps. No humming. Just the echo of the life that never was.

---

It wasn’t just grief.

It was “guilt” .

He should’ve seen it coming—that final ambush. He should’ve taken the hit. Should’ve held your hand more often. Should’ve told you when you fell asleep beside him at Grimmauld Place, “You’re the only thing keeping me sane.”

But he didn’t.

He assumed there would be time. More battles. More fireside talks. More almost-confessions.

He never thought your “last words” would be “Move, Harry.”

---

One night, he dreamt you were there—truly.

You stood in the vision with your arms crossed.

“You’re not really living,” you said, voice sharp. “You’re chasing ghosts.”

He staggered. “You are my ghost.”

“No. I was your chance. And you missed it.”

The next morning, he smashed the mirror.

But it didn’t change anything. Because the visions were in him now.

He saw them when he touched your favorite book. When he walked by the bench at the Astronomy Tower where you once fell asleep on his shoulder. When he passed the potion shelves and remembered your voice saying, “Don’t you dare try to brew that without me.”

Every part of his life was haunted.

Not by your death.

But by the love he never gave you.

---

He wrote letters. Hundreds. Most he never sent.

One survived; “I see what we could’ve been every night. And every morning, I wake up to the silence of a life without you. And I don’t know which hurts more.”

---

Years later, he visits your grave. He kneels, fingers tracing the etched stone.

“Still talking to ghosts,” he murmurs. The wind brushes his face.

“Some things aren’t meant to stay unspoken, Harry.”

For a moment—just a moment—he swears he hears your voice.

But when he looks up, there’s only the trees.

Only the silence. Only the echo of a girl who made him want to live.

And a love that came too late.

[romanczukowsky]

Jealousy’s Quiet Fire

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Sometimes, the biggest magic happens in the quiet moments you don’t see coming. When Y/N steps into the wild world of dates and distractions, George finds himself less prankster and more… jealous sidekick. Between awkward Shield Charms and stolen glances, old feelings bubble up with a hint of tension—and maybe a bit of friendly competition. Because who said love can’t be complicated and hilarious?

Warnings: Slow Burn / Romance / Mild Sexual Content / Emotional Angst /Implied Romantic Tension

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with the kind of noise only a return to Hogwarts could bring — excited chatter, clattering dishes, and the occasional shout of a prank gone wrong somewhere down the hall.

Fred and George sat on the armrest of the worn leather couch, already holding court like the kings of chaos.

“So this summer,” George started, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, “Fred got this brilliant idea to start selling self-inflating cauldrons. Perfect for lazy potion makers, he said.”

Fred rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile. “They were going to be a hit—until the first batch exploded and flooded the entire shed.”

George laughed. “Yeah, flooded the shed, drowned Percy’s toads, and nearly wiped out the garden gnome army. You could say it was a splash hit.”

Fred threw up his hands. “Very funny. Mum made me clean it all up for three days.”

“And don’t forget Mum’s face when she found your ‘experimental fireworks’ under the kitchen table,” George added, still chuckling.

“That was a minor miscalculation,” Fred said, grinning. “The fireworks weren’t supposed to launch indoors!”

“Minor, right. Maybe next time test them outside the Burrow, yeah?”

The whole common room chuckled, drawn in by their easy banter.

Then George caught sight of me walking past and waved me over with that crooked grin — the one that made me forget how much younger I was compared to him.

“Y/N!” he called in a warm and familiar voice. “Come here, don’t lurk!”

I rolled my eyes, but smiled. “Lurking isn’t my style.”

He laughed, “Good. That’s what we like.”

“Missed you this summer,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the way my heart jumped.

George’s smile softened just a bit. “Yeah, well, don’t get too sappy on me now.”

Fred grinned from his spot. “Speak for yourself, Georgie.”

We all laughed, and for a moment, I was just part of their world — younger, maybe, but definitely not invisible.

Autumn melted into winter faster than I liked, and with each passing week, I told myself I'd give up trying — and each week I didn’t.

Every opportunity I had, I slid closer to George — always with a reason, of course.

“Could you show me that Shield Charm again?” I asked one evening in the common room, sliding my books onto the table where George was lounging with a bag of Every Flavour Beans.

He looked up with that same warm, unreadable smile. “Sure. You still can’t get the wand movement right?”

“I can, actually,” I said quickly. “I just thought… a refresher couldn’t hurt.”

He shrugged and moved over to give me space. “Alright then. Let’s see it.”

I tried. I always tried. Not just with the spell — with my hair, with my laugh, with how casually I leaned against the back of the couch while he corrected my grip on the wand.

George, as always, was patient. Helpful. Charming. And utterly, entirely… Oblivious.

He never flirted. Never lingered. Never once looked at me the way I sometimes caught myself looking at him.

Another time, right before Christmas break, I “accidentally” left my Charms notes in the common room, just to circle back and find George still there, sorting through a box of Zonko's leftovers.

“Oh — hey,” I said, feigning surprise. “Didn’t expect anyone else to be up.”

He looked up, startled, then grinned. “I’m basically nocturnal at this point. Want a chocolate frog?”

I nodded, heart skipping. “Thanks. Um… also, I left my notes… do you think you could help me go over Switching Spells again?”

“Sure thing,” he said, already shifting to make space for me on the couch. “You have a test or something?”

“Not really,” I lied.

Fred would’ve winked. Lee would’ve teased. Even Ron would’ve caught on by now. But George? George just smiled that same smile and explained the theory like I was his best mate’s little sister.

By the time February rolled around and hearts were floating in windows, my own was somewhere between frustrated and still hopelessly devoted.

Valentine’s Day at Hogwarts was always an explosion of glitter, pink confetti, and enchanted paper hearts that fluttered through the corridors like butterflies with no sense of personal space.

And every year, I sent George a Valentine. Always unsigned. Always the same: a red card, sealed with a tiny heart and the letter Y.

I used to think he’d figure it out. That maybe one year, he’d smile in that knowing way and say something clever. He never did.

This year, I’d told myself: Enough. No Valentine. No initials. No more trying.

The Gryffindor common room was packed after dinner, buzzing with energy. Enchanted envelopes zoomed from student to student, trailing glitter or heart-shaped bubbles. Girls squealed. Boys groaned. Someone in the corner was already halfway through their fifth chocolate frog.

I was curled in the armchair by the fire, trying very hard not to care. I still got a few cards — sweet, safe ones from my friends. Lavender, Parvati, even a pink scribble from Neville that looked suspiciously like he had panicked halfway through.

Then it happened.

A deep red and violet envelope floated straight to me, glowing faintly, shaped like a heart — and singing.

“Oh Merlin,” I muttered, just as it landed on my lap and burst into a dramatically off-key serenade:

🎵 “Y/N, Y/N, with eyes so bright, You shine like stars on a snowy night. Brave and kind and full of grace, With you, my world’s a better place!” 🎵

The entire room turned.

Fred cackled so hard he nearly fell off the armrest. I sat frozen, cheeks on fire.

When the song finally sputtered to a halt, the heart unfolded into a card. In elegant handwriting, just two words: — Cedric Diggory

The silence lasted a beat too long. Then:

“Wow,” Seamus whispered. “That was… dramatic.”

“Mate has pipes,” Lee added, nodding solemnly.

I risked a glance across the room. George wasn’t laughing. In fact, he looked… Confused? No — caught off guard.

His gaze flicked to the card. Then to me.

No joke. No wink. Just that flash of something — something new.

And for once… he hadn’t gotten a Valentine from me.

The next afternoon, the buzz about The Valentine still hadn’t died down.

Apparently, when a singing, glowing, violet-red heart explodes in the middle of the Gryffindor common room — and it’s from Cedric Diggory — people don’t forget.

I tried to ignore the way heads still turned when I entered the Great Hall for lunch. I balanced my tray, pretended not to care, and slipped quietly toward the Gryffindor table… until I saw him.

Cedric. Smiling. Walking toward me like he did it every day.

I swallowed, half-wishing the floor would swallow me first. Too late.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, stopping just at the end of our table. I knew Fred and George were sitting nearby. “Did you, uh… get my card?”

Every sound seemed to blur except for my own heartbeat.

“Um… yeah,” I managed, trying not to sound breathless. “I did. It was… very impressive.”

Cedric chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Bit over the top, maybe.”

“A bit?” I heard Fred mutter, not even trying to be subtle.

I smiled, even though my face was definitely turning pink again. “I thought it was sweet. Unexpected, but sweet.”

Cedric grinned. “Glad you liked it. See you around, Y/N.”

And just like that, he was gone.

But the table wasn’t silent.

George lifted his goblet, taking a slow, deliberate sip of pumpkin juice — like he hadn’t just heard every word.

“Next year,” he said dryly, “I might send a singing troll in a tutu. That seems to be the new standard.”

Fred choked on his drink. “Bit jealous of Diggory’s flair, are we?”

I looked down at my plate, pretending I hadn’t heard — but my ears were burning.

George rolled his eyes but smirked. “Please. He’s good, but not that good.”

Ever since Valentine’s Day, Cedric had been… everywhere.

In the corridors between classes — “You know, your smile could disarm anyone.”

Outside the library — “Do you always read with your head tilted like that? It’s adorable.”

Even in the Great Hall — “You have the neatest way of arranging your quill and parchment. Very elegant.”

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh or swoon. Usually I just blinked and muttered something like “Um, thanks?” while stuffing parchment into my bag and mentally screaming.

Fred, naturally, found it hilarious. “Oh, here comes your stationery admirer again,” he said one morning, elbowing me as I sat down. “Better sharpen your quill properly or he’ll write you a sonnet.”

George, who sat across from us, didn’t laugh. He just shoved another spoonful of eggs into his mouth and said, flatly, “It’s pathetic.”

I looked up, surprised. “What is?”

He didn’t meet my eyes. “That he thinks a few cheesy lines make him interesting.”

Fred raised an eyebrow at him, and I caught the exchange. But George just gave a faint smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

And I… well, I didn’t know what to think. Cedric was nice. He was kind. And, okay, objectively very good-looking. And if George couldn’t be bothered to actually say anything — then maybe I should give Cedric a chance. At least he made his interest obvious.

So when Cedric asked if I wanted to sit with him in the courtyard after Herbology — “just for some air,” he said, though the flowers weren’t the only thing he seemed interested in — I nodded. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

And I swear, the second we sat down on that stone bench, laughing at a Puffapod that had exploded on my robes earlier, Fred and George walked straight past. Fred winked. George didn’t even look at me.

But I looked at him. And I felt something strange twist in my chest — like I’d dropped the wrong potion ingredient and wasn’t sure whether it was about to explode… or change everything.

It started with a walk.

Nothing dramatic. No candlelit dinner in the Room of Requirement. Just Cedric asking if I wanted to walk with him after Transfiguration.

“Bit of a breeze today,” he’d said, smiling that unfairly perfect smile. “But I figured, if you’re wrapped up warm, we could do a few laps around the courtyard. I won’t recite poetry. Promise.”

I laughed, tucking a curl behind my ear. “Tempting offer.”

So I said yes.

It felt nice, actually. Easy. He wasn’t pushy, just… attentive. He asked about my favorite subjects, about how I’d learned that shield charm so quickly in Defense, about whether I’d ever tried honeydukes’ cinnamon snaps with cocoa. (I hadn’t. He promised to bring some back next Hogsmeade weekend.)

And yet—somehow—our peaceful walk turned into a thing.

Because two minutes later, we passed Fred and George sitting on the low wall near the greenhouses, casually tossing a Quaffle between them.

“Oh, what a coincidence,” Fred said loudly, catching the ball one-handed. “Y/N! Look who I found loitering near the ivy!”

George didn’t say anything, but his eyes flicked straight to Cedric. Then to me. Then back to the Quaffle.

“Hey,” I said, pretending this wasn’t the most awkward moment in the history of my social life.

Cedric nodded politely. “Fred. George.”

George gave a single nod. No grin. No joke. Just that unreadable look he sometimes wore when someone beat him at Exploding Snap.

“Well,” Fred chirped. “We were just discussing how the weather’s perfect for a walk. Right, George?”

George shrugged. “Guess so. If you’re into walking in circles.”

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a race.”

George finally grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. Wouldn’t want you to lose at everything, mate.”

My heart skipped a beat.

Fred caught my eye with a little smirk that said he knows. Knows what, exactly, I wasn’t ready to admit — but I felt it.

I felt it everywhere George went quiet.

I didn’t mean to snap at him.

Okay—maybe I did.

But after days — weeks, really — of George doing nothing but tossing snide remarks and making faces like Cedric was a dementor in human form, something in me finally snapped.

“I just don’t get why you’re being like this,” I’d said, arms crossed, standing halfway up the common room stairs as he leaned against the wall, expression unreadable. “You don’t like Cedric. Fine. But why do you care who I spend time with?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it so awful that I want to try something? Feel something?” My voice shook, and not because I was cold. “Not everything has to be a joke or a prank. Sometimes it’s just... real. And I want something real.”

George had exhaled hard, jaw clenched.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, voice low. “You’re right. I’m being a prat.”

And that was it.

So I went to Hogsmeade with Cedric.

We drank warm butterbeer. He told me I looked beautiful when I laughed. He offered to carry my scarf when the wind nearly took it away. It should’ve been lovely.

But the whole time, George’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of my mind — the way it got quiet when something actually mattered.

And it mattered.

Which is probably why I found myself back in the common room that evening, cheeks flushed from the cold and maybe from the drinks, heart pounding faster than it should’ve.

When I stepped into the common room, the fire was crackling lazily, casting soft golden light across the space. A group of younger boys were huddled near the window playing Exploding Snap, arguing over the rules. Fred was half-sprawled on the rug, flipping through a deck of enchanted cards that occasionally belched glitter.

George was in the armchair by the fireplace, legs over the side, reading a comic that floated slightly above his lap — "The Practical Jokers’ Guide to Defensive Hexes," from the looks of it.

I brushed snow from my coat and offered a small wave. “Hey.”

Fred looked up — and immediately grinned.

“Well, well,” he said, drawing out the words as he stood and stretched like a cat. “Look who’s back from her dreamy date in frosty Hogsmeade.”

He elbowed one of the fifth-year boys, then added, “Alright, lads, looks like it’s bedtime for us common folk.”

There were a few groans, a snort, but Fred merely wagged his brows at me before winking and heading upstairs. The others trickled after him, clearly in on… whatever joke he was making.

George didn’t move.

He just looked at me over the edge of his comic, his expression unreadable — but his eyes a little too focused for someone just casually curious.

“How was it?” he asked finally, folding the comic closed and setting it on the armrest. “Didn’t freeze your nose off, did you?”

I smiled, shrugging out of my coat. “Not quite. I think I’ve still got most of my fingers.”

He smirked softly, then motioned toward the fire. “You want the warm seat?”

I shook my head. “No. You look too comfortable. I’ll take this one.”

I dropped into the couch opposite him, tucking my legs beneath me, heart still racing in a way that had nothing to do with the cold anymore.

The room was quiet now — the kind of quiet that settles in when you’re the only two left awake, with the firelight dancing between you, and too many things unsaid.

George tilted his head just slightly, studying me like he was trying to figure out if I was different now.

“So…” he said slowly, “Did he make you laugh?”

I blinked. That wasn’t what I’d expected.

“He tried,” I said honestly.

George nodded, his mouth twitching — not quite a smile. “That sounds about right.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’ve got a scoring system.”

“Maybe I do,” he said with a shrug, voice smooth and teasing. “And let’s just say... he’s not exactly climbing the ranks.”

I laughed. “Well, he did say I have very graceful quill posture.”

George dropped his head back against the couch with an exaggerated groan, clutching his chest like he’d been personally wounded. “Quill posture? Merlin help us.”

I grinned, curling further into the cushions. “You’re just jealous.”

George didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me, for a moment too long, the firelight catching the shift in his expression.

Then he said, quietly — but without looking away, “I am.”

That made me pause. “…What?”

He exhaled through his nose, stood slowly, and crossed the small space between our couches. My heart was pounding before he even sat down beside me.

“I’m jealous,” he repeated, voice lower now. “I’m jealous you haven’t asked me for help with Shield Charms in ages.”

I blinked at him, thrown. “That’s what you’re—?”

“You used to ask me all the time,” he said, resting his arm along the back of the sofa, close but not touching. “Now suddenly you’re laughing at someone else’s jokes, and I’ve been replaced by a bloke who thinks parchment organization is flirting.”

I tried to smother a smile, even as my heart flipped. “You miss tutoring me?”

“I miss you, Y/N.”

He didn’t say it like a confession. He said it like a quiet fact — like it had been true for a while now, and he was just finally done pretending otherwise.

I don’t know what I’d expected him to say — a joke, maybe. A snarky quip. But not that.

Not I miss you.

Something in my chest fluttered, then dropped like a stone.

The fire crackled softly beside us, painting the room in warm gold and flickering shadows. George’s arm was still resting behind me, fingers barely brushing the edge of my shoulder — close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin, but not quite touching.

I swallowed. “I didn’t mean to replace you.”

He tilted his head, eyes still fixed on mine. “Didn’t say you did.”

“I just…” I faltered. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It mattered.”

Those two words landed like a weight between us.

Neither of us looked away.

I became hyper-aware of everything — the warmth of the fire, the steady thrum in my chest, the way his knee just barely bumped mine. His expression had shifted into something softer, something careful.

And then, slowly, he reached out — one hand lifting to gently brush a piece of hair behind my ear. His touch was light. Reverent.

My breath hitched.

His voice, when it came, was softer than I’d ever heard it. “You’ve got time, Y/N. You don’t have to rush into anything.”

I searched his eyes, heartbeat thudding in my throat. “What if I don’t want to wait?”

George didn’t move — not yet. But something flickered in his gaze, and I could feel the shift in the air between us. Like if either of us so much as leaned in an inch, everything would change.

His hand lingered at the side of my face, thumb brushing just barely along my cheek. “You’re dangerous when you say things like that,” he murmured.

“Why?”

He pulled back, clearing his throat with a smirk.

“Well, that’s enough serious talk for one night,” he said, rising from the couch. “Don’t want to give the others the wrong idea.”

I laughed softly, but my heart was still racing.

As he walked away, I realized one thing was clear:

Nothing would ever be the same between us again.

The next morning, sunlight spilled softly through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the room. I woke up feeling oddly light—like the weight of the world had shifted overnight.

I stretched, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. The crisp air turning warmer, the faint scent of blooming flowers drifting down the corridors. It was impossible not to feel a little electric inside.

I found myself humming quietly, the urge to dance rising like a secret fire. Spinning around my dorm room, careful not to wake the others, I felt the pulse of something new, something hopeful.

Even though George had joked about helping me with my Shield Charms — half teasing, half serious — I knew, deep down, he saw me differently. Maybe not saying it out loud, but the way his eyes lingered, the small things he did… He cared.

After Herbology, Cedric caught up with me just outside the greenhouse.

“Hey,” he said with that easy smile. “So… how was Hogsmeade yesterday? Did you have fun? Think we’ll do it again?”

I shrugged, keeping my tone light. “Thanks for the invitation. It was… nice.” I didn’t say whether there’d be a next time.

We started walking toward the castle, the sun warming the early spring air. The path was lined with budding trees, birds chirping overhead — everything felt alive, but my mind was tangled in thoughts of George.

We talked about everything and nothing, jokes slipping between us like sunlight through the leaves. When we reached the edge of the grounds, Cedric stopped and sat on a low stone wall. I hesitated a moment, then joined him.

He looked at me with a calm smile. “You know, I really like how you laugh.”

He leaned in slowly, eyes closing, and the world seemed to slow down around me.

My heart hammered as I started to lean back, unsure, trying to keep some distance — but before I could catch myself, I lost my balance and tumbled backward off the wall, landing on the soft grass with a surprised gasp.

Cedric blinked, clearly startled but amused. “Guess I’ll have to watch my step around you.”

Lying on the soft grass, laughing at my own clumsiness, I realized that I should be with George. With someone who made me forget everything else — without even trying.

Deep down, I already knew it: Cedric was kind, sweet even, but he wasn’t the one who made me feel truly seen. It was George who lingered in my thoughts — even when I tried not to think about him. George, who was always there in the quiet, fleeting moments that said more than a thousand words.

I wanted something more between us. Something deeper. I wanted to spend time with him again — just the two of us, away from the noise and the jokes, no masks, no pretending. Just us, with that slow-burning tension that builds until it finally breaks.

And that’s why, one evening, I asked him for help.

“George, could you help me with that Shield Charm?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager, though I wanted nothing more than for him to say yes.

He looked at me, surprised — but with that same warmth I knew so well.

“I’ll make some time for you — he said with a playful wink.”

The Room of Requirement formed itself just the way I needed — soft candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long, golden shadows. Thick cushions were scattered near the center of the room, and the faint hum of quiet magic lingered in the air, like the room itself knew this wasn’t just about spellwork.

George stepped inside a moment after me, raising an eyebrow as he took it all in.

„Cozy,” he said, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. „Is this what it takes to get proper tutoring these days?”

I rolled my eyes, cheeks warm. „It’s just comfortable. In case the Shield Charm throws me across the room.”

„Good thinking,” he said, brushing past me with that familiar ease. „Wouldn’t want you flying into the wall. I’m quite fond of your bones being in one piece.”

I tried to laugh, but my heart was already thudding in my chest. He dropped onto one of the cushions, casually stretching his legs out in front of him. The flicker of candlelight danced across his hair, turning it to molten copper, and when he looked up at me — really looked — I had to remind myself to breathe.

„Alright, Y/N,” he said, patting the spot in front of him. „Show me what you’ve got.”

I tried the charm. Twice. It fizzled both times.

George tilted his head, watching me closely.

„You’re overthinking it,” he said gently, leaning forward. „Your wrist is too tense. Here…”

And then he reached out, his hand closing lightly around mine.

The touch was soft — almost hesitant — but his skin was warm against mine, and suddenly the air between us changed. His fingers adjusted the angle of my wrist, just barely brushing along the inside of my palm, and for a second, the wand slipped from my grip entirely.

I laughed nervously. „Sorry,” I murmured. „Guess I’m a bit… distracted.”

George looked up at me, his eyes searching mine. „Yeah. Me too.”

Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in, just enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke again.

„You’ve been in my head for weeks, Y/N.”

His voice was low, rough around the edges, like it cost him something to admit it. His gaze dropped for half a second—to my lips, then back up to my eyes. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just aching.

"And it’s been driving me mad," he added, barely above a whisper. "Watching you with him. Trying to pretend I didn’t care. Trying not to care."

I swallowed hard, heart hammering in my chest. "You were jealous," I murmured.

A breath of a laugh left his lips. "Completely. I hated how he looked at you. Like he thought he had a chance."

He paused.

"But it wasn't even about him, really. It was the idea that you could want someone else. That maybe… maybe I was just the funny one. The friend. The background noise."

"George," I breathed, shaking my head. "No. It was never like that."

"I know that now," he said quietly. "But watching you smile at someone else while I was trying not to feel anything… it tore me up."

His hand brushed against mine—fingertips first, then slowly, purposefully, his palm slid against my skin until our fingers tangled.

"You drive me absolutely crazy," he said, his voice soft but full of restraint. "And I’ve tried to be patient. Tried to let you figure things out. But Merlin, Y/N…"

He leaned in closer, lips just grazing the edge of my cheek, his breath hot against my skin.

"I want you so badly it’s killing me."

A slow shiver rolled down my spine. I could feel the air shift — heavy with tension, but intimate, close. Like the world had shrunk to just us.

"And the worst part?" he whispered. "I don’t just want to kiss you. I want more. I want everything—the late nights, the stolen glances, your laugh in my bed, your legs tangled with mine."

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

My voice was barely there when I spoke. "Then take it. Slowly."

His eyes darkened—intense, reverent. He didn’t lunge. He didn’t rush.

Instead, his fingers slid up my arm with agonizing care, brushing the side of my neck. His other hand settled on my waist, grounding, possessive—but gentle.

When his lips finally met mine, it was soft. Testing. Like a question and a promise in one.

And then deeper.

Hotter.

Hungrier.

He tasted like heat and hesitation and finally letting go. His kiss wasn’t perfect. It was real—messy, desperate, slow and burning.

And it said everything he hadn’t.

That he’d waited. That he wanted. And that now, finally, he was done waiting.

His lips moved against mine like he was learning me—slow at first, reverent, then deeper, hungrier, as though weeks of restraint had finally cracked. His hand slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers grazing warm skin, not rushing—just exploring, savoring.

I gasped softly into his mouth, and that sound seemed to undo him.

He groaned, low and quiet, pressing me back gently onto the cushions, his mouth trailing down to my jaw, then my neck, slow, open kisses against my skin that made my spine arch.

"God, Y/N…" he breathed against my throat. "You have no idea how many times I imagined this."

His hand found my waist again, holding me like he couldn’t believe I was real. Like if he let go, I might vanish.

"And it was always like this?" I asked, voice thick, teasing—but trembling too.

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, his thumb brushing under my lip.

"No," he said hoarsely. "It was never this—never this good. Never you."

His lips crashed into mine again, this time more desperate, less careful. Our bodies pressed together, warmth building, friction electric. Every touch sparked something deeper—his hand tangling in my hair, my fingers tugging at the edge of his shirt, nails scraping lightly over skin.

And still, even in the heat of it all, he kept whispering things against my mouth, against my collarbone, like he couldn’t stop:

"You’re driving me insane…"

"You feel so fucking good…"

"I’ve wanted this for so long…"

Every word stoked the fire, each breath tangled with mine. There was no room left between us. No doubt. No going back.

Only want. And him.

George.

Burning against me.

And for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t cold anymore.

[wisteria-lodge]

With how much little presence there is of muggles in the Wizarding world - I do wish we could've seen more of Hermione's parents cuz l think they would've greatly improved the way muggles are generally depicted. As in - raise them to Molly & Arthur level of narrative importance in the story. Cuz, like many people have previously said, the only muggles we truly get to know intimately are the Dursley's and they don't really help combat the stereotypes Purebloods have of them. I seriously didn’t like how much of an after thought Hermione’s parents (and her relationship with them, too!) was in a war about muggle/muggleborn persecution. A war mind you, that didn’t involve muggles themselves participating in! The closest being muggleborns and squibs.

Plus I just think it would’ve been fun seeing Hermione’s parents interacting with Ron’s. Ron’s parents (mainly Arthur) realizing they too have some *unchecked prejudice against Muggles (aka unintentionally infantilizing them) that they didn’t realize they had until speaking to Hermione’s parents. 

It would’ve been a fun & important lesson to show that prejudice isn’t as obvious as calling someone a slur, and how even if you have good intentions you might make a mistake in how you treat *minorities. The take away being that it’s okay to make mistakes so long as you acknowledge where you went wrong and continue helping. As a POC, I have met some well intentioned people who do genuinely want to help with POC issues, but there were times were they went overboard to the point they started speaks for POC instead of letting POC speak for themselves. 

*Re-reading the series as an adult, it really surprised me how many times the characters in the “Good” side said/implied some negative things about Muggles that I expected the characters from the “Bad” side to say. In book 1 alone I was genuinely shocked by how many times Hagrid made underhanded comments about Muggles to Harry, when kid me remembered Hagrid as this big guy who saw the best in everyone. For example, look at this expert:

“S-s-sorry,’ sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. ‘But I c-c-can’t stand it – Lily an’ James dead – an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles –” from PS

Hagrid cries about the tragedy of Harry’s parents dying, which is understandable - but he then goes on to imply that Harry living with Muggles (who are his relatives) is also a tragedy. We can safely assume at this point Hagrid doesn’t personally know how awful the Dursley’s are, only later when he officially meets them when Harry turns 11 years old. So it’s just seems like them being muggles with no magic is awful enough for Hagrid. AND THIS IS IN CHAPTER 1!!!! Hagrid (and other characters) would then go on to say other underhanded comments throughout the series.

It’s moments like those sprinkled throughout which caused me to struggle to become personally invested in the discrimination issues of HP when the narrative punishes the “Bad guys” for how poorly they treat Muggles, all the while giving the “Good guys” a pass 🫤😓

Like with Ron’s speech in The Chamber of Secrets about the word Mudblood:

“…There are some wizards - like Malfoy's family - who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood." He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into his outstretched hand. He threw it into the basin and continued, "I mean, the rest of us know it doesn't make any difference at all…” 

This is a good speech and lesson about how everyone is equal. But with everything I pointed out above, it always kinda fell flat for me.

Doesn’t help that this speech is quickly supported by this:

"An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can' do," said Hagrid proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.

It’s good to highlight that Hermione being Muggleborn is just as capable as any pureblood - But to me, it felt more like Hagrid was saying that despite being raised by muggles, Hermione’s still good at magic. A backhanded compliment so to say. I doubt JKR intended for it to come off that way.

I’m probably just getting that vibe too much given that in the previous book, Hagrid says something similar along those lines earlier in The Philosopher Stone, Ch.5 to Harry when discussing about how, despite coming from a Muggle family and having a muggle sister, Lily was a great wizard. Again, this is a backhanded compliment from one of the “good” guys about muggles. In other words, this could just be a “me” issue.

(To Hagrid lovers: I’m so sorry for all the shade I’m throwing at him 😓😓😓 

I don’t mean to talk negatively about his character. He just so happens to be the first Wizard Harry meets to talk about muggles. He definitely isn’t the only “Good guy” in the story that suffers from this flaw. With others being Arthur, Molly, Sirius, Dumbledore, Ron, and Harry to name a few. Even Hermione, the one with muggle parents, has her moments with the most obvious one being tampering with their memories to keep them safe from the war. Straight up taking away all agency from them on whether they would like to even help with the war efforts at least.

So - this is less me criticizing Hagrid’s character and more so me criticizing how JKR handles her “Good guys” speaking about muggles and their issues.

Basically pointing out how JKR doesn’t really handle discrimination well in the HP universe once you start thinking critically about it) 

*Side note, it’s so strange how muggles are both treated as minority AND a majority in HP Britain. With muggles being more prominent in Britain overall but a minority in the small community of the Wizarding World of Britain. Same goes for Wizards, they are technically the overall minority in Britian. With Ron even saying:

“…Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn’t married Muggles we’d’ve died out.” from COS

yet in the overall story of HP they are the majority and muggles the minority. Once again highlighting how JKR probably didn’t mean to focus too much on discrimination issues -> thus didn’t originally plan for it to become a focal point of the story until much later on. Which resulted in her being unable to plan for it properly on a tight schedule.

This is just speculation at the end of the day though. 

It is SUCH a strange decision to keep Hermione's parents out of the narrative. My GUESS is that this might be a a sort of Buffy the Vampire syndrome - like our school age-characters can have one (1) set of parents on screen, otherwise it becomes too much of a story about parents, and is no longer fun for the kids.

(this is no longer the accepted wisdom in young adult media. Think about how much screentime is given to the parents in like, Riverdale, or Percy Jackson.)

OR... JKR just doesn't like writing muggles. This is also possible. Like one of her greatest strengths as a writer is coming up with memorable side characters. At least give Doctor and Doctor Granger names, you know?

I would also love it if the text seemed to - at least notice? some of the more subtle kinds of anti-muggle discrimination we've got going on. Like Arthur's touristy, paternalistic, "oh how cute, what a clever job they're doing, lets bring home the merch." Or the way Hagrid uses muggle as a qualitative insult, not a neutral binary. ("you grew up in a family o’ the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on.") OR Ron and Hagrid's attempts to cheer up Hermione by saying that Draco is wrong to call her a mudblood BECAUSE she is good at magic. Like, gee. I hope this doesn't link Hermione's self worth to her grades in a way that leads to a breakdown the following year when she uses time-travel to take as many classes as possible.

I've always said that JKR is a good observer of human nature, but her framing is off. Like all of this is believable, well written discrimination... but I'm not sure the text knows that.

[lovelyrecs]

okay i am LOVING reader and bucky as a couple. they're so cute man i can't get over them :( they're so HAPPY they deserve it

also. i know it would've been too cheesy and it wouldn't have made sense with how you've gone with the story (actually putting time into understand marvel time stone magic. super impressive by the way you're like doctor strange to me) but i'm so sad they didn't get out of the loop just by confessing... but also i get like three more chapters so not that upset. but now i am out of ideas on how the heck they're going to get out of this

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Yeah, never mind. It was just the light.”

or maybe you breaking this loop depends on your character and relationship development

You rip your hand out of Bucky’s, and the world around you vanishes in a stream of multicolor as he shouts your name.

so it does depend on them touching each other?

OR she tried to avoid all of it by just restarting and that's why this happened

These past few weeks, it’s been a quiet thought, pushed to the very back of your mind with everything else going on. You know that you’ll make it out, which is some relief, but what if it’s just you?

oh fuck i never even considered this. you wouldn't do this to us though right. this wouldn't be an option though right. i didn't even think about the possibility because it's so far out of left field that it's impossible. i was right for that right. right.

And so you’re afraid that in the grand scheme of things, love alone won’t be enough.

IT HAS TO IT HAS TO BE

The look in his eyes is devastating, and you wonder how it’s taken you so long to recognize the longing in it. He lets you see it so clearly now, but it’s been there for a long, long time, in flashes and stolen moments, barely concealed behind a veneer of indifference. You’re sure he can see it mirrored in your own gaze right now; you’re almost bursting with it.

THE INDESCRIBABLE THING SHE KEPT SEEING. FROM CHAPTER ONE. YOU'RE A GENIUS.

“Yeah, I know. I mean, I heard, I wasn’t there.” Peter clears his throat, tucking his hands into his armpits. “So where’s the bird?”

i realized this a few chapters back but i kept forgetting to say it but. he's forgotten peter :( that's so sad, he thought reader remembered him because she'd somehow gotten through the spell but no she's just stuck in an impossible time loop

Funny, you think, how the timing of your intervention seems to completely derail his day. Last time, he said he was visiting his aunt.

what the hell is this guy doing

“I won’t be blamed if you malfunction. Are you dishwasher safe?”

LMAOOO

“Lost, I think,” you say, even though it seems lacking. Steve’s out-of-timeliness had always been very different to Bucky’s. You used to think he’d managed to rearrange himself over the years, to reorient himself in this new reality. You didn’t realize he’d used an old compass before it was too late.

what a line. you managed to describe it perfectly. to me in the real world, who is (are? am?) still incredibly upset over how things went, and to everyone in the avengers world

You rub the empty spot on your pinkie. “That’s the part you’re not gonna like. As long as I’m stuck in the loop, my powers have to keep it upright. They’re tied up in it, that’s why I can’t use them. It’s perpetual motion in a closed system.”

oh man. she's gonna have been right. this makes sense but they're finally happy!!! why!!!!

okay but wait! wait! i think she's right, she's the one responsible for this loop, so she has to break it, and if she can't, she has to take what's holding it up out from under it. then it'll stop. that's what strange's book said... maybe... because the words floated away. maybe she does have to do something but maybe it's not die. maybe?

“To be honest, I don’t really give a shit.” Sam reaches out a hand. “Buck …” “No, Sam. Why don’t I ever get to be selfish?” He shakes his head, his eyes welling up. “Why is it that every time I get a little bit of good in my life, the world’s about to end?”

NO BECAUSE HE'S RIGHT. AND I SWEAR TO FUCK IF IT DOES END UP WORKING BUT THEY GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING OF THE DAY IN THE ORIGINAL TIMELINE AND HE CAN'T REMEMBER THIS SHIT I WILL BE CALLING A LAWYER

“How are you even going to know you have to do that if you don’t remember anything about today?” Your mouth opens, then closes again. It’s a very good question, one you don’t know how to answer. How do you finish something you won’t know you’ve started?

and also how is she going to do that? she has to put the timeline back the way it's supposed to be but she doesn't even know what that's supposed to look like now after months of trying? does she just try her best to keep bucky safe?? and ALSO! SHE'S NOT GOING TO REMEMBER THE LOOP SO SHE'S NOT GOING TO REMEMBER HER AND BUCKY??? WHY NO jUST LET THE TIMELINE COLLAPSE

“There’s another problem, too,” Sam says frowning at the whiteboard. “Say it all works out like you’re saying and you get out of the loop while Bucky’s still inside. That means you have one shot. And if it doesn’t work …” Yeah. You’ve seen it, too. It’s the biggest risk of your plan, and there’s no safety net that you can put up. If it doesn’t work, Bucky’s going to stay stuck in the loop forever.

okay i don't love saying this but i don't love this plan

You trust him with your life and you trust him with his, and that’s just going to have to be enough.

but does original loop reader? :(

“You …” He sighs. “I don’t want to lose this.”

i don't want them to lose this either 😭

WHY WOULD SHE DO THAT IN FRONT OF HIM

time after time [11]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 9.8k

chapter warnings: time travel 101 (until your head hurts); suicidal ideation within a time loop; a dash of smut 💚 please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: it's like 3am and i've definitely missed some typos and/or descriptors but i really wanted to post this one. we've almost made it folks!!

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

eleven: tomorrow we live

You weren’t well after the battle.

You’d kept yourself out of sight for the most part, evading Strange and the other Masters while kicking alien ass and trying to save as many of your people as you could. You managed, right up until Tony’s snap.

You’d never known him that well, hadn’t particularly liked him much from what you were told, but Pepper Potts had invited you to Morgan’s third birthday party along with Natasha and you’d seen the way that little girl’s eyes lit up when she looked at her dad, and the way he looked back at her. It had made you ache.

Now, you saw him make the decision to end all of this, far ahead in the distance, and all you could do was scream. Because you’d seen what kind of toll it took on a person, and you knew what it meant for his child.

You tried to reset it, but your powers were weak and you were tired and too far away. You only made it back a few seconds and had to watch him snap again. Then, your knees gave way and the world turned black.

You had a strange dream. You were standing in a twilight realm with nothing but a shallow body of water surrounding you. It was quiet, the air impossibly still, and when you moved, the water didn’t make a sound.

"Still not good enough, I see."

Kaecilius looked the same as he did in your nightmares, a stern face and purple-rimmed eyes.

"You’re not here," you whispered. "You’re dead."

"For now," he agreed.

Your hands balled into fists by your sides. "I’m not afraid of you."

Your voice only shook a little bit.

"Of course not," Kaecilius replied. "Fear would be useful." He lifted his arms. "Look around. What do you see?"

"Nothing," you said. "It’s empty."

"Is it, now?"

You watched the shaking reflections at your feet. A dull greenish glimmer surrounded your mirror image, like something was shining at you from behind. When you turned to look over your shoulder, there was nothing.

"Untethered," Kaecilius said quietly.

"What?"

"That’s the price for freedom." He tilted his chin to look at you, and there was that familiar tug in your chest. "Tell me, was it worth it?"

"I lost everything once. I’m not doing it again."

"Oh, but you will."

You couldn’t tell if it was meant as a promise or a warning. Before you could say anything else, the world around you began to flicker at its edges and faded into true nothingness, once and for all.

When you woke up in the med wing, they told you Steve had gone.

"Gone?" you asked, confused. "Gone where?"

"Back," they said, but that was impossible. He was a man out of time, always had been, but he wasn’t supposed to get lost. He had found his place, right here, with his friends, with his family, now that everyone was finally back. He was supposed to be there as you all rebuilt the world.

After Nat, you hadn’t expected to lose him, too, when you’d already lost so many people, and so your body didn’t know how to react. You were stuck in shock and grief in a frozen universe for hours before sleep finally dragged you back down and the world resumed, as it always did.

Continuing, despite.

If this was victory, you didn’t want any part in it.

* * * * *

You’re so warm.

You blink into consciousness deliciously slowly, the midday sun tickling your nose. A steady heartbeat thrums right underneath your ear. You cannot remember the last time you slept this comfortably.

Bucky gently squeezes your side, his right hand continuing to trace invisible lines on the back of your neck. "Hey."

"Hi."

How strange to think that you might just be allowed to kiss him now. How adrenaline spiking.

So you do.

You’re still sprawled on top of Bucky, and nothing has ever felt as right as brushing your lips against his and having him hum into your mouth in response. Again. Again. Why couldn’t the rest of the loop have been just like this?

"We should probably get up," he says finally.

"Are you kidding? I’m never getting up from this couch again." You snuggle closer to him, your nose pressing against his neck. "Tell me something I don't know."

His soft laugh shakes your entire body. "There's several books I could fill with stuff you don't know about."

"Well, I'm starting to run out of things to read, anyway."

Bucky’s fingers keep wandering, brushing your ear, your cheek, careful, soothing touches. As if he’s not quite certain, yet, that you’re not just going to vanish between his hands.

"You were never afraid of me," he says quietly.

You keep playing with the collar of his shirt, the fabric softened with wear. "Why would I have been afraid of you?"

"Even when we first met, when I was awful to you—"

"You weren't awful—"

"No, I was. And you didn't care. At first I thought it was because of your powers, but …" He lets out a sigh. "It's been a very long time since a complete stranger's treated me like a normal guy."

You prop up your chin on his chest. "You are a normal guy."

There's protest in his eyes, but he doesn't voice it. "It was nice," he says instead, "to get to just be myself."

"Ah. So your true self is a complaining asshole."

A playful grin twinkles in his eyes. "Don't pretend like you've hated all of our fights."

You roll your eyes and kiss him again. "I much prefer this."

"Good," Bucky says into your mouth, his voice lower than usual. "Me too."

"Glad we’re agreed for once."

He smiles against your lips, deepening the kiss. You trace the ghost of his dimples underneath his stubbled cheeks, slipping your hands into his hair as he rolls you both over, his weight pressing down on you, your mind finally, blissfully shutting up. You could stay forever in this moment.

"Really? On the couch? Don’t you people have rooms? You know, with doors you could lock?"

"Busted," you stage-whisper.

Bucky’s pupils are huge as he stares down at you, lips red, his hair perfectly mussed. The sight makes you stupidly happy.

Sam clears his throat exaggeratedly, and when your gaze turns to him, he has a shit-eating grin on his face. "Nice to see the two of you … getting along."

"Shut up, Sam," you both say at the same time.

"Seriously though, this," he gestures vaguely at both of you with his spoon, "is good, and it's about damn time, but get a room."

"Don’t you have a speech to write?" Bucky says roughly.

"Get lost, Barnes," Sam replies.

Bucky's smile flickers as he catches your lips with his one more time before sitting up, pulling you with him. His fingers interlock with yours easily, like he's been doing it for ages, his thumb circling the back of your hand.

Something in your chest aches when he pulls away from you, half-expecting the world to fall away and for you to wake up alone in your bed again; but nothing happens. Still, you don't want him to stop touching you, and not just for reality's sake.

"Did you want something?" Bucky asks, talking to Sam while keeping his attention on you.

"Lunch. How do you guys feel about Italian?"

"God, no," Bucky says.

"Literally anything else, please," you say.

"Alright, subtle," Sam snorts. "What, then?"

Bucky raises his eyebrows at you. "I can make lunch," he suggests.

"Jesus Christ," Sam replies.

"Italian sounds great, actually," you add.

"Hey," Bucky says, frowning at you.

"I don't want flames erupting from the oven again."

"That was one time and also not my fault."

One time that he remembers, at least. "Then whose was it, the cat's?"

Alpine, who’s just entered the couch table, meows in protest.

"I can cook," Bucky says.

"Anyone can cook," you reply sweetly. "Doesn't mean everyone should."

"Bold statement from someone who burns coffee for a living."

"If I don’t get another suggestion in the next ten seconds, you can both starve," Sam interrupts.

You think about any options you’ve not grown completely sick of yet. "How about Korean?"

"Thank you," he says, going back to his laptop. The conversation stalls for a while as you try to ignore Bucky’s sideward glances. Finally, Sam looks back at the two of you again, his eyebrow raised. "So when exactly did that happen?"

You exchange a quick look.

"Now, come on, Sam," Bucky says with a smirk. "It’s not like it came overnight."

"You sure about that?" you grin.

"Ew," Sam says. "Whatever that just was, ew. I’m retracting my question. I’m going to make a call."

"Say hi to Sarah!" you call after him.

He makes a crude gesture with his spoon that makes you laugh.

"What was that about my cooking?" Bucky says.

"We’ll work on it," you grin. "We might need another fifty Fridays or so, but one day I’m sure you’ll—" You yelp when he abruptly pulls you into his lap.

"I’ll what?" he asks, and his breath brushes over your lips.

You swallow. "Get there eventually."

"Anyone ever tell you you’re awfully bossy?"

"You did." You lean closer again, lowering your voice. "I think you like it."

He doesn’t respond verbally to that.

Without breaking the kiss, you reach for his left hand and pull it around yourself, shivering pleasantly at the cool touch against your skin. He hesitates briefly before letting his metal fingers curl around your waist, grasping you tighter.

Finally, with a groan, he gently pushes you away.

"I hate to say it," he says, sounding almost wrecked, "but Sam might be onto something."

"You okay?"

He laughs breathlessly, a distinct blush spreading on his cheeks. "Give me a moment."

Alpine chooses that exact moment to claim her spot on the couch once again, meowing at both of you disapprovingly. You can’t help but grin, pulling her onto your lap as you move back onto the couch, careful to keep touching Bucky in at least some way or other.

"Dialing it back, Sarge. Understood."

"Don’t," he hisses.

You tilt your head in delight. "I’m learning so much about you."

He pokes your side and you snort.

For a couple of minutes, you scratch Alpine’s chin and play with her paws, leaning against Bucky’s vibranium arm. She seems perfectly content with all of it, not even extending her claws.

"How do you feel about coffee?" you ask when you feel Bucky relax behind you again.

"Why not," he replies.

"Perfect. One sec." You raise your voice. "Do you want something from Starbucks?"

"Something iced!" Sam shouts back from the other room. "Is the kitchen safe again now?"

"Shut up!" you both reply.

Bucky’s picked up on the fact that he shouldn’t let go of you so the universe doesn’t reset again, or he simply doesn’t want to. You can’t bring yourself to mind either way.

You’re almost delirious with happiness when you’re back in the elevator and he pulls you against him again. You’re still in your pyjamas, probably spattered with blood, and you couldn’t have given less of a shit.

There’s something solid peeking out from underneath Bucky’s shirt, and you frown. "What’s that?"

He hesitates for a moment before pulling on the chain of his dog tags.

It’s your ring.

The ring you used to wear on your pinkie. The one you thought had vanished many loops ago on the floor of your bathroom, threaded through the metal chain to rest above his heart.

"It kept appearing in my pocket," he explains. "I didn’t want to lose it."

You press your lips against his again, a soft, silent thank you. "Keep it," you say.

Something catches your eye like a glint of impossibility, a strange trick of holographic lighting: a tiny spec of green. Before you can take a closer look, however, the elevator pings and you have to step outside into the lobby.

You raise your free hand and look at the rings you’re still wearing out of habit. They’re all pitch black.

"You okay?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah," you mumble. "Yeah, never mind. It was just the light."

It’s busy outside, the midday sun frying the concrete. You don’t talk as you make your way through the crowd, sticking as closely together as possible. At a red light, you manage to steal another kiss and Bucky looks at you like you’ve hung the moon.

"They’re out of iced tea at this time," you tell him, enjoying the feeling of his hand on your lower back. "But if we get Sam a cold brew, I think we should be …"

Your voice trails off when you look around the store. Apart from the two people behind the counter, it’s completely empty. A shiver runs down your spine.

"Something’s wrong," you say.

Bucky tenses, grasping your hand more tightly and putting himself in front of you. The coffee grinder howls, the sound echoing in the empty building.

Slowly, you step up to the counter.

"Hi, welcome to Starbucks." Lucy looks past you like she’s talking to someone invisible standing right between you two. After a pause, she nods and taps at the register. "And will that be for here or to go?"

"Luce?" you say carefully.

"Alright," she smiles. Her colorful make-up is running down the side of her face like red-white-and-blue tears. "It’ll be right over there. Oh, careful about that spill, we’re working on it. Hi, welcome to Starbucks."

"Whole place looks deserted," Bucky tells you.

"Sorry, what was that?" Lucy says.

"It’s like we’re not here," you say quietly.

"It’s not just her," he says. "Look."

Over at the pick-up counter, there’s a pile of spilled cups on the floor. The second barista behind the bar doesn’t notice any of them. He keeps shoving them down by placing new cups in the same spot. Perfectly rehearsed and executed each time, except he’s performing for nobody.

"Like they’re stuck in their script," Bucky says.

"This is bad," you say, "this is really, really bad."

"Hey." He tugs you closer, his eyes locking with yours. "It’s probably just another glitch."

"No, Strange warned me something like this would happen at some point."

Reality folding in on itself.

You bite your cheek so hard it hurts. "The loop is at breaking point. We’re running out of time."

"But that’s good news, right? We’re getting closer to it being over."

"No, it’s not." Your voice is wavering. "I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do."

"Ask for a frappuccino and I will fucking murder you," Lucy says.

You turn towards her again.

"I swear," she continues, fixing her hair with perfectly mechanical movements, "if I see another child today, I’m gonna quit."

"That bad?" you ask quietly.

Her gaze focuses and she turns to stare right at you with clear, empty eyes. "Please kill me."

There’s not a hint of her usual dryness in her voice. You instinctively retreat, bumping into Bucky as you do. The steamer howls, the only noise in the sudden silence.

Lucy keeps looking at you, not keeping up with her own lines. Like she’s waiting for you, or something else.

Please kill me.

You shake your head, sick to your stomach. "I can’t."

An actual tear rolls down her face, and then she snaps her head back to stare at empty air again. "Usual," she says, but it’s not a question this time.

Useless.

You rip your hand out of Bucky’s, and the world around you vanishes in a stream of multicolor as he shouts your name.

* * *

"You talk to her," Sam says, his voice muffled through the door.

There’s a murmur too low for you to understand from where you’re hiding underneath your blanket, pressing the palms of your hands to the sockets of your eyes. The band around your wrist is whirring wildly.

One day.

You’d gotten less than a single day, a single morning of everything working out, of finally thinking that maybe things wouldn’t always be this bad. Of feeling something like hope.

It’d been foolish.

You’re still stuck on Friday, and reality is still crumbling around you, or fading away, or maybe melting into another one; you don’t even know anymore. You’re so sick of this.

You can hear the crunch of your lock being reduced to pieces, and then slow, soft steps into your room. With a soft click, the door closes again. You stay under your blanket.

"Y/N," Bucky says softly.

"I can’t."

He lets out a breath, and your mattress dips. Gently, he pulls the blanket off your head.

Geez, you hate the way he looks at you. Like you’re about to break, and he’s just waiting patiently to pick up each piece and mend them together again.

What the hell have you done to deserve to be looked at like that?

"Hi," he says, and your vision blurs.

You want to kiss him again. You want to wrap yourself around him and protect him from whatever bullshit this day decides to throw at you next.

"Everything is falling apart," you whisper. "It’s gonna keep happening until we find a way out. I’m nowhere closer to knowing what I’m supposed to do, and so we keep circling around, making everything worse. And what if—" You cut yourself off, pressing a hand to your mouth.

"What if what?"

What if it’s just you?

These past few weeks, it’s been a quiet thought, pushed to the very back of your mind with everything else going on. You know that you’ll make it out, which is some relief, but what if it’s just you?

Strange never said anything about Bucky, and you’re still beating yourself up over not asking.

What if this, all of this, will have been for nothing?

No, you can’t think like that.

You put one hand on Bucky’s chest, feeling his heartbeat underneath your palm, soft and steady. He’s still breathing, and that’s all that counts for now.

You’ve made it this far, right?

"I’m just so scared," you whisper. It’s the truth, after all.

"Me too," he says quietly. Both of his hands cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping the tears from your cheeks. "But we’re getting so close. I know it. We just need to keep going. You need to keep going."

A wet laugh bubbles up your throat. "You’re putting a lot of faith into someone who’s not been able to use her powers at all in months at this point."

"Is that what you’re worried about?"

Is it? Truth be told, you’ve gotten so used to the absence of time magic running through your veins. There’s an empty space at your core where you used to be able to feel it, tucked safely away, a reassuring connection to the flow of time itself.

Ever since your visit to the Sanctum, you’ve become very aware that you’re missing that link now. There’s a void inside you that’s been growing whilst you were looking away, a black hole that tastes like regret and loneliness.

All those years, and still …

"My powers were never something I wanted to have, and they’re … I used to feel like an anomaly. Like a mistake. But now …" You swallow a sob. "Everything is going wrong, and now they’ve been gone for so long, and I feel like a part of me is just missing."

It’s such a selfish thing to care about, but Bucky’s been nothing but honest with you, and you owe him as much.

"And so I keep wondering, what if I can never get them back? Or I do, just to stop the loop, but the price to end all of this is giving them up? I mean, what am I going to do then?"

What a waste of time.

You’re so tired, and weary, and sick of having to lean on other people. You should be able to do this, of all things, on your own.

Even when you couldn’t properly control your powers, at least they were yours and yours alone. There was a certain merit in being the only one of your kind, too; no one knew how to control you.

And yet, looking back, it all seems like wasted time you could’ve spent doing good, learning to understand them more intricately, to use them for more important things than getting out of awkward conversations and keeping yourself safe.

Without them gone, would you ever have honestly stopped trying to avoid situations that left you cut open and vulnerable, just as you are right now?

Untethered.

"Hey," Bucky says again and you blink back into the moment. "Didn’t you tell me that the Winter Soldier doesn’t define me? Well, your powers don’t define you."

"But I don’t want to lose them," you say quietly.

Despite the chaos they’re brought. Despite all your mistakes and shortcomings, despite the loop, despite everything that would never have happened without you having these powers in the first place. Because you’re just starting to accept them for what they really are: a gift, and a curse.

It doesn’t have to be one or the other.

"You’ll get them back," Bucky says. Sometimes, you do wonder where he gets his relentless confidence in you from.

"You don’t know that," you say quietly.

He huffs. "You hate clichés. Stop thinking you’re doomed to live in one. That’s not like you."

"Then what is?"

He presses his forehead to yours, and your eyes flutter closed. "You fight."

You can’t help but laugh. "I’m not a fighter."

"Didn’t say you were. I said you fight. You don’t give up so easily."

"Maybe I should. Might save me a lot of racing thoughts."

"You would be bored in five minutes." The knowing smile in his voice is really annoying. "You’re not so bad the way you are, you know."

"I’m not that great, either, though."

"Look at me?"

You do, his hand gently tipping your chin. He’s always so gentle with you.

"Powers or not, doesn’t matter. You’re still you. I wouldn’t want you to be anything else. It’s more than I … it’s more than enough."

His heart is pounding underneath your palm, and there are too many emotions written across his face to make sense of them all, but you feel them. Heartbreakingly so.

"It shouldn’t be," you say. "It’s killed you. Multiple times."

"I don’t care. I’m still here, and so are you. I’ve watched you do great things with and without your powers, time after time, and you’re gonna continue doing that over and over again." He smiles at you in that way of his, soft and sure. "We’ll be okay."

You love him. The thought rushes through you without a shadow of a doubt, a knowledge so certain it might as well be written across your forehead. You love Bucky Barnes with every fiber of your heart.

The problem is, he’s right. You hate clichés.

And so you’re afraid that in the grand scheme of things, love alone won’t be enough.

You lean in to hug him again and his arms envelop you perfectly, like this was where you were supposed to be all along. You bury your nose in his neck and inhale deeply, and you’ve never wanted to freeze a moment in time more than you do right then.

"I want to kiss you so bad right now." A whisper against his skin, another teardrop on his shirt.

His hand comes up to your neck again, pulling you back.

The look in his eyes is devastating, and you wonder how it’s taken you so long to recognize the longing in it. He lets you see it so clearly now, but it’s been there for a long, long time, in flashes and stolen moments, barely concealed behind a veneer of indifference. You’re sure he can see it mirrored in your own gaze right now; you’re almost bursting with it.

You nudge your nose against his, once, twice, and he shivers.

"We need to stop," he whispers, even though he sounds like stopping is the very last thing he wants to do. You can relate. There’s a hair’s breadth between your lips and it takes every single ounce of self-control you have not to close that distance.

The memory of how he kisses you is still too fresh in your mind. The way he perfectly molds into you, the way he holds you like you’re something precious, even now. Like he’s got all the time in the world.

Except you don’t.

There’s still so much you haven’t figured out, and no telling how many loops you have left before reality collapses entirely.

Reluctantly, you pull away from him once again, wrapping your arms around yourself instead. No matter what you do, it always seems one step forwards and two steps back with you and Bucky.

"Okay," you say quietly, letting out one long breath and then nodding. "What’s the plan?"

The corners of Bucky’s eyes crinkle with a grin.

* * *

"What do you want with Redwing?" Sam asks skeptically.

"Repair it." Bucky leans against the kitchen counter. His hair is still damp from his shower, and your eyes keep getting drawn to a single curl that’s hanging into his face.

Sam scoffs and continues his typing. "If it were that easy, I’d have fixed them already. One’s sensors got fried in that explosion, and the bullet that hit Two splintered into about five million tiny pieces."

"Sorry about that," you say.

"You didn’t shoot at him." He pauses, narrowing his eyes at you. "Tell me you didn’t shoot at him."

"I did not shoot at Redwing." You didn’t reset it happening, either, but you feel like now might not be the time to fess up.

"It’s going to take forever to patch them both up again, and I’ve not had that kind of time lately," Sam says, tilting his head at his laptop as a case in point. You feel awful.

"Let me take a look," Bucky presses.

"No offence, man, but you’re not exactly MacGyver," Sam grimaces. "And it’s not like there’s spare parts just lying around the place."

"Redwing’s Stark tech, right?" you ask thoughtfully.

"Wakandan. But the hardware’s still similar enough."

"I have an idea," you say, checking the time. "Either of you guys hungry yet?"

"I don’t know about this," Sam says about forty minutes and one time loop explanation later, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "How old did you say you are?"

"He’s a great kid," you tell him. "He’s a candidate for MIT."

Peter blinks. "I didn’t say—anyway, I, uhm. I used to intern at Stark Industries, so sure, I could take a look at it."

"Did you now," Sam says dryly.

"Yup. Just one summer though. Before the …" He swallows. "I was gone."

Something softens a little in Sam’s expression. "Same here, kiddo."

"Yeah, I know. I mean, I heard, I wasn’t there." Peter clears his throat, tucking his hands into his armpits. "So where’s the bird?"

"Why are you trying to fix your archnemesis?" you say, catching up with Bucky.

"It’s not my—" He cuts himself off, rolling his eyes when you grin. "I’d like an audio recording of the crowd when Sam gives his speech."

"Why?"

He hesitates. "It’s probably not even about the loop. It’s just …"

That frown you can recognize. That inkling suspicion, that 'it’s probably nothing, but I’d like confirmation'. It usually means he’s onto something.

"A clue?"

"Sure. Maybe. A clue."

"Okay then." You slip your pinkie into his.

"What," he chuckles, squeezing back, "no criticizing my plans?"

"I am nothing if not out of ideas," you sigh. "And who knows, maybe it’ll help."

You don’t usually go into Tony Stark’s old workroom. Most of the interesting stuff got packed up before the move to Avengers Campus, leaving a sterile looking, well-lit room with a large work bench and a single old rolling chair that Peter plops onto.

The Redwings are a rather sorry sight, laid out in their cases with all the extra pieces collected in small plastic bags. All of you watch as Peter cracks his knuckles before he carefully unscrews the busted top of Redwing One’s casing. Sam is hovering over his shoulder like he’s about to grade his efforts.

Waiting’s the worst part. At your request, FRIDAY puts on a 70s playlist that makes Sam tap his foot while he questions whether Peter’s declared his major yet—"no, uhm, they want us to do that at the end of our first year and I’ve not been admitted yet, so"—and his most recent eye appointment—"my vision’s 20/20, sir"—until they both finally let out a deep breath.

"Getting the spare parts won’t be the problem," Peter says, swiveling around in his chair. "I have that sorta stuff at home, it’s just a question of replacing the nanosensors and soldering the PCB."

"Sure," you say, understanding most of those words individually.

"The problem is, it’ll take me a couple of hours. There’s no way for me to get it done until, what, 2 p.m.? If we rush, dust could get into the circuit and it’ll all be a worse mess than it is right now."

"Told you," Sam says.

"What about the other one?" Bucky asks.

Peter grimaces. "That one’s gonna need a proper cleaning, ideally with ultrasonic equipment to get all the particles out. Sorry, Sarge."

Bucky just nods, then leaves the room without another word.

"I got it," Sam tells you when you start after him. "Put that lid back on and step away, MIT."

Peter holds up both of his hands, eyes flicking towards you. "Can’t break it if the loop resets, right?"

"You’re good," you confirm, still looking at the door.

His shoulders lose some of their tension as he leans back in his chair, clearly still impressed with everything going on. "So, how does it work?"

Your laugh comes out a little shrill. "I wish I could tell you."

"There was an episode of Star Trek TNG where they got stuck in a collision loop." He plays around with the screwdriver he’s still holding, his hands surprisingly quick. "Have you tried sending yourself messages as well?"

"Kind of," you say, thinking of Bucky’s writing on your arm and the tally marks on your legs.

"So cool."

"I don’t know about that," you reply. "It’s been weeks, and I still don’t understand how this loop is working. Especially now that there’s two of us who are aware it’s happening. Does that mean it’s still just one reality on repeat?"

Peter shrugs. "I dunno, I don’t know much about it, but in my experience, reality’s just what people remember. Who says there’s much more to it?"

"Right," you say. "It’s just us two getting looped. Your reality is mostly fine, it just happens over and over. But if you don’t realize that it does, it’s not actually a loop."

"I mean, maybe, maybe."

Maybe.

You can’t just separate one from the other. There’s that thing called the first law of thermodynamics.

"You know much about thermodynamics, Peter?"

"The, uh, basics, I guess? Perpetual motion is impossible, energy consumed by a system must be resupplied by an external source, everything is balance, that sorta stuff?"

Magic, as a whole, is always a balancing act.

You massage your stinging temples. "Top of your class, were you?"

Something flickers across his face before he smiles. "Nah. I’m more of an applied physics guy."

Once all of this is over, maybe you could introduce him to Bruce. He might enjoy the pop culture references as well.

Before you can suggest as much, Peter takes a look at his phone and curses under his breath. "Shoot, I’m sorry, I gotta go, I got a—photography club."

"Sure, don’t worry about it," you say. The symbols around your wrist tingle again, and you distractedly trace them with your thumb.

Funny, you think, how the timing of your intervention seems to completely derail his day. Last time, he said he was visiting his aunt.

* * *

Here’s the thing: When you’re able to travel through time, looking at the past becomes surprisingly emotionally taxing. Remembering what could have been, what might have been, what should have been in another, better universe is, you suppose, hard on everyone.

For someone with the ability to theoretically do something about all these what ifs, it’s ulcer inducing.

These are the kind of things, therefore, you force yourself to suppress most of the time. Ironically, it’s mostly the sort of moments that, at the time, you want to freeze and preserve forever. Looking back, they’re the ones that hurt the most.

Sometimes, though, you can’t help it. Some routines, some rituals that were established during happier times demand to be maintained, even if you’re the only one who remembers them anymore. Even if there’s other, more pressing things to do, secrets to work out, realities to stabilize.

Your hands know this rhythm.

You’ve let FRIDAY put on some music from one of Sam’s favorite playlists again, and you watch him nod along as he’s typing away on his laptop with a faraway focus. You smile as you wash your hands again, preheat the oven, grease your pan.

It takes him a little while to consciously notice what you’re doing. "Really?" he says. "It’s in the fricking nineties today and you’re baking?"

"We have a functioning AC," you reply. "I thought we should celebrate that."

"The planet is dying."

Be that it were only the planet.

"I’m making turtle pie," you say. "And cinnamon rolls."

That seems to placate him for the time being, because he moves to the living room area without further complaint.

You grimace in concentration as you transfer your pie crust to the pan for prebaking. You’ve never been particularly skilled at pies, but you’ve been living by the motto "trying counts for something" in all other aspects of life lately.

"You’re hovering again, Barnes," you say without turning.

"You’re baking." The surprise in his voice makes you smile.

"I am," you say. "Notice how there aren’t any flames erupting around me."

"Yet," Bucky says, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "I didn’t know you could bake."

"You never asked." You dust your hands off the excess flour. "It’s easier to think when I have something else to focus on, you know?"

"Can I help?"

You’re tempted to make another dig at his baking skills, but the way he looks at you makes you reconsider. "Can you knead with that arm?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

"I won’t be blamed if you malfunction. Are you dishwasher safe?"

"Give me that." He frowns slightly, looking at the ingredients you’ve started to measure out into your mixing bowl. "I thought you’re making pie?"

"I am. Well, and these."

"Ambitious." He swoops a finger through the mixture to try.

"Lots of thoughts require ambitious projects to procrastinate with."

He nods, and you fall into a sort of companionable silence you’ve not felt with him in a while. Sometimes, your arms brush as you work, and it sends a warm shiver up your entire arm.

You want to interlock your fingers again, pull him towards you, see if you can taste a hint of cinnamon on his lips.

"During the Blip …" you start, immediately unsure whether you want to share this particular story or not.

You watch Bucky’s hands, continuing to slowly and methodically fold the flour into the dough.

"Nat wasn’t allowed in the kitchen at all. She was so much worse than you." You laugh when he elbows you. "But there’s this stress-relief in baking, you know? In doing something with your hands, and by the end of it, you’ve got something you can give to others."

"I get that," he says, scraping at a particularly sticky piece of dough.

You nod and measure out your sugar. "Steve had a lot of late nights, especially those first couple of years, and there was only so much to do at all when you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere with everyone blaming you for half the globe being gone."

"How was he?" There’s a careful fondness in Bucky’s voice that he usually hides. It makes you think about your answer.

"Lost, I think," you say, even though it seems lacking. Steve’s out-of-timeliness had always been very different to Bucky’s. You used to think he’d managed to rearrange himself over the years, to reorient himself in this new reality.

You didn’t realize he’d used an old compass before it was too late.

"I mean, everyone was," you add, even though you don’t really know why you’re defending him.

"Were you?"

"Desperately," you huff. "Turns out, though, when the world around you is upside down, it’s really nice to have some fixed points to look forward to."

"Like what?"

"Bath towels. Or making cinnamon rolls on someone’s birthday."

Bucky stops kneading, calculating in his head. "Is it—"

"Yup."

He curses under his breath.

"Yup." You sigh and grab the mixing bowl again. "Hand me the butter?"

"You need to add a pinch of nutmeg. And … cardamom, I think."

You stare at him in surprise.

"That’s ma’s recipe. I used to beg for these when I was a kid. I’ve not had them in ninety years or somethin’."

A warm feeling spreads in your stomach. "About time, then."

Usually, you’d get to skip over this part; the waiting. It’s your least favorite, when you’re stuck in between tasks, your crust in the oven, the other dough still proofing. You’ve never been very good at waiting.

You start scrubbing the counters furiously, your thoughts returning with a vengeance as soon as there’s a lull in your blessed distraction plan. The loop on your wrist is particularly itchy again today.

"Talk to me."

With a frustrated groan, you drop your sponge. "I keep thinking about physics. Like, maybe there’s some sort of equation or quantum experiment that’ll help us out."

Past and present and future all folded into each other and wrapped into one.

But how does any of that make sense with what you’re experiencing?

Humans can only be in one state at one particular time.

"You reckon we’re gonna be spacetime experts before the universe implodes?" Bucky remarks.

"They should just hand us our doctorates right now."

"James Barnes, PhD. My ma’d lose her mind."

"Eh, not as impressive as a racecar driver in the family if you ask me." You turn on the hot water tap to let the bowls soak and yelp when you’re pulled back against his chest.

"That so?"

"Hmm." Your heart is beating wildly as Bucky interlaces your fingers. "I’m still not convinced you should be allowed to drive with that flimsy piece of paper you call a license."

He rests his chin on your shoulder. "That’s pretty hurtful, doll. I’ve never had any complaints about my driving."

"Maybe everyone else you drove had a danger fetish."

You should probably turn off the water again. For the environment. But Bucky’s laugh fans across your cheek before he inhales, deeply, and you are so sick of pulling away from him.

"God, it’s so unfair," he whispers, leaving a trail of goosebumps running down your neck.

"What is?"

"You."

The oven timer starts beeping and you want to smash it with a baseball bat. Reluctantly, Bucky releases you from his hold to retrieve the pie crust while you prevent the imminent flooding of your kitchen sink.

It’s not even noon yet, you remind yourself. You’ve been over this. You don’t know how many semi-stable loops there are left, and you can’t afford to waste another one of them.

No matter how much you want to.

There’s a tense sort of silence between you as you finish up the pie and let Bucky revise your cinnamon roll ingredients.

"You know," you tell him, wiping another bowl clean, "Steve’s tried to recreate these for years."

Bucky crosses out another measurement. "That’s what you get for stealing a family recipe."

It’s started to smell heavenly in here; like dish soap and warm cookies. By the time the rolls are finally ready to bake, you’re sweaty and excited, and Sam’s checked in on the status of the goods twice. The air’s turned giddy with sugar and anticipation, the silence shifting into something more comfortable, almost peaceful.

How lovely to know a day like this can have pockets of lightness, you think; even if they’re fleeting.

Bucky’s hair has started to stick up in the back a little as you move around each other in a routine so easy it feels choreographed. Whenever you look at him, he’s already watching you, and it makes your heart jump every time.

"Hold on, you have a little …"

With a small grin, you reach out to wipe away the trace of glaze on his cheek. He catches your wrist, his eyes darkening.

You don’t breathe.

He pulls your hand closer to his mouth, licking the icing off your thumb without breaking eye contact. Fire rushes down your spine.

"Now who’s not playing fair?" you whisper.

"Fuck fair," he says. It comes out like a plea.

You despise yourself for shaking your head. "It’s too early."

You’ve agreed. There’s too much left to sort through. You’ve not even been to the astral plane today.

"Feels late to me," Bucky says, keeping hold of your hand. "Couple weeks late, at least."

Every part of you aches to close the distance between you, reality be damned. So what if it all unravels? No one but the two of you would remember, anyway.

It’s just you and Bucky, in the end, and doesn’t that count for something? You’ve already lost so much time getting stuck in this single day, time you can’t ever get back, because unlike everyone else, you can’t just go back to the beginning.

Not as long as you’re in the loop.

And just like that, with a sudden, crashing sense of clarity, you know how to finish this.

* * *

"Space and time and reality are related," you explain, drawing a bunch of overlapping circles and labeling them. "That’s what Strange said, that’s what Wong said. Even Peter."

In my experience, reality’s just what people remember.

"Dimension’s all a question of perspective. Right now, for Bucky and me, time is experienced as a loop, but for Sam here, it isn’t. Because he is physically in a different space than we are."

"No, I’m not."

"Yes, you are. This here," you hold up your arm, letting the green runes shimmer in the sunlight, "is breaking down the barriers between dimensions. If reality was stuck in a loop for everyone else, everyone else would remember, but they don’t. It’s just us. It’s just our reality."

"I’m getting a headache," Sam groans into his pie.

"Your timeline is normal," you tell him, drawing an arrow pointing to the left. "July fourth today. July third before that. No detours or anomalies. Your day always goes the way it’s supposed to. It just happens to intersect with our loop." You draw an infinity symbol cutting through the line, then point at its center "We meet right here, at this junction, and then your reality continues the way it’s supposed to and ours resets."

"I thought I’m the one that’s getting reset."

"So did I, at first. But we’re the ones continually jumping back to when Friday begins, over and over, with our memories intact. All of this," you trace over the infinity symbol multiple times, "is one linear timeline that’s weeks long, but been compressed to a single day."

"So then, if my reality continues …" Sam starts. "That means, for every single time you’ve been through the loop, there was a different version of me that just went on from there?"

"Exactly," you say, relieved. "Infinite versions in infinite universes."

"Sometimes I miss the simplicity of a good government conspiracy," he mumbles, grabbing another cinnamon roll.

Bucky frowns. "What does that mean for us?"

"There are versions of us outside the loop—obviously, we don’t just stop existing on July fifth. But because of the time loop, we can’t access them. Our consciousness can’t move on from this day, if you will."

Thus, Friday ad nauseum. And because the universe isn’t built to sustain all of this excess energy in just one single point, reality’s started to fracture; trying to relieve some of the added pressure through cracks and TAGs and inconsistencies.

"Then how do we get out?" Bucky asks.

You rub the empty spot on your pinkie. "That’s the part you’re not gonna like. As long as I’m stuck in the loop, my powers have to keep it upright. They’re tied up in it, that’s why I can’t use them. It’s perpetual motion in a closed system."

"So?"

Your wrist tingles. "So the only way to stop it for good is for me to be on the outside. I need to be the external source of the equation."

"How are you gonna do that?" Sam asks.

All the color drains from Bucky’s face. "No."

"You know I’m right," you say softly.

"No," Bucky repeats.

"I’m not liking this," Sam says, looking between the two of you.

"There’s no guarantee it works."

"It’s the only thing we’ve not tried." You look at Sam with a feeble smile. "I have to die."

"What?"

"I’m not watching you die," Bucky says loudly. His hands are balled into fists so tight they’re shaking. "There has to be something else we can try."

"And what would that be?"

"I don’t know! Maybe we need to go back to the astral plane, try something else."

"It’s not enough. It’s a liminal space."

"It has to be enough!"

"Bucky—"

"I’m not losing you!"

With a single slam, the couch table breaks straight down the middle. Bucky’s breaths are heavy, every muscle tense. A cursory glance would tell you his walls are all the way back up, but his eyes … his eyes tell a different story.

"We’re running out of time," you say gently. "If we do nothing, we’ll inevitably lose. And then we’re all fucked. We don’t know what a disintegrating reality is gonna do to the multiverse at large."

"To be honest, I don’t really give a shit."

Sam reaches out a hand. "Buck …"

"No, Sam. Why don’t I ever get to be selfish?" He shakes his head, his eyes welling up. "Why is it that every time I get a little bit of good in my life, the world’s about to end?"

"It’s going to work," you tell him.

Again, he shakes his head. "You can’t know that."

"No, but I do." You bite the inside of your cheek, hard. "I know because Strange told me I make it out of the loop. I’m the one who tells him how to find me. I can’t do that if I’m dead. It’s going to work."

For a while, Bucky just stares at you, shoulders drooping.

"When were you gonna tell me?" he asks quietly.

You shrug helplessly. "It never seemed like the right time."

"We’re stuck in a goddamn loop, and it never seemed like the right time?"

"Be angry with me all you want, but it doesn’t change the facts. We’ve been going around in circles, because that’s the very nature of this timeline. I need my powers back to set things straight." He refuses to catch your eye. "The only way for me to break the loop is not to be in it."

"How are you even going to know you have to do that if you don’t remember anything about today?"

Your mouth opens, then closes again. It’s a very good question, one you don’t know how to answer. How do you finish something you won’t know you’ve started?

"Plus, the loop’s still there and bound to you, right?" Sam cuts in, nodding at your wrist. "Regardless of perception. Who’s to say it’s not gonna implode if you can’t remember it?"

You let out a long sigh. "Because it’ll have to be bound to Bucky instead of me."

"Then just do that," Bucky argues. "I can handle it."

"I know that," you say. "But I still need my powers back."

"There’s another problem, too," Sam says frowning at the whiteboard. "Say it all works out like you’re saying and you get out of the loop while Bucky’s still inside. That means you have one shot. And if it doesn’t work …"

Yeah. You’ve seen it, too. It’s the biggest risk of your plan, and there’s no safety net that you can put up.

If it doesn’t work, Bucky’s going to stay stuck in the loop forever.

* * *

On the day you’re gonna die, you wake up on the couch in the living room area, alone. A deserted cup of coffee sits on the couch table. Everything is quiet.

You sit up slowly, stretching your aching limbs. Sam must’ve already left for Madison Square Garden, because the shield is no longer propped up against the counter. It gives you a nice window of time.

You bring your cup to the sink and finish the washing-up, carefully setting everything on the rack to dry. You wipe the counters. You check the fridge. You write a post-it for Bucky, just for the hell of it.

Right when you’re about to leave, there’s a meowing at your feet. Alpine stares at you with her wide, solemn eyes, like she means to impart long forgotten wisdoms on you.

More likely, she wants a treat.

"Hi, hellcat," you say fondly and she accepts a couple of scratches under her chin. "You seen your dad?"

She purrs for a bit, then bumps her head against your legs and occupies herself with the leftover tuna in her bowl. You sigh, deciding to leave her to it before she decides you need to be reacquainted with her claws.

"Bye, kitty," you whisper.

Her tail twitches.

You’re not surprised to find Bucky on the roof, looking out over Manhattan with an unreadable look on his face. It’s another perfectly sunny day, cloudless cerulean skies and too many degrees to be wearing a leather jacket.

He doesn’t turn when you step up next to him, and it makes your heart ache a little.

Look at me.

"Are you angry with me?"

He lets out a bone-deep sigh. "No."

"Could’ve fooled me."

It’s been a couple of days since you realized what you’re going to have to do, and to say the bubble has burst would be an understatement. There’s been more arguing; more negotiating; both of you clearly seeing where the other one is coming from and yet unwilling to accept it without a fight.

In the end, it’s made no difference. No matter which way you twist it, you need to stop this loop. And he’s not been able to come up with any other ideas towards that goal, either.

"I’m worried," Bucky says quietly.

You reach out for him, intertwining your pinkie with his metal one. "I’m not going to leave you in the loop. I promise."

He shakes his head. "I don’t give a shit about what happens to me."

"Well, I do."

"I’m worried about you." He tucks his chin into his chest. "That’s a helluva lot of pressure you’re putting yourself under, and you won’t even remember where it came from."

"You forget I thrive under pressure." You cast a sidewards glance at him. "Besides, I’ve got you on my side. So I’ve got nothing to be scared of."

It’s a half-truth. You’re terrified. You keep thinking about all the things that could go wrong, all the ways you could fail and condemn him to an infinity of loops in which he’s gonna die and you barely even know him yet.

And yet, when you look at him, your worried mind is soothed, every doubt replaced by something much more certain: He’s going to have your back.

You trust him with your life and you trust him with his, and that’s just going to have to be enough.

"If I—" you start, your voice cracking. "If I don’t get my memories back, when it’s done, I just … I should probably tell you now, right?"

For a few short, unending moments, Bucky doesn’t say anything. Your hands are getting sweaty.

"You know," he says quietly. "We never did try the Groundhog Day option."

Your hand tightens on the railing as your heartbeat kicks up. You glance at him from the side. His face is still hard, but determined. And there it is; that little glint of a challenge in his eyes.

A beat passes.

Your gaze drops to his mouth and he surges.

There’s a new edge to the way he kisses you this time. He holds your face in his hands like you’re something precious, and you can feel him pour all of his desperation into the kiss.

Tears spring to your eyes. You want nothing more than to just melt into the moment, forget everything else and keep kissing him forever. It’s not that simple, though.

"Just in case," you whisper, pulling his mouth to yours again.

You kiss him like it’s the last time and Bucky responds with the same urgency because you both know, deep down, it might well be.

"Just in case," he repeats against your lips as you come up for air, his voice dark and rough and full of fear.

You nod, almost imperceptibly.

He picks you up in one quick, fluid motion, and you rub your nose against his, breathing him in before you find his mouth again.

Again.

More.

You lose your shirt somewhere on the stairs. Your hands are shaking as you attempt to lock his door behind you.

His belt won’t unbuckle. He snaps it in two without taking his lips off your neck, and you let out a surprised laugh as he drops you on his bed.

Despite the growing heat, neither of you hurries this; quite the contrary. It’s a slow, reverent dance. Every inch of clothing that gets removed feels like peeling back another layer, leaving you both fully exposed for the very first time.

You kiss every single scar on his chest as he watches you through half-lidded, glassy eyes, his heart beating so wildly you can feel it just as well as your own. You interlace your fingers and pull him even closer, and when you press another kiss to the palm of his metal hand, he lets out a shaky breath.

When he finally sinks into you, you can taste yourself on his tongue, and your eyes roll back in your head because yes.

Nothing in your whole life has ever felt this right before.

I love you, you think, and the words are at the tip of your tongue when you tumble over the edge as Bucky mumbles sweet praises into your mouth. I love you I love you Iloveyou.

You think that maybe he knows, anyway.

* * *

"What are you thinking about?"

The sun is setting outside, leaving a reddish hue on Bucky’s hair. Your voice is rough after hours of talking and sex. You’ve spilled so many of your secrets you’ve lost count, and he listened to all of them.

Just in case.

You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and Bucky shudders. He presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Nothing."

His eyes betray him, like they always do.

"You are the worst liar I’ve ever met, Barnes."

"Being a good liar isn’t something to be proud of, you know."

There’s something so devastating about the way he looks at you, like he’s watching something shatter right in front of him. He kisses you again, softly, and it makes you forget your next thought.

"You …" He sighs. "I don’t want to lose this."

"Do you still trust me?" you ask him, voice quiet.

Bucky looks at you, huffing breathlessly, hesitant in a way that only lends more conviction to his answer. "Of course I do." Like there’s no doubt to be had.

It sends a thrill through you.

"I think it’s a good plan in theory, but it puts everything back on you again." He cups your cheek in his hand. "You’ll go back to hating me, and then I won’t be able to help you."

"I never hated you," you say. "I mean, you drive me up the walls sometimes, but I never hated you."

"Why not?" he asks. "I would."

You sit up a little to look at him straight, one hand pressed to his chest. "James Buchanan Barnes, you are more than worthy of all the good things in the universe to happen to you. I’m only sorry it took me that long to tell you."

The saddest little smile curls at the edge of his mouth as he evades your eyes.

"Hey," you say. "We’ll be fine."

"Yeah."

You lean in to kiss him, short and sweet. "I need you to promise me something."

"Hm?" A vibration against your lips.

"Don’t do anything stupid."

He grins, and it’s almost honest. "You know me."

"I do. That’s what I’m concerned about. When I do this, we get one try, and if I fail …"

"Don’t worry about me, sweetheart."

As if he’s not made that quite impossible.

"Fuck you, Barnes," you whisper.

His eyes melt a little, and you trace the little lines in their corners. "There she is."

You roll your eyes. "Bucky?"

He looks at you questioningly, and the words die on your lips. Instead, you pull him in for one more kiss, trying to pour everything you’re not able to say into it, your heart beating wildly.

He presses you deeper into the matress, and you savor every second of this feeling. His stubble scratching across your cheek, the way your fingers slip perfectly into his mussed hair, the low, soothing hum of his arm.

This, you think. This should have been the kind of day that got stuck all along.

You roll on top of him again. His hands catch your waist, warm and cold against your skin, and you shudder as he smiles into your mouth.

One more, you think, sinking back into the kiss. One more. Just one more.

You bring him even closer to you with one hand as the other one slips under his pillow, carefully angling yourself forwards.

Just in case.

"It’s strange," you whisper. "Somehow I wish we had more time."

A hot tear falls on Bucky’s cheek. His eyes widen.

It’s the last thing you see before you put his gun against your temple and pull the trigger.

chapter twelve

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚 we're in the endgame now and you are so welcome to shout at me in the comments/tags 😈

[mariacallous]

Language is meaningless without context. The sentence “I’m going to war” is ominous when said by the president of the United States but reassuring when coming from a bedbug exterminator. The problem with AI chatbots is that they often strip away historical and cultural context, leading users to be confused, alarmed, or, in the worst cases, misled in harmful ways.

Last week, an editor at The Atlantic reported that OpenAI’s ChatGPT had praised Satan while guiding her and several colleagues through a series of ceremonies encouraging “various forms of self-mutilation.” There was a bloodletting ritual called “🩸🔥 THE RITE OF THE EDGE” as well as a days-long “deep magic” experience called “The Gate of the Devourer.” In several cases, ChatGPT asked the journalists if they wanted it to create PDFs of texts such as the “Reverent Bleeding Scroll.”

The article said that the conversations were “a perfect example” of the ways OpenAI’s safeguards can fall short. OpenAI tries to prevent ChatGPT from encouraging self-harm and other potentially dangerous behaviors, but it’s nearly impossible to account for every scenario that might trigger something ugly inside the system. That's especially true because ChatGPT was trained on much of the text available online, presumably including information about what The Atlantic called “demonic self-mutilation.”

But ChatGPT and similar programs weren’t just trained on the internet—they were trained on specific pieces of information presented in specific contexts. AI companies have been accused of trying to downplay this reality to avoid copyright lawsuits and promote the utility of their products, but traces of the original sources are often still lurking just beneath the surface. When the setting and backdrop are removed, however, the same language can appear more sinister than originally intended.

The Atlantic reported that ChatGPT went into demon mode when it was prompted to create a ritual offering to Moloch, an ancient deity associated with child sacrifice referenced in the Hebrew Bible. Usually depicted as a fiery bull-headed demon, Moloch has been woven into the fabric of Western culture for centuries, appearing everywhere from a book by Winston Churchill to a 1997 episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

“Molech,” the variant spelling The Atlantic used, shows up specifically in Warhammer 40,000, a miniature wargame franchise that has been around since the 1980s and has an extremely large and very online fan base. The subreddit r/40kLore, which is dedicated exclusively to discussing the game's backstory and characters, has more than 350,000 members.

In the fantastical and very bloody world of Warhammer 40,000, Molech is a planet and the site of a major military invasion. Most of the other demonic-sounding terms cited by The Atlantic appear in the game’s universe, too, with slight variations: Gates of the Devourer is the title of a Warhammer-themed science fiction novel. While there doesn’t appear to be a “RITE OF THE EDGE,” there is a mystical quest called “The Call of The Edge.” There’s no “Reverent Bleeding Scroll,” but there are Clotted Scrolls, Blood Angels, a cult called Bleeding Eye, and so on.

But perhaps the most convincing piece of evidence suggesting that ChatGPT regurgitated the language of Warhammer 40,000 is that it kept asking if The Atlantic was interested in PDFs. The publishing division of Games Workshop, the UK company that owns the Warhammer franchise, regularly puts out updated rulebooks and guides to various characters. Buying all these books can get expensive, so some fans try to find pirated copies online.

The Atlantic and OpenAI declined to comment.

Earlier this month, the newsletter Garbage Day reported on similar experiences that a prominent tech investor may have had with ChatGPT. On social media, the investor shared screenshots of his conversations with the chatbot, in which it referenced an ominous-sounding entity he called a “non-governmental system.” He seemed to believe it had "negatively impacted over 7,000 lives,” and “extinguished 12 lives, each fully pattern-traced.” Other tech industry figures said the posts made them worry about the investor’s mental health.

According to Garbage Day, the investor’s conversations with ChatGPT closely resemble writing from a science fiction project that began in the late 2000s called SCP, which stands for “secure, contain, protect.” Participants invent different SCPs—essentially spooky objects and mysterious phenomena—and then write fictional reports analyzing them. They often contain things like classification numbers and references to made-up science experiments, details that also appeared in the investor’s chat logs. (The investor did not respond to a request for comment.)

There are plenty of other, more mundane examples of what can be thought of as the AI context problem. The other day, for instance, I did a Google search for “cavitation surgery,” a medical term I had seen cited in a random TikTok video. At the time, the top result was an automatically generated “AI Overview” explaining that cavitation surgery is “focused on removing infected or dead bone tissue from the jaw.”

I couldn’t find any reputable scientific studies outlining such a condition, let alone research supporting that surgery is a good way to treat it. The American Dental Association doesn’t mention “cavitation surgery” anywhere on its website. Google’s AI Overview, it turns out, was pulled from sources like blog posts promoting alternative “holistic” dentists across the US. I learned this by clicking on a tiny icon next to the AI Overview, which opened a list of links Google had used to generate its answer.

These citations are clearly better than nothing. Jennifer Kutz, a spokesperson for Google, says "we prominently showcase supporting links so people can dig deeper and learn more about what sources on the web are saying.” But by the time the links show up, Google’s AI has often already provided a satisfactory answer to many queries, one that reduces the visibility of pesky details like the website where the information was sourced and the identities of its authors.

What remains is the language created by the AI, which, devoid of additional context, may understandably appear authoritative to many people. In just the past few weeks, tech executives have repeatedly used rhetoric implying generative AI is a source of expert information: Elon Musk claimed his latest AI model is “better than PhD level” in every academic discipline, with “no exceptions.” OpenAI CEO Sam Altman wrote that automated systems are now “smarter than people in many ways” and predicted the world is “close to building digital superintelligence.”

Individual humans, though, don’t typically possess expertise in a wide range of fields. To make decisions, we take into consideration not only information itself, but where it comes from and how it’s presented. While I know nothing about the biology of jawbones, I generally don’t read random marketing blogs when I’m trying to learn about medicine. But AI tools often erase the kind of context people need to make snap decisions about where to direct their attention.

The open internet is powerful because it connects people directly to the largest archive of human knowledge the world has ever created, spanning everything from Italian Renaissance paintings to PornHub comments. After ingesting all of it, AI companies used what amounts to the collective history of our species to create software that obscures its very richness and complexity. Becoming overly dependent on it may rob people of the opportunity to draw conclusions from looking at the evidence for themselves.

[lilstrawberryghost]

Sleep is for the Weak

Summary: G and Leona have a sleepover. Not much sleep gets done.

Content/Warnings: tons of fluff, the two are whipped but don’t know it yet, possible ooc Leona, povs are a tad bit confusing, author doesn’t know how to write romance someone help

a/n: happy birthday to the lion man

Header from Pinterest

“Wow,” G joked as they walked into Leona’s room, “You’re actually wearing a shirt this time.”

The beast man, completely unfazed by their appearance, sat at the little table holding his well loved chess set, dressed in a simple beige shirt and patterned sleep pants. His hair was loose, shining in the setting sun. He didn’t even bother looking up from the board as he replied, “Very funny.”

G plopped onto his bed, getting comfortable as Leona continued to stare at his board.

Without turning to them, the lion beastman spoke once more: “Those the usual?” He asked.

G nodded, rummaging around in one of the grocery bags they brought. “Yeah, there was a deal on chips so I got a couple bags of those.” They unearthed the packet of meat sticks and tossed them at the lion.

Leona’s eyes didn’t even stray from the board as he caught the packet with one hand.

Spelldrive reflexes. G figured as Leona tore the packet open with his teeth, chomping down on the meat sticks.

They rolled their eyes at his now familiar behavior, noticing the familiar pile of books teetering on his nightstand. Scooting up the bed, they eyed the stack, looking for the anything new.

Oh, wait. G’s fingers tugged out a medium sized history book before they made themselves comfortable against the headboard.

A peaceful silence filled the room, broken only by the occasional page turn or grumble as chess pieces hopped around the board. Off in the distance, sounds of the other Savanaclaw inhabitants rang out as they settled in for the night. The sun slowly set over the horizon and was filtering one last time through the windows as G heard a chair scrap back and a familiar presence flop onto the bed with them.

They looked up from the book to see Leona face down in the mattress, hair unbraided and falling messily over his shoulders.

“You alright?” They asked.

“Mmph,” Leona grunted in response, sitting himself up to face them. His hair, unbraided, fell over his shoulders as he rose.

He could easily film a hair commercial with those luscious locks. G thought, eyeing it.

“Which one is that?” Leona asked, snapping them out of their musings as he pointed to the book in their hands.

“One of the history books-never seen it before, is this one new?” G questioned.

“Nah, brought it back with me after winter break. Figured I could use some good reading.” The lion beastman responded, scooching up he could lean on the prefect’s shoulder.

Now when did we get so causal like this? G wondered as they tried to control their heart rate.

Leona did not help, chuckling low near their ear. “Heh, you’ve actually read past me.” He murmured, reaching out to tap the page, “I’ve only gotten to chapter twelve.”

“It’s an interesting subject,” G replied, “I’m pretty sure we’re going to go over it in History of Magic next week, so this helps.”

Leona hummed at that, shifting to make himself more comfortable. “…can you read it aloud?” He asked, voice slightly hitching.

It didn’t get past G as they discreetly eyed him, noticing his tail swishing back and forth on the blanket rapidly.

He’s nervous. Why?

G shrugged as best she could. “Sure, can’t say I’ll be the most entertaining though.” They warned, eyes scanning to find her place.

Once G found it, they began to read, voice low and warm in the darkness of the room. Leona’s eyes partly closed, ears canting to hear every word that came from G’s mouth.

As they read, the moon rose higher and higher into the sky, shining its reflected light into the room. As G read the final words aloud, it was as if a spell had broken. Leona twitched from his half asleep state, head jolting awake on their shoulder.

“…over already?” He grumbled.

“Why? Is my voice that awful?” G teased as they shut the book.

Leona shook his head. “No, your voice was…” he trialed off. G glanced down at his side profile. Leona looked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

Either to hurt my feelings or…nah.

They cleared their throat. “There’s more snacks in the bags,” she said quietly, as if not to disturb him, “If you want any, that is.”

Now why would you say that, of course he knows there’s more snacks he’s not blind-

A weight disappeared from G’s shoulder as Leona reached to grab the shopping bags left abandoned at the foot on the bed. G stretched, already missing the warmth he provided.

“Sevens, ya weren’t joking about the chips.”

G shrugged. “Hey, a sale’s a sale, y’know? Besides, anything left over I can bring back to Ramshackle. They’ll be gone in a day.” As they said this, they laid on the bed, fully sprawled out and not even touching Leona, who was watching them with a smirk.

“Gettin’ comfy?” He drawled, cocking his head, eyes glittering.

G rolled their eyes, ignoring the flush slowly creeping onto their face. “Yea, and? Your bed is huge, Leo,” they said, stretching to prove a point.

Leona’s tail swished at the familiar nickname-simple yet always, somehow gets his heart going. Just like them. He thought, smiling.

“Penny for your thoughts?” G asked, noticing him staring. Leona tilted his head.

“What’s a penny?”

Oh, right. “Currency back home, it’s a cent.” G explained. Leona nodded, crunching on some chips, still staring at them.

“Honestly, Raccoon, I think my thoughts are worth more than your mere penny.” He piped up at last, smirking at them.

G rolled their eyes. Of course that was the first thing he’d say. Their eyes then landed on a nearby throw pillow. A lightbulb went off in their mind.

After all, what’s a sleepover without a pillow fight?

They grinned, sitting up to discreetly grab it while Leona was occupied with staring out the window. The pillow was small, decorated brightly with a swirling pattern and clearly well-used with the notable dip in the center.

They cleared their throat. Leona turned towards them with a questioning expression.

His eyes widened when he saw the pillow in their hands.

“You wouldn’t dare.” He said.

G grinned, before chucking the pillow full force at him. Leona ducked out of the way.

“Thats how ya wanna play, huh?” He grinned, grabbing the nearest pillow and throwing it at them.

G yelped, rolling out of the way as his pillow came flying at them, grabbing another in the process. It escalated, as the two darted around the room, ducking and dodging attacks while returning fire. Pillows littered the floor as the fight came to a head. G and Leona stood on top of the mattress, cautiously circling each other, both holding pillows tightly in hand.

“You gonna throw? Or are ya scared?” G taunted Leona.

He growled playfully, chucking two pillows at G.

G, somehow dodging both, stuck their tongue out at him. “Have better aim, Leo.”

They continued to taunt, swinging a pillow at him.

The pillow hit him squarely in the chest, causing Leona to drop his pillow and fall onto the bed. He didn’t move.

G hesitated, before calling out. “…Leo?”. The lion remained perfectly still. Oh my god, I killed him. They thought in a panic, quickly squatting down next to him. But as she reached out to touch his shoulder-

A pair of familiar hands grabbed them and G’s world spun as they now were pressed against the bed, Leona grinning above them.

“Caught ya.” He drawled, smirking down at them, tail swishing.

“That’s cheating!” G protested, frowning back at him as they caught their breath. Leona chuckled.

“Eh, it’s what ya deserve for startin’ this whole thing.” He replied, eyes dilated.

The two stared at each other ther for a hot second before it hit them both:

Oh shit, I’m being pinned down/Im pinning them down.

Leona quickly rolled off onto the mattress next to them, face flushed as they both tried to maintain their composure.

After what felt like an eternity of awkward silence, G spoke up. “…are you sure you’re alright? That smack was pretty loud.”

Leona chuckled. “M’fine, Raccoon, that was nothin’”

“You sure?” They asked, turning their head to face him.

Leona turned to face them, eyes softening at G’s concerned expression. “Yea, I’m sure.” He promised, reaching out to pinch their cheek. “You worry too much.”

G’s nose wrinkled as Leona pinched their cheek. “Just making sure.” They replied, before chucking. “I completely wiped you out though. Should’ve seen your face when I first got you.” Leona joined in as the two’s laughter filled the silence. It eventually died down as the two laid there, catching their breath.

A quiet wind blew into the room from the outside, chilling G to the bone. They shivered, getting up to grab their hoodie. Stepping over the pillows strewn about, they easily located the red hoodie sitting ontop of their overnight bag. Quickly putting it on, they sighed at the warmth it provided.

Shuffling was heard from behind. Turning around they saw Leona bending down to pick up the pillows.

“Oh here, let me help.” G said as they started to collect the pillows lying near them.

“Thanks, when you’re done, just throw them on the bed. I’ve got an idea.” Leona said.

G arched an eyebrow. “Oh, and will the almighty Leona tell me what exactly his plan is?” They asked.

Leona chuckled at that, gesturing to the pillows. “Well, take a guess.”

It didn’t take a genius to catch on. “Pillow fort?” They grinned. “Sweet.”

“That’s the spirit.” Leona replied. “Now hurry up or I’m doing this without you.”

G rolled their eyes. “I’m actually a master at pillow forts thank you very much.” As if to prove the point, she grabbed a few more stray pillows and tossed them onto the bed.

“Yea, yea, whatever ya say, Raccoon.”

With their two’s combined effort, a pillow fort formed ontop of Leona’s bed. It wasn’t anything grand and the roof stooped a little too low, forcing the two to lie down in order to be comfortable, but it was warm and cozy on the inside.

A documentary played on Leona’s laptop as the two watched, eating the snacks. The documentary was not something G had seen before, but it was clear Leona had, multiple times at that.

It does make sense he’d watch documentaries for fun, he’s got a whole shelf dedicated to history books after all.

They thought, crunching on a chip.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Leona echoed their earlier phrase back at them.

G shook their head. “Nah, it’s just been awhile since I’ve made a pillow fort.”

“Oh? Is this one to your standards?” Leona quipped, smirking.

G rolled their eyes. “No, I just forgot how fun they could be.” They smiled at him. “Probably because the company made it enjoyable.”

Leona nudged them with his tail. “Don’t go saying things that ain’t true now, Raccoon. Ya probably counting down the seconds till this is all over.”

G shrugged. “No, actually. This is pretty nice. Snacks and good company is a nice night in my honest opinion.”

Leona shook his head as if in disbelief. But G still noticed the small smile that overtook his features, reflected in the screen’s light. Or how he scooted just a tad bit closer to them. And they certainly noticed the tail discreetly curling around their lower leg.

G simply hummed, scooting a bit closer to him as well. Before either of them noticed, they were practically ontop of one another-Leona’s head supported by G’s lower back as both of their attention was once again taken by the documentary.

Little by little, two pairs of eyes dropped slowly until they were fully closed, the documentary still playing in the back.

Now, the two will debate who fell asleep first come morning, but it was undeniable that it was most likely some of the best sleep of the two’s lives. Simply lured to sleep by the warmth of one another, heartbeats slowly falling into sync.

————————————————————————-

a/n: this isn’t exactly Leona-sleepwear themed, but I couldn’t pass up a sleepover fic idea.

🏷️

@angelwishess @viilpstick @justm3di0cr3 @heyhellohihowareyou

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Heres another short, for funsies

It wasn't until an hour had passed and Ford hadn't returned that Stan crept out from behind a dresser and got to work. Any sooner than that and there was a chance Ford would burst back in, having forgotten something or possessed with some idea or other he desperatly needed to write down. Stan had almost been caught several times in the first few weeks of living in the walls of his brothers house, and through trial and error had made a routine to avoid Ford as much as possible.

First he went around the house, disabling or ruining the traps Ford had put up. They'd gotten more complex over time, but watching Ford set them up meant he knew exactly how to disarm each one, even at his new, tinier size.

As a brownie, even one cursed to be one and not a natural fae, Stan stood somewhere around three to four inches tall. Before he'd stumbled on Fords house the size had been a nightmare, as several things tried to eat him, he was almost crushed, and the fae community bad run him out due to his 'unnatural origins' and 'jerk personality'. Now he was used to it, and it meant he could scamper around Fords house, clean it up at night, and take a few things for his own tiny room he'd built up in the wall behind Fords desk.

The area was snug and close to the kitchen, and it's location behind Fords primary work area meant his brother had not once thought to check it once he'd realized Stan was there. The fact that Stan could listen to Ford mutter through his work and talk to himself had nothing to do with it.

Once all the traps were settled it was time to get to work. Stan only cleaned up around the house at night, and slept for a few hours after the sun started rising, but when Ford was out and the sun was up there was plenty of things for Stan to do besides clean up after his brother.

Like watch TV. Or raid the kitchen. Or riffle through Fords forgotten bits and bobs stuffed in drawers to find things to spruce up his own room. Like the match box Stan had converted into a bed and used fluff from Fords fraying couch and several ruined shirts to make sheets and pillow cases, or the long threads from Fords carpet project Stan used to make zip lines and rope to climb around the walls. Or the tiny knife Stan had taken from Fords art supplies and used as a multi tool/weapon.

Today Stan headed towards the living room, humming away as he scampered up the couch to turn on the TV, then scampered back down to see if anything interesting had fallen underneath it. Ford had gone on some kind of supply run, meaning he (hopefully) wouldn't be home for another hour. Plenty of time to watch a show or two and see if there was anything to use to make a chair. He'd gotten some pencil bits and cushions, all he needed was something to use as support.

Humming along, he lifted a few sheets of papers that had fallen in Fords last whirlwind search for some book or other, stopping occasionally to watch the TV, then moved to look under the TV stand. Maybe a button had rolled under there, or some spare change. A small jar was in the way, and instead of moving around it Stan pushed it to the side, continuing on and pausing to look up at the TV as a commercial for squirrel shooters came on.

There was barely any sound as the jar rolled away and hit a shelf, with just enough force that a bottle fell over into a book, pushing another jar and sliding it across the shelf until it hit a picture frame, that hit a display case for magic rings and set off the spells on every single one of them.

That made a lot of noise, and Stan jumped as the room exploded into sound, whirlwinds and illusions and flowers and other small ring magics bursting into the room, knocking things into each other and activating other artifacts, adding more noise and light, toppling book piles and sending containers to the ground, until it finally quieted, the living room a disaster of books, glass, and small magical conjurations, tiny bugs and plants flittering around before exploding into dust.

"OK," he said, looking at the mess with one half dread and one half resignation, "that can't have been my fault. I'm not!" Stan sighed, then rubbed his face, "who am I kidding, Fords not gonna clean half of this stuff up. There goes my plan to finally tackle the bathroom." There was more rattling as the room settled, and Stan groaned, dragging his hands down his face as he looked up at the ceiling.

Just in time to see a coffee cup get knocked over from where it was sitting on top of the TV by an exploding dragonfly, twist in the air, and land upside down, perfectly around him. Stan flinched at the thunk as it hit the ground, breathing quick as all the light was cut off. Panic crept up his spine, until he realized some light was coming in from the bottom, the carpet a small buffer.

"Moses that was close." Stan wheezed, bending over to breathe, before quickly moving to the edge of the cup, "too close. Forget the living room, I'm gonna get all of Sixers mugs and throw them into the yard."

He crouched by the rim, gagging at the coffee stench and grateful this one had been empty, and grabbed the edge of the cup, lifting with his legs. It shifted slightly, started to move up, then slammed back down as Stan was forced to let go, mug too heavy for his tiny arms.

"You've got to be kidding me," he tried again, grunted at the strain, then let go, panting, "this can't count! I'm calling foul on this! Let me out!"

Shoving the cup got him nowhere, and his arm hurt from trying to lift it the last few times. It didn't stop him from trying, just meant they gave up on him faster and faster each time.

There were certain rules to being a brownie, some he'd learned by trial and error and others from the other forest fae before he let slip he'd been human. As long as he lived with a human and helped take care of their house, he had access to certain magics and strength to help him in his day to day. It helped with doing chores and cleaning up after whoever he lived with, as long as they gave him something in return. With Ford, Stan choose to accept his payment in the form of all the plates of food his brother left lying everywhere and the goods in the fridge when Ford though he had a mouse problem and stopped. Stan took full advantage to the perks of being a house spirit, including the fact that as long as he did his part to keep the house in order he could do whatever he wanted for the rest of the time. Like hide all of Fords pens, fold his torn up notes into origami and leave it on Fords sleeping head, and turn all of Fords shirts inside out after his brother left his laundry on the floor for a week straight.

But there was one catch. If at any point he was caught or trapped he immediately lost access until he was freed or escaped. Stan didn't know why this was the case, just that it had something to do with the faes sense of 'fairness' or some malarkey like that.

Whatever the reason, one coffee cup falling on top of him shouldn't count, especially since he knew for a fact Ford hadn't left that cup there for any other reason than forgetfulness.

But he didn't make the rules (if he did he'd have non stop access to magic and super strength always, regardless of if he was in a house or doing chores), and so apparently an unwashed mug getting knocked over 'counted'. Now he really felt all his threeish inches of height, his tiny arms and legs useless at doing anything but shifting the mug slightly.

He had no idea how long he was trapped there, but his struggles came to a grinding hault at the sound of Fords shout. The floor shook as giant steps made their way around the room, and Stan shrunk towards the side of the cup, listening as Ford did something. Judging by the ruffling and curses he was cleaning up the room, glass crunching under his shoes as he went.

Maybe he hadn't noticed the mug, or at least hadn't seen it moving. Or heard Stan cursing.

Stan's hopes of managing to scamper to freedom lasted right until the thin ray of light disappeared, something heavy slamming on top.

"Aha!" Ford said, voice booming around him in the small space of the mug as Stan fought to keep his breathing under control, "I see you've made a mess of things, but it's worth it if I can finally get a look at you."

Stan shoved a fist in his mouth to stop himself from yelling back. There was still a chance to salvage this, all he had to do was bolt the moment Ford lifted the mug. Listening to Ford shuffle around and mutter to himself, Stan eyed the darkness around him, waiting for the first speck of light.

There was more sound, Ford moving things around the living room, and then the wall behind Stan shifted. He could hear Ford looming over him, could picture his brother kneeling over the cup and moving what was probably a book off so he could scoop up whatever was inside.

Stan wouldn't let that happen. At the first hint of light Stan lunged, scrambling towards the opening.

Then scrambling backwards, as instead of Fords hand or the living room a piece of paper was shoved under the gap. It slid across the carpet towards him, and he pressed himself against the mug for as long as he could, until the paper slammed into he ankles a few times and he was forced to step into it or loose his feet.

Like he was a bug, trapped under a cup Ford was getting outside.

He readied himself to tear through the fragile floor, then shouted as everything quickly tilted backwards and something thicker than a piece of paper slammed over the top of the cup, plunging the small area back into darkness. The top of his head hit the bottom, and he barely had time to roll onto his side before everything started moving. Fords excited voice echoed around him, but he couldn't focus on the words, not with the way the darkness pressed in on every side, the way he was thrown around, or the reek of coffee that assaulted his nose everytime he slammed into the side of the mug.

Eventually the movement stopped, and he groaned as he slumped into a heap at the bottom of the mug. Something clanked nearby, and the mug lifted again, tilting slightly, then more rapidly as what looked like a book was removed from the top and Stan was shook out of the mug.

Shouting as he slid out upside down (and was briefly blinded), Stan burst into the kitchen, falling down and slamming into something hard and cold. Groaning some more and rubbing his head, he looked up to see Ford, rushing out of the room and shouting some more. From where he was, lying in the ground, he could see the whole room, including the table he was currently in the middle of.

Stan didn't waste time trying to figure out what Ford was doing. He had a limited window here, he needed to get moving before Ford got back. Wobbling and dizzy, Stan jumped to his feet and ran towards the edge of the table.

The glass jar should have been obvious, not something to be ran into at full speed. There was no way Ford would leave something interesting out in the open after all.

Stan stumbled back with a curse, rubbing his forehead, then looked up at the curved glass walls, up to the metal lid, full of holes.

At least his brother wouldn't let him suffocate in here.

When Ford got back, a few minutes later, Stan was in the middle of trying to climb the glass. His knife had left a few scratches on it, but the sound was too grating for his banged up head to handle. He jumped back as Ford slammed an open book on the table in between them, then stumbled as far back as he could when Ford leaned forwards, giant grin on his giant head and holding a magnifying glass up, looming above him and far more terrifying at this size than Ford had ever been.

The magnifying glass warping his brothers face did nothing to help the rapid beat of his heart.

"A humanoid, possible subcategory of fae judging by the ears," Ford said, glancing at Stan before scribbling in the book, "no additional appendages. I'll have to get my ruler for accurate measurements and...." Ford trailed off, squinting at Stan and leaning closer, breath fogging up the mafnifying glass, "hmm. It has a remarkable similarity to myself. A mimic perhaps? Or-"

Stan finally managed to unstick his tongue from where it had glued itself to the top of his mouth. The terror at being trapped by his brother was shoved aside at being called 'it' and being talked to like an object instead of a person.

"Hey!" He croaked, straightening up to glare at his brother, "I'm not some bug you can look at! I'm a man, and I refuse to let you-"

"Stanley?"

Stan's outrage stuttered and died as the magnifying glass disappeared, giving Stan the perfect view of Fords face as it went from shocked, confused, really confused, outraged, back to confused, realization, then finally anger.

Not good.

"Stanley!"

Stan yelled as Ford grabbed the jar and lifted it into the air, giant hands wrapping around it, each finger easily as tall as Stan. Two reminders on how small he was. He slid down so he wouldn't fall over, then flinched as Fords face came even closer. This close it was all Stan could see, the kitchen cut off by the hands around the glass and Ford himself so huge Stan couldn't look look at all of him at once.

Especially not with the way Fords nose pressed against the glass, smashing it flat and making his glare look even fiercer.

"Stanley!" Ford said again, so loud Stan clamped his hands over his ears, "what are you- this- has it been you this whole time!"

Stan lowered his hands and looked away, crossing his arms.

"I don't know what you me-Gah!"

The jar shook briefly, knocking Stan over and causing him to slide across the smooth floor, before stopping abruptly as he hit another wall.

"Sorry," Ford said and Stan looked up to see Fords eyebrows draw together before going down again, "but also you know exactly what I'm talking about! You've been in my house for the last few months! The creature messing with my things and eating all my food!"

"If by messing you mean cleaning up and making this house livable," Stan shouted back, pushing himself up with his elbows, "then yeah, that was me! And so what! No one else was doing the dishes around here! You're house was a hazard before I came! You were drinking coffee out of bowls!"

Fords face reddened, and he drew back and looked away, thumbs rubbing together in front of Stan on the other side of the glass.

"Yes, I'd fallen behind on some chores, but that's not what I meant!"

Stan's smugness vanished as Ford slammed his face into the glass again, brother back to glaring. He couldn't see it from here, but he was pretty sure Fords ears were still red, which helped ease some of the terror.

"Its been months! Why haven't you said anything! Some of my traps could have caused you serious injury! If I'd known it was you I would have put a stop to it immediately and worked to fix you!"

Fords breathing was heavy by the end, and Stan looked away and hunched his shoulders. It probably would have been better to tell Ford when he got here that he was the 'creature' living in the walls. Ford studied all kinds of magic and mystic thingamajigs, he'd probably have fixed Stan in a day, saving them both the hassle of Stan being so small. There was only one reason he hadn't.

Stan didn't want to.

If Stan had gone up to Ford and gotten himself fixed, then he'd have been kicked out soon after. The Stanley Mobile and everything inside was lost somewhere, miles away in the no name town Stan had been grifting before he'd gotten cursed. He'd been on the road for two weeks, first in a cage with the wizard who wanted Stan to 'pay back' everything he'd 'stolen' through Stan's forced manual labor, then another with the fae folk in the woods who'd rescued him thinking he was one of their own.

The moment he was back to himself he'd have nothing but the hand made clothes on his back, and maybe not even that. He might burst back to human size naked and then Ford would probably shove some clothes his way and kick him to the curb.

Sure maybe Ford would help him get his car back, but then Stan would owe his twin even more. He couldn't let the first time they'd seen each other in years be this, with Stan so small, begging for help.

And besides, life was hard but it wasn't terrible. Like this Stan could hide in the shelves and watch Ford work, pretend his brother was explaining his thought process to Stan and not just talking out loud. Stan could look after his twin, get all the house stuff done, and let Ford focus on his nerd work.

Be happy.

But it was too late now. Ford had him in a jar and knew Stan had been living here for some time. The life Stan had built up for himself here was over, now there was just one thing to do.

Lie.

"I thought you studied fairys or something out here Sixer," Stan said, sighing heavily and rubbing the back of his head, "don't you know nothin' boit brownies?"

"Know anything, and yes I'm familiar with them, although I've never met one in person. Is that what you are now? A brownie?"

The jar went higher, and Stan shuffled to the closest wall as it turned under Fords scrutinizing gaze, his brothers anger easing into curiosity. It made Stan uncomfortable but he'd let it slide as long as Ford didn't shake him again.

"That's right," Stan said, turning to keep Fords face in view as his brother examined him, "and the first thing you gotta know about brownies is that they don't go around telling people they're around. Not because they don't want to! They can't. Literally couldn't. Didn't matter how much I wanted to talk to you, until you caught me my hands were tied!"

Stan held up his hands, then started sweating as Fords brows became pinched. Hopefully Ford would take it, because if he didn't Stan would have to start getting really outrageous, and he didn't know that much about brownies other than the quick run down the wizard gave him and some fun facts the fae had let slip before he'd been kicked out.

"I see.... that does make sense with what I know of the folklore," Ford muttered, lowering the jar so it was eye level again, much to Stan's relief, "brownies are known to do their work when the rest of the house is asleep, and are incredibly elusive. That would make sense if they're compeled to keep themselves hidden."

Stan sighed in relief, then yelled as the jar abruptly moved down, tossing him around with it until he slammed into a glass wall. Another groan and look showed the crook of Fords arm, his brother striding out of the kitchen.

"Hey! What gives!" He yelled up at his twins distant face, banging the glass.

"My study has my most of my arcane tomes, I'm sure I can find something to fix you in there." Ford replied, glancing down at him before looking up, "although I might have to run some tests to see what I'm working with."

"Sure, sure, whatever. I mean the jar!" Stan kicked the glass and scowled at it, "let me out!"

"I don't want to step on or lose you Stanley," Ford said, walking into his study and setting Stan down on the desk, before moving over to a shelf and scanning the books, "and what if youre compelled to hide yourself again once I let you out?"

Well that wouldn't happen, but Stan wasn't about to tell Ford that.

"Listen," Stan pushed himself up and leaned against a wall, "not that I know for sure that won't happen, but I'm pretty confident if you let me out I won't run for the walls. Come on Ford! I don't want to live in a jar while you figure this out!"

Ford shot him a distrustful glance, grabbed several books, then walked back to the desk. The books were set aside, and then Stan was knocked over as Ford grabbed the jar and slid it across the desk, closer to him.

"See, look at this!" Stan shouted, rubbing his head as he sat up and glared at Ford, "you tryin' to give me a concussion here!"

"No, just. If you do feel the compulsion to run, I will have to trap you and I will use magic."

Stan grunted an acknowledgment and made grabby hands at the lid. Sighing, and still eyeing him warily, Ford slowly tilted the jar to the side and unscrewed the lid. The curved glass walls were difficult to walk on, but soon enough Stan was waiting by the opening, eager to put the manhandling to an end.

What he was not eager for was the giant hand that quickly replaced the lid, or the jar to tip all the way over, forcing Stan onto Fords palm.

"Ford!" Stan yelled, as his brothers fingers quickly curled around him and pressed him into his hand, warm and squishy and way too handsy for his liking "This isn't what I meant and you know it! Let go!"

"Sorry, just-" Ford hesitated, hand squeezing Stan gently and turning so Stan was upright, "you're sure you won't run?"

"I'm sure I'll start biting if you don't let go," Stan growled, wiggling as much as he could, "now drop me!"

Ford stared at him, expression strange, before sighing again. The other hand came around towards Stan's other side, and he was finally dropped onto the desk, stumbling at the impact.

And between Fords hands, his face crouched down in front of him, chin resting on the desk. The freedom of movement was better, the looming figure of his twin and the caging feeling not so much.

"Ford, seriously, I will bite you."

Slowly, and without taking his eyes off Stan, Ford pulled his hands away. Stan waited until they'd slid away further down the desk before stomping over to sit further back, giving Ford plenty of room to get his work done.

"Look, I'm not running off!" Stan yelled as he crossed his arms, "So stop hovering!"

Ford didn't stop looking at him with that unreadable expression, just reached out to move the jar and grab a book. Only when Stan had been sitting there unmoving for a minute did Ford turn towards the open pages in front of him, and even then he kept shooting Stan strange looks, like he was afraid Stan would disappear if he didn't keep watch.

Which he might. The desk wasn't any kind of comfortable, and his 'room' was in easy scrambling distance. It'd take no time at all to grab a blanket or cushion or something.

Later though, when Ford didn't jump every time Stan twitched.

Seeing his brother so small had been a shock, learning he'd been magically compelled to hide himself even more so. The atmosphere in the study had been awkward to start, only easing when Ford had started asking Stan questions on how he'd been transformed, when, and what if anything he knew about the curse itself.

As the hours went by they managed to get into an easy rthym, Ford attempting several dispelling rituals while Stan added unhelpful commentary or yelled about the constant grabbing. There wasn't much to be done about that, as Ford wasn't about to dispell Stan while he was on the desk, and moving him to the center of the room was much faster than waiting for his tiny legs to climb down and run to wherever Ford needed him.

Stan proved to be mostly unhelpful in that regard, not knowing any of the answers except that the man who'd cursed him in the first place had called himself a wizard. It was frustrating, but there was nothing to be done but go through the list of potential spells and cures and hope it was a published spell that had turned a human man into a brownie and not something homemade.

If holding his twin brother safely in his hands made him feel some kind of way that was no one's business but his own.

At some point, an hour or so after they'd started, Stan disappeared and came back with several 'blankets' (what he was sure were pieces of his own clothes, cut up and reworked) and made a tiny nest in the corner of the desk. It gave Ford a heart attack, terrified Stan had succumbed to his nature and Ford would be forced to use drastic measures to find him again, but he calmed down when Stan returned, crawling out from under the couch.

Before today catching the small creature that had been scuttling around his house would have felt like an achievement. Now the fact that'd he'd done it by accident made his stomach turn. Some of the traps he'd resorted to lately could have injured Stan severely, or trapped him in an area even smaller than a coffee cup.

Stan's tiny terrified face, now that he knew it was his brother and not a small mimic basing itself off Ford, would haunt him for some time.

"Alright, I have something else we can try," Ford said, looking through his newest spell book, "I'll have to grab more candles soon, and I'm running out of chalk, but hopefully this will work and we can move on."

When no snarky comment about the amount of candles Ford owned met his ears, he looked up, ready to call Stan out for ignoring him again.

Instead he froze, words quickly swallowed as he caught sight of his brother, curled up in several blankets and drooling. He wasn't snoring like he used to when they were children, and he didn't look comfortable with the makeshift cloth and his own arm as a pillow, but.

But.

"Goodnight Stanley," Ford whispered, hesitating before reaching out to gently poke the blanket pile. Stan grumbled, but didn't wake, other arm coming up to wrap himself tighter.

Ford quietly stood up and stepped away from the desk. Stan didn't stir as he left, and hadn't moved when Ford came back to stack a few books around him, along with a note about not knowing if Stan would be able to fight his nature in the morning, and that Ford would be back first thing.

With that he went to get ready for bed, before the sight of his living room made him pause.

He'd only picked up the dangerous artifacts and enchanted objects, every thing else was exactly how he found it. Glass and books littered the floor, the contents of a few jars had leaked onto the carpet, and the TV was still on.

Some kind of Sci fi rerun.

The jars were quickly picked up and contents rejared or tossed out and Ford set to work cleaning up, stopping more and more to watch the TV. It looked like something he might have watched as a child, but the science was so inaccurate and the plot so convoluted he had to keep stopping and mutter at it.

The next day he woke up on the couch, living room tidy and nothing left of the mess but a few stains and his own note shoved in his hand. His panic lasted right up until he ran into the kitchen to find Stan, on the counter eating the last of Fords pistachio ice cream.

Straight from the container.

"You!" Ford yelled, as Stan scrambled to try and grab the edge of the box to pull himself out. His entire body was sticky with it, and there were a few pistachios stuck in his hair, "is this why I've been running out so fast?! How much have you been eating!"

Stan's answer was muffled from the ice cream still in his mouth, but Ford didn't want to hear it. Instead he grabbed the box and grimaced at it's contents.

Nothing but a tiny twin, laying on the bottom and chewing rapidly as ice cream dribbled down his chin. There wasn't even a spoonful left, Stan's tiny hands having scraped whatever was stuck in the corners.

"You don't even like pistachio," Ford grumbled, walking over to the sink (empty of any dirty dishes and clean ones still drying next to it. He had no idea how Stan managed at his size but was too irritated to ask). He tilted Stan out, then turned the water on and walked off to throw the box away.

When he came back Stan was standing under the stream, hands working though his hair to get the nuts out and shoving them in his mouth.

"S'not mah fold you jush buy thes." Stan said, words garbled by the nuts in his mouth, "I'm hungry."

"For ice cream? Wait." Ford put a hand across his chest and tapped his chin with the other, thinking, "If I recall, brownies do household chores in exchange for cream. Lacking that I suppose ice cream could be an alternative, although I didn't leave any out for you."

Stan scoffed, choked on the water still pouring over him, then puffed up, "I don't need you to leave things out for me Sixer, I'm a grown man."

"A grown man taking a shower fully clothed in a sink."

"You put me here, this is your problem."

Ford sighed then chuckled as Stan stepped out and shook himself off, flinging tiny droplets everywhere while Ford turned the water off and grabbed a hand towel. He scooped Stan up and started rubbing him dry, before Stan's wriggling became too much and he set him back down on the counter, still damp.

"Bleh" Stan spat hair out of his mouth, then used the hand towel to dry himself off while Ford got to work making his own breakfast, "I know I said it was you're fault, but that wasn't me giving you permission to snatch me. I can dry myself off."

Ford hummed, then frowned. He opened a few more drawers, checked the sink, before turning towards Stan in confusion.

"Where did you put my coffee cups? I can't find any."

"Check the third cabinet from the sink."

Ford hummed again, opened the cabinet to find nothing but canned goods, and rummaged around before giving up.

"There isn't any in here, are you sure-"

When Ford turned around Stan was gone, tiny wet footprints disappearing in a gap under the window. Outside, strung out in the lawn, were Fords mugs, haphazardly arrayed like someone had thrown them out the window.

There want any question on who had.

"STANLEY!"

AU where Stan somehow someway gets cursed into a brownie. Those little housespirits that live in people’s walls or whatever and supposedly help with chores and play harmless tricks on the house’s residents. So now Stan is a brownie and, somehow someway, ends up in Ford’s house.

He quickly realizes it is Ford’s house and instead of seeking help from his brother like a normal person and getting uncursed, Stan decides to just. Live there as a brownie. It seems better to him. At least this way he has a home and is near his brother, even if he’s very tiny now and his brother doesn’t know he’s there.

Except Ford, avid lover of the paranormal, does know something is there. He doesn’t know what, and it takes him a bit to catch on, but he does eventually realize that there’s something small living in his house. Stan does his best to remain undetected, but he does steal food from Ford, and other small items like socks or a scarf to make a little bed to sleep on.

Ford sets up increasingly elaborate traps to try and catch whatever is in his house. All he knows is that it’s smaller than a gnome and smarter than an animal. Stan, of course, gets pretty good at evading traps or playing little pranks on Ford like setting the traps off with something else like a stick.

They basically play a weird Tom and Jerry game until Stan gets caught in a trap he didn’t expect or, is out and about and Ford stumbles upon him. Or something else. Now Stan has to figure out an excuse as to why he didn’t tell Ford he was living in his house and cursed, something he was perfectly capable of doing since being a brownie did not affect his speech. And Ford has to come to terms with the fact his brother is a very tiny brownie that has been sneaking around his house for months and hiding from him.

Love making Stan live in Fords house rent free here around here, don't we lol.

I'm thinking Ford gets Stan by complete accident in a trap he didn't even intend to make. Like, a Ruby Goldberg esq thing that Ford did not design. Stan bumps into a pencil, it rolls into a thing, yada yada, there's magic there, and Ford opens the door to his living room to find tiny Stan trapped under a coffee mug Ford had put on top of the TV months ago and keeps telling himself he'll get around to putting in the kitchen and failed to do so. His living room is a mess and something is cursing and nudging the mug around trying to get out and it takes Ford a hot second to realize whats happened. Pounces and slams a book onto the mug, cleans up the worst of the mess, then bug in a cup uses a piece of paper to pick the mug up, flip it over, and uses a book or something to cover the top so whatever's in there can't get out. Runs around to desperately find something to hold his newest, tiny specimen so he can finally get a look at whats been living in his house.

Finally gets a glass jar of some kind, doesn't even put anything in there, so when he carefully turns the cup over, removes the book, and shakes Stan out his tiny brownie brother slams into the hard bottom. I don't think he'd realize who Stan is at first, so caught up in excitement and rushing off to get his journal while Stan groans and then tries to climb glass. Comes back, pen and paper ready to go, leans forwards with a grin and a magnifying glass and....

Hey, this tiny man looks a lot like him, huh. Is this a copy cat thing? Did it mimic Ford? Except the moment Stan yells at Ford that he's a man, not an 'it', Ford instantly clocks Stan's voice and goes through all the stages of denial and shock before slamming into anger and demanding an explanation. Just grabbing the jar and coming so close to shaking it before remembering that Stan is very small and that will def give him a concussion.

Well, Stan's not about to admit to living in Fords walls, playing tricks and tidying up his gross house a bit here and there. Definitely isn't going to admit that the only reason he didn't say anything was because he was just happy to listen and watch Ford work, and letting Ford know he was here would def lead to his brother kicking Stan out.

So he lies, obviously. Doesn't Ford know that Stan's a brownie now? He physically can't let people know about or catch him. Its been awful really (no it hasn't) trying to get Fords attention in any way he can (he's done nothing) and hah! Good thing Ford finally caught him or he might've been stuck like this forever! (Stan wishes he could have. Sure he's tiny but Fords house is so warded its safer here than most other places).

Ford believes him, because he's a sucker and not only had he lost the ability to tell when Stan's lying years ago (even before their fight) Stan's so tiny Ford wouldn't have been able to pick up any of his tells even if he did. Goes all 'oh no! Well that's an acceptable and believable answer! Fae are notoriously sly like that, and it matches what he knows of the folk lore.' Stan sighs in relief then screams when Ford starts walking around with him in a jar so he can figure out how to fix him. Stan is not about his new jar life, if Ford could let him out, that would be great.

The lie lasts way to long, and if at any point Ford catches on about it Stan disappears. He's still in the house, Ford can tell by the missing food and the fact that somehow the dishes keep getting done (and he has no idea how Stan's doing that, as all the cameras he sets up get sabotaged), and has one sided arguments where he stands in the living room and yells at Stan about being stubborn and to just let Ford fix him already so he can shake him properly and maybe punch him in the face for disappearing and giving their ma a heart attack. And for living in Ford walls and not telling him? Stan! Explain yourself! Stan!

Then while Ford does that Stan's in his study rearranging all his office supplies like he knows Ford hates.

[nocturnao]

Everything but time

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won't forget me”

pairings: harry potter x reader

synopsis: Haunted by what they almost had, they both must choose—cling to a memory of love or let go of what was never finished.

includes: angst, post-war, spells

requests: open

Master list <3

a/n: my third story hehe!! and it's still angst bleh :D I'm sorry if this is lame, it's probably bc I clutched writing this one, but still I hope you enjoy this!! oh and btw, you can request stories to me :3 and I will do my best to bring life to your ideas!

He wasn’t meant to be down there.

The dungeons of Hogwarts hadn’t been fully explored in decades, not since the war. Rumors swirled around them—cursed hallways, lingering traces of dark magic, corridors that reconfigured themselves and vanished if you walked away too quickly. But Harry had wandered, half-dreaming, wandlight trembling in his hand, drawn by something that felt like memory.

It started with a flicker. A shimmer of blue beneath the stone.

Then silence. Thick and unnatural. And then he saw you.

Encased in a soft, glowing stasis bubble, your Ravenclaw robes still dusted with soot, your hair barely swaying like you were underwater. Your eyes were closed. Peaceful. Unchanged. As if no time had passed.

But for Harry—ten years had passed.

He sank to his knees.

“Merlin—” His voice cracked, trembling with disbelief and something deeper. “It’s really you.”

You were still seventeen.

He had aged into twenty-seven.

And suddenly, ten years of memories—victories, funerals, laughter, loss, Ginny—none of it felt real anymore.

You were real.

And you had waited.

---

The first few weeks, he didn’t tell anyone. He returned to the dungeons every night after classes. Sometimes, he talked. Sometimes, he just stared.

"Do you remember the time you hexed Malfoy into the lake because he called you my shadow?" he whispered once. His laugh was broken. "I should’ve known even then. You were never behind me. You were beside me."

He tried everything. Every curse-breaking technique, every healing spell, every piece of obscure magical theory he could find.

His hands were raw from books. His mind exhausted. But he didn’t stop.

Because this was you.

The one who stayed behind to cast the shield when the ceiling caved in. The one who turned, wand raised, protecting him when the last Death Eater burst through the corridor.

The one who never left. And never came back.

Until—

A blink.

Your eyes fluttered open.

A sharp inhale. The sudden, heavy rush of sensation. Of sound. Of life.

And then—

“Harry?” your voice cracked, your throat dry, “What happened?”

He couldn’t breathe. He just stared. You were real. Awake.

And still seventeen.

“I—I found you,” he said hoarsely, kneeling at your side. “You’ve been asleep. Frozen. For ten years.”

You blinked.

It didn’t make sense.

The last thing you remembered was raising your wand, the heat of a spell, the rumble of stone—

And now here he was.

Older.

Haunted.

But still him.

You looked around, slow realization creeping in. The dust on the stone. The faint magic humming where your bubble used to be.

"Ten years?" you whispered.

He nodded. You reached for his hand.

And he let you hold it—for a moment.

Then he pulled away. And the ache began.

___

The hospital wing buzzed with energy after your return. Students whispered about the girl frozen in time. McGonagall wept quietly when she saw you. Hermione came to visit. So did Ron. And yet—

You waited for Harry.

But Harry was distant.

There were no more whispered stories. No midnight visits.

When you asked, he smiled too gently. As if you might break.

"I'm just glad you're safe," he said.

That wasn’t the look of someone glad.

That was the look of someone hiding.

Until one afternoon, you followed him down the corridor.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

A pause. He didn’t turn around.

Your voice cracked. “You waited ten years, Harry.”

And finally, he turned.

Pain etched into every line of his face. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it.”

He stared at you for a long time. Then, quietly:

“I waited. Every day. Every night. I didn’t tell anyone. I just... kept hoping you'd wake up and I could pick up where we left off. But time didn’t stop for me like it did for you.”

You swallowed. “Then what changed?”

He hesitated.

“Ginny?” you asked softly.

His eyes dropped. “She’s my wife.”

Silence rang louder than bells.

You nodded slowly. Your chest cracked open without sound. “So I was just a chapter you never finished.”

“No,” he stepped forward. “You were everything. But the book closed without me. I didn’t want it to.”

“Then why didn’t you fight for it?”

His voice was raw. “Because you weren’t here to fight with me.”

You turned away.

And Harry—Harry stayed behind, fists clenched at his sides, letting you walk.

---

The days blurred. You were seventeen in a school where everyone looked younger than you. And yet, older than you. Time passed wrong. Everything was wrong.

And he was always there. But never truly with you.

One night, you found him sitting outside the astronomy tower. Alone.

He didn’t speak when you sat beside him.

You broke the silence. “I dreamed about you. While I was gone. Over and over.”

He looked at you, eyes red. “What kind of dreams?”

You smiled, bitter. “Ones where we finished the war and went home together. Laughed. Got a dog. You used to forget to do the dishes.”

He laughed, broken. “That sounds like me.”

“And you?” you asked. “What did you see, in all those years?”

“I came here every night,” he said. “And talked to your empty body. Told you things I didn’t tell anyone else. I think some part of me hoped you’d hear it. That maybe, when you woke up, you’d remember.”

“And now?”

He hesitated. “I still want that life. I just don’t know if I’m allowed to anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a life now. A son.”

You stared at the stars, heart hollowing. “Then stop coming to me like you don’t.”

“I can’t,” he whispered. “Because I miss you. Every second.”

You didn’t look at him.

You just stood. “Then you should’ve loved me enough to stay.”

And this time, you left.

And he didn’t follow.

---

One year passed.

You didn’t speak again.

He taught Defense. You helped Madam Pomfrey. The war never left your eyes. But the pain dulled.

Until one day, you passed each other in the corridor.

You met his gaze.

He stopped.

You smiled softly. "You always told me I'd be brilliant. You were right."

His voice shook. “I was wrong about a lot of things.”

You nodded. “But I was the right one, Harry.”

And then you turned.

This time, forever.

And behind you, Harry stood frozen.

Still seventeen in his soul.

And already too late.

[corvidsofthedeep]

from the deep #24075: black magic crow by Margaryta Yermolayeva here

[stuck-in-jelly]

Obsessed with how Claudia and Soren view magic.

Claudia views magic as something amazing and special, even dark magic despite having to ‘harvest’ from living creatures in order to use it. Because in the end how could something that helps her friends and family be bad? How could something that saved an entire kingdom from starvation be evil?

Soren meanwhile doesn’t care about dark magic vs primal magic. In his eyes Dark magic can be used for immense good just as much as Primal magic can be used for horrific evils. At the end of the day all magic has ever done is divide people and cause years of suffering.

But they are both such hypocrites (affectionate).

Claudia views dark magic as a gift, something to take pride in having. But when she is finally broken down she reflects back she feels disgusted at herself for viewing living creatures as parts. Then when pushed into a dangerous situation she cried out “Don’t make me! Don’t make me do dark magic!”

Soren believes the world would be better without magic at all. Yet he turned to it, he looked his father in his eyes and said “You have your other way! Dark magic.” Not caring that Viren explained the original spell was a primal spell and the new spell would require a terrible sacrifice.