#bleeding magic AU

[solxamber]

Unstable Stable || Leona Kingscholar

You were an S-ranked Guide just trying to live your life, but now you're emotionally (and spiritually) babysitting SS-class menace Leona Kingscholar—who’s decided you're his personal charger and refuses to unplug.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

Life used to be normal.

You know, back when your biggest problem was whether to risk food poisoning for that suspiciously cheap sushi combo. Taxes were annoying, capitalism was soul-sucking, and people still thought “ghosting” only applied to dating. Cute times.

Then the gates showed up.

Like surprise holes in the fabric of reality. No warning. No gentle push notifications. Just BAM—mystical rift to MonsterLand™ opens in the middle of your grocery store and suddenly your choices are “fight or die with a half-priced avocado in hand.”

And that would’ve been it for humanity—extinct in a week if not for the emergence of Espers. Superpowered humans with the ability to close these gates and yeet the nightmare creatures back into the void.

Cool, right?

Except—Espers are dramatic. They're the “I’m fine” as they bleed out types. The “I didn’t sleep for three days, but I still went into a Class-A gate because I felt vibes” types. They save the world, but emotionally? Spiritually? Mentally? Absolutely not okay.

That’s where you come in.

You're a Guide. The human equivalent of emotional duct tape. Your job is to wrangle these unhinged battle gremlins post-gate before they disintegrate or cry themselves into a psychic nosebleed. Sometimes both.

It’s like babysitting, except your babysitter is also a licensed therapist, a soul mechanic, and sometimes a romantic interest depending on how "fanfic" things get.

Is the job dangerous? Constantly.

Are the Espers dramatic? Tragically so.

Is there a union? Not unless you count the Group Chat of Collective Suffering.

And does it pay well? HAHAHA.

Still, between dodging death and massaging the egos of glorified magical toddlers, you’ve somehow become really good at this.

Which is great, because your next assignment?

Is going to change your entire life. Probably ruin it. Possibly give you feelings. Definitely not covered by health insurance. (But then again, what is?)

It’s raining like the gods themselves are ugly crying, but you? You’re bone-dry and smug. Perched on your little foldable stool like a judgmental gremlin, your umbrella is perched just right. Stylish. Functional. Invincible.

Across the street, a cluster of fellow Guides are soaked to their very souls. One of them is trying to use a clipboard as shelter. Another’s shoes have absolutely given up on life. They glare at you like you personally invented weather.

You take a sip of your lukewarm vending machine coffee and shrug.

“Sorry losers,” you say cheerfully, “get on my level.”

Then the gate sputters, flickers, and folds in on itself like a haunted paper fan. The Espers return—bloodied, bruised, twitchy-eyed and definitely seconds away from fainting like overcooked noodles.

Chaos erupts.

Guides leap up, yelling names, waving emergency blankets, fumbling for their med kits. People are screaming things like, “Catch him, he’s falling—OH GOD, HIS ARM,” and “Who packed juice boxes in the trauma bag again?!”

You stay seated. Sip your coffee again. It's mostly rainwater now. Whatever.

Then someone stops in front of you. Tall, soaked, radiating the exact vibe of someone who has murdered for being woken up too early.

And he yanks your umbrella to cover himself.

“I am not getting soaked again,” he grumbles, shaking rainwater out of his hair like an angry golden retriever with a six-pack.

You blink.

“Uh. Hello?”

Leona Kingscholar. SS-Class Esper. Walking lawsuit. The man once growled at a government official for chewing too loudly.

And now he’s under your umbrella like this is some shoujo manga and he’s your tsundere warlord boyfriend.

He side-eyes you. “Aren’t you gonna guide me or whatever?”

You panic a little. “I—I’m not certified for SS-Class. I’m just S-Class.”

He snorts. “Didn't think you'd forget me, herbivore.”

What does that even mean??? Is this… Esper code for “I like you”? Or “I won’t kill you today”? Who knows. He’s already sinking to the ground like a dramatic cat, using your thigh as a pillow without even asking.

And just like that, you’re guiding Leona Kingscholar while sharing an umbrella in the pouring rain, your fellow guides still watching like you’ve been chosen by some eldritch force.

Welcome to your life now. Hope you brought snacks.

Leona is basically half-dead in your lap, but still manages to look like he owns both the rain and your dignity.

You sigh and set your coffee down, running your fingers through his wet hair. It’s soft, unfairly so, and smells like something expensive. His breathing starts to even out under your touch, eyes fluttering shut as your stabilizing energy pulses through him.

He doesn’t say anything. Just rests there with his head in your lap like this is a Tuesday afternoon nap spot and not the wet, cracked sidewalk outside a gate that just tried to eat reality.

You keep going. Until—

He grabs your wrist, eyes suddenly sharp. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

You blink. “Uh. No? Pretty sure I stopped doing that in college. Why?”

He scowls. “You’ve been channeling too long. Idiot. Burn yourself out and you’ll fry your nerves. Can’t stabilize anyone if you’re unconscious in a puddle.”

You try to pull your hand back but he doesn’t let go. “I’m fine, Leona—”

“I need you alive, herbivore.”

You freeze.

Your brain does a little Windows error sound.

And then he’s standing, still holding your umbrella like it’s his now, yanking you up by the wrist like you’re the fragile one. You try to protest, but he ignores you entirely.

“Your car’s this way, right?”

“…How do you know where I parked—”

“Because you always park near the vending machine. Which is stupid, by the way. You don’t even lock it.”

You're still processing the fact that Leona Kingscholar, Mr. I-Hate-Everyone, has apparently been keeping track of your parking habits, when he tosses your keys back at you like a lazy monarch commanding his carriage.

And that’s how you end up being frog-marched to your own car in the rain by a grumpy, half-stabilized SS-Class Esper who refuses to let go of your umbrella.

You’ve barely had your morning caffeine and the email has the audacity to say: Transfer Notice – Effective Immediately. No warning. No prep. Just vibes and bureaucracy.

You're sent to the high-level West Sector Guidance Office. The same one with SSS-Class Guide Vil Schoenheit, the gold standard of grace, glamour, and glaring disapproval.

So naturally, you walk in clutching your sad little cardboard box of office plants and off-brand snacks, looking like a lost intern who accidentally wandered into a luxury spa for dangerous superhumans.

The receptionist is too busy having a breakdown over printer ink to help, so you start aimlessly wandering the halls, trying not to make eye contact with any Espers that could punch through concrete.

And then someone yanks your box out of your hands.

You flinch, ready to throw hands, until you realize it’s Leona. Hair still a mess. Hoodie on like he just rolled out of bed. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t ask how you are. Just nods his chin, “Keep up, herbivore.”

You scramble after him like a duckling with no sense of direction. “Leona—what the hell is this? Why am I here?”

He doesn’t even look back. Just strolls down the corridor with your office supplies like they belong to him now. “Told ‘em I only want you.”

You short-circuit. “What?!”

“They asked if I’d take Vil or the new SS-rank from Sector 4. I said no. Told ‘em to transfer you instead.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. “You… requested me?”

He shrugs like this isn’t causing you a spiritual meltdown. “Whatever. You’re not annoying. You stabilize me fast. You don’t treat me like a bomb about to go off. You’re fine.”

And then—like this conversation hasn’t just rewritten the structure of your career—he dumps your box onto a random desk and starts walking off.

“Wait, that’s it?” you call after him. “You’re just—leaving me here?”

He lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “See you tomorrow.”

You stare at the desk. Then the hallway. Then the spot where your sanity used to be.

You don’t understand what’s going on. But let’s be honest—you’ve never understood anything and that’s never stopped you before. You graduated on sheer vibes and a terrifying ability to guess multiple choice answers with unearned confidence. You once guided a Class A Esper while half-asleep and running on a breakfast of sour candy and spite. You thrive in chaos.

So when you show up at your new desk (which may or may not have been assembled incorrectly), you take a deep breath, sip your mediocre vending machine coffee, and prepare yourself for another confusing day of “just wing it and hope no one dies.”

And then Leona walks in.

No knock. No warning. Just opens the door like he owns the place—which, considering the way your coworkers scurry out of his path, he might as well.

You’re ready to guide. You roll up your sleeves. You stretch your fingers. You mentally prepare for the usual Esper touch-their-hands routine.

Leona?

Leona lays down on the office couch like it’s a five-star hotel bed. Puts his head in your lap. And knocks out like a tranquilized jungle cat. No explanation. No shame.

You blink. “Um. Hello? Sir?”

No response.

You glance around to see if this is some prank. Nope. Just you, a couch, and a warm grumpy lion man making your lap his personal pillow.

So you do the only logical thing: sigh, roll with it, and start guiding like this is completely normal.

The stabilization process is smoother than usual. Leona’s energy calms fast, his breathing evens out, and it’s honestly the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t even twitch when you accidentally brush a hand through his hair mid-guidance.

When you're done, you gently nudge him. “Hey. Nap time’s over, sunshine.”

He grumbles like you’ve just committed a crime and blinks up at you with all the judgment of a cat disturbed mid-snooze. Then, with the reflexes of a seasoned villain, he sits up, grabs your coffee off the table, and chugs it like it’s his birthright.

“Hey!” you cry, scandalized. “That was mine! That was my life juice! That’s the only thing tethering me to this mortal realm!”

He hands you the empty cup with all the remorse of a man who steals from vending machines and sleeps through emergency drills. “You can get another.”

And then he leaves.

You stare after him. You stare at your empty cup. You stare at the void where your caffeine used to be.

This job is going to kill you.

But you’ll die confused and employed, and that’s the best you’ve got.

You’re at the farmer’s market. Living your best domestic fantasy. You’ve got your reusable tote bag, your overpriced jam, a bundle of fresh herbs like you’re the protagonist in a cottagecore fever dream, and a leek that you're weirdly proud of because it was the biggest one in the pile. Life is good.

Then a gate opens.

Right there.

Next to the cheese stall.

The sky splits like a broken lightbulb, the air warps, and BAM—there's a rift to monster hell spewing nightmare fuel in the middle of tomato season.

You don’t know how it happened. One moment you were asking about eggplant pricing, the next you were in a technicolor void smacking a drooling, three-eyed creature with your leek like your life depends on it. Because it does.

You’re cornered by something that looks like the illegitimate child of a bear and a blender, just about to accept that this might be it—death by demon at a farmer’s market—when a figure crashes in, trailing lightning and rage.

Leona.

He surveys the chaos with a look of supremely irritated confusion. “Why the hell are you here?”

You, still holding the leek like it’s a holy weapon: “I don’t know, man, you tell me! I was just buying root vegetables!”

He groans like you’re giving him a headache worse than the gate, and with a single swipe of power, the monsters start dissolving into nothing. He suppresses the gate like he’s swatting a fly, and before you can say “gluten-free honey loaf,” he’s grabbing you by the arm and dragging you back to solid, blessed, non-nightmare reality.

You’re trying to catch your breath. You’re covered in monster goo. Your leek is bent in half. And you’re shaking.

“Okay,” you say, trying for calm but sounding like you’ve just survived the apocalypse (because you kinda have), “let’s get you stabilized so I can go sit in a bathtub forever.”

You reach for him—but your hands are trembling too much. You’ve seen monsters before, sure. But not that close. Not nearly getting your face chewed off.

Leona notices. His brow furrows. “Tch.”

Then—softly, carefully—he pulls you into his chest.

You freeze. Not from fear this time, but from the sudden warmth of him, from the way he smells like dust and heat and something grounding. You feel his hand gently settle between your shoulder blades, like he’s not sure how to comfort but he’s trying anyway.

“You don’t go in the gates,” he murmurs. “I go in. I’ll suppress every last one of them, no matter how many pop up. You just stay out here, alright? You wait for me.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him look at you like that—not annoyed, not smug, but serious. Protective. Like your safety matters more to him than anything else.

You nod into his shirt. “Okay.”

And he holds you a little longer. Just until you stop shaking.

You form a temporary bond with him after the whole gate-at-the-farmer's-market debacle because let’s be honest—your energy reserves were not built for stabilizing a lion in man’s clothing on a daily basis. You were running on fumes and instant noodles. One more session and you'd have crumpled like a used juice box with a sad little wheeze.

Leona didn’t even flinch at the idea of a temporary bond. Just looked at you like finally and said, “Took you long enough.”

Now, you’re guiding him and only him every day. Which sounds intense, but honestly? This is the freest you’ve been since graduating. No more being pinged at 3 AM to rush to a different gate across the city. No more sorting through esper tantrums or being asked if your hands are “certified emotionally soothing.”

You’ve got one glorified cat man to take care of, and he doesn’t even talk during sessions. He just shows up, flops onto your couch, puts his head in your lap like it’s routine, and is unconscious within minutes.

You're so free, you picked up a hobby. You, the overworked guide formerly known as Burnout in a Coat, now crochet lopsided scarves while waiting for Leona to show up. Sometimes you experiment with baking (badly). You’ve even started watching those long, slow documentaries about birds that people put on to fall asleep.

You are, shockingly, thriving.

Every now and then Leona’ll glance at your latest attempt at a potholder-turned-coaster-turned-abstract-art and grunt, “You’re getting better.”

Which, in Leona-speak, is basically high praise.

Life is weird. Life is monsters and gates and nap-hungry espers with bad attitudes.

But life is also calmer now. Just you, Leona, and the occasional crocheted disaster.

The rift today is the kind of thing news stations send helicopters for. It's so massive that your phone buzzes with emergency alerts and a “Good luck lol” from your supervisor. You’re standing just outside the barrier, watching chaos unfold like it’s a live-action anime, umbrella in one hand, your thermos of emergency caffeine in the other.

Then—bam—some random, shaky-looking esper stumbles out of the gate and straight into your arms like you’re the protagonist in a romance drama. You're mid-stabilization out of pure reflex, patting his back like “there, there, emotionally damaged soldier,” when a low growl cuts through the sound of the rift and monster screeching.

Leona storms out of the rift next, all raw power and pissy vibes, his coat half burned and dust clinging to his hair. He sees you cradling Random Esper #453 like he just walked in on something illegal. His expression goes from “I need a nap” to “I'm about to commit a felony” in zero-point-three seconds.

Without saying a word, he grabs the guy by the scruff of his tactical vest like a misbehaving kitten and just yeets him toward another approaching guide.

"Not yours," he growls, before quite literally collapsing into your arms with all the elegance of a sack of emotional bricks.

You don’t even get the chance to complain. He’s already out, breathing slow and heavy, head tucked against your neck like he belongs there.

And you? You’re stuck holding one of the most powerful espers in the world like a sleepy toddler while another guide screams in the background about how Leona threw someone at them.

Just another day in your life.

You are three seconds away from emotionally combusting in front of a full-length mirror, clutching two jackets like they personally offended you. One is sleek, black, mysteriously expensive-looking, the kind of jacket that says “I pay taxes and win arguments.” The other is fluffy, cozy, slightly ridiculous, and makes you look like a sentient marshmallow with excellent taste.

You’re weighing your options with the seriousness of someone deciding between saving the world and saving ten puppies. There are charts. Internal debates. You're about to do the unthinkable and consult the price tags when—

SWOOSH.

The jackets are gone.

You blink. Arms empty. Sanity shaken.

You whirl around and see Leona—yes, Leona Kingscholar, SS-class esper, noted napper, chaos incarnate—casually walking away with everything you were holding. That includes:

• The jackets

• The socks you forgot you picked up

• A weird little plush you were definitely only holding "ironically"

• A novelty mug that says #1 Guide, Certified Not Dead (Yet)

You trail after him, fast-walking with the energy of a startled mall pigeon. “Excuse me?! What the hell are you doing?!”

Leona doesn’t even slow down. He makes a beeline for the register like this is just a regular chore.

“You were taking too long,” he says over his shoulder, as if that explains anything.

“I was deciding! With purpose! With nuance!”

He pays. Effortlessly. Doesn’t flinch at the total. Just swipes his card with the bored grace of someone who buys entire coffee shops out of spite.

You arrive at the register breathless and confused. “I didn’t ask you to buy my—my impulse garments.”

He takes the bag, hands none of it to you, and starts walking out. “Didn’t say you had to ask.”

You make a strangled noise, flapping after him like a duckling trying to make sense of capitalism and emotional whiplash. “Are you—are you okay? Did you hit your head in the last gate? Why are you shopping for me?”

“Can’t have my Guide dying of hypothermia,” he mutters. “Especially not because they can’t pick a jacket.”

“That doesn’t explain the mug, Leona!”

“Sure it does.” He turns, smirking slightly. “You’ll need it tomorrow.”

“For what?!”

“Come to the gate.”

And with that cryptic nonsense, he strolls off into the distance.

You stare after him, confused, and wonder how exactly you ended up in this weird half-domestic cold war with a man who solves problems by spending money and napping through consequences.

Dragging an unconscious SS-ranked esper to your car is not as easy as it sounds. Especially not when that esper is six feet of solid muscle, deadweight, and attitude—even while passed out.

It starts at the gate. After the monsters are suppressed and the chaos settles, Leona doesn’t get back up. You wait—he always gets up. Even when he’s cranky, bleeding, covered in soot and monster gunk, he always stands with that infuriating smirk, like he’s just taken a nap in a flower field. But this time? Nothing.

You run to him, heart slamming against your ribs, calling his name. No answer. Just the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Stable vitals, sure, but his magic signature is drained.

You can’t leave him there—not sprawled out in the dirt like a fallen war god. So you do what any sane, worried, emotionally-compromised Guide would do—you throw all logic out the window and start dragging.

Getting him into the car is a series of humiliating maneuvers that you’re certain would be classified as a war crime if recorded. He keeps slipping down. You have to brace your back against the seat and heave like your spine won’t sue you in the morning. At one point, his leg knocks the gear stick and almost sends the car rolling down the street. You cry a little.

Finally—somehow—you make it. You slam the door shut. Collapse in the driver’s seat, sweating like you’ve just run a marathon. And then—because fate is a comedic little gremlin—you have to carry him again. Up the stairs. To your apartment.

You consider leaving him in the hallway for a second. Just one second. But then he mumbles your name in his sleep, and your heart betrays you by going all soft and stupid.

Once inside, you get him on the couch, check his vitals again, and then begin your descent into spiraling anxiety.

Because he still isn’t waking up.

You pace. You hover. You poke. You even lightly slap his face once (he doesn’t react, but you apologize anyway). You check the clock. You make tea. You don’t drink it. You Google how long can espers sleep before it’s an emergency and get conflicting answers and a concerning ad for calming dog chews.

Two hours later, with your thumb hovering over the call button for emergency services, you’re just about to commit to panic when he stirs.

He stretches like a lion waking up from a particularly satisfying sun nap. Hair a mess, shirt rumpled, magic signature humming faintly back to life. You gasp like someone just turned the world back on and smack his arm with all the force of a mildly annoyed wet sock.

“You absolute menace!” you cry, voice cracking under the weight of emotional exhaustion. “You scared the life out of me! Do you want me to die first?! Because you are on a damn good track—”

He blinks up at you, unbothered. Like you’re background noise to the dream he just left. Then he raises his hand and��pat pat—smooths it over your head like you’re the one that needs comforting.

“‘m fine,” he mutters, which is frankly not the point, and then he drags you down onto the couch like you’re a weighted blanket.

The couch. The tiny two-seater couch that you got on sale and have never once regretted until this exact moment.

He adjusts slightly, making enough room for exactly one leg and half your soul, then shuts his eyes again like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at him, betrayed by the calm of his breathing, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the weight of everything you feel but haven’t said.

“Leona,” you whisper, voice too raw to be anything but honest.

“Sleeping,” he grumbles, completely unmoved. “You should too. You’re loud.”

So you stay. Your hand still buried in his hair, your heart still halfway out of your chest, your soul wrung out like a wet towel—but you stay.

And somehow, in that cramped, lumpy, too-small space, surrounded by exhaustion and emotion and quiet, you find the first real moment of peace that day.

It’s not supposed to happen like this. Gates break, yeah—but they’re not supposed to breach before the espers arrive.

You're still in your uniform, badge clipped on, hair barely brushed, breakfast halfway digested (a mistake), when you arrive at the scene, and—

You freeze.

It’s a remote town, or used to be. Right now it looks like a war zone someone dropped from the sky and left in ruins. Roads cracked and splattered. Buildings collapsed like toy blocks. Smoke curling into the sky like it’s auditioning for a post-apocalyptic music video.

And blood.

So much blood.

You see espers fighting—familiar ones, ones you’ve guided before, their faces hard and blank as they tear through monsters like paper. But the monsters got people first. You see the cleanup teams already moving in. You hear crying. Someone screaming names. And then you see bodies being carried out in bags.

You step forward and your stomach lurches.

You force yourself to take a deep breath. You’re a Guide. You have training. You are not allowed to cry. You are especially not allowed to cry in front of espers who just fought through hell. You breathe in, focus on your mantra: I am here to help. I am here to help. You swallow down the nausea like it owes you rent.

That’s when you feel it—warmth behind you, a solid presence—and then large, rough fingers gently slide over your eyes.

“Don’t look, herbivore.” Leona’s voice is low, soft, somehow more grounding than anything you’ve clung to today. You don’t even flinch at the touch—just close your eyes properly under his palm and let the sounds of chaos fade a little.

You breathe out, finally.

When he lets go, you turn your head, eyes shut, and nod once.

He doesn’t say anything else—just places a hand on your back and steers you gently toward the tents that have been set up nearby. Emergency stabilization camps. Medical supplies stacked up. Guides running back and forth. Your people. You should be helping.

Leona sits you down first.

You start working. Slowly. Mechanically. He leans against your side as you place your hands on him, guiding the storm in his mind back into stillness. He’s watching you the whole time, like he’s memorizing your breathing pattern, your expressions. You don’t say anything, not even when your hands shake slightly at first.

When you’re done, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a smart remark. Just sits with you, quiet.

You lean your head against his shoulder for a second. Just one.

“Herbivore,” he mutters. “You okay?”

“No,” you say honestly. “But I’ll do my job.”

And he doesn’t argue. Just lets you rest before getting up and hauling a blanket off the supply pile and dropping it onto your lap with a grumble about “stupid guides forgetting they’re human too.”

You smile, small and tired, but real.

You lasted longer than most would’ve. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

But it doesn’t make it easier when you turn in your resignation. Doesn’t make it hurt less to watch your fellow Guides blink in stunned silence. Doesn’t make it easier when the manager doesn’t even try to talk you out of it—just looks at you with that tired, knowing gaze and signs the form like they’ve seen a thousand others do the same.

And it really doesn’t make it easier when you go home and cry into your instant noodles like a defeated anime protagonist.

It’s not that you don’t love your job. You do. Or you did. But after the last breach… after seeing what happens when you’re too late… something inside you cracked.

You can’t keep holding people together when you’re falling apart.

So you go home. You unplug your work tablet. You turn off your work phone. You decide, firmly, that for the foreseeable future, you are retired. You make a little ceremony out of it. You throw your Guide badge into the drawer, slap a cartoon band-aid on your mental wounds, and decide your new job is to be horizontal and useless.

You don’t expect the knocking.

Frantic. Panicked. Desperate.

You open the door and Leona’s there—disheveled, annoyed, and clearly having run through multiple “I don’t care” speeches in the hallway before deciding none of them applied.

“Why’d you leave?” he says, skipping greetings entirely. His voice is rough like he ran here. Or yelled at a few people on the way.

You look at him. And you break the news gently.

“I quit.”

He stares at you like you just said you decided to become a professional soap-eater.

You try to explain—how you can’t take another bloody battlefield, how the sound of someone sobbing over a friend’s body has made a permanent home in your ears, how the pressure of always needing to be stable is crushing your chest like a vice.

“I just… I can’t do it anymore, Leona. I need a break. I need to feel human again.”

You expect pushback. Some snide comment. Accusations of cowardice or weakness.

But all he does is stare at you a moment, eyes sharp but quiet. Then, finally, he asks, “You happier like this?”

You blink. “...Yeah.”

He nods once. Then pushes past you like this is his house, grabs the half-eaten bag of chips from your counter, flops onto your couch, and turns on your TV like nothing happened. The audacity.

You just watch as he scrolls past every serious movie and lands on the stupidest slapstick comedy you have saved. And then he’s lounging there, one arm slung across the back of your couch, chewing chips like he pays rent.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t even sit far.

You curl into his side, just a little. Just enough to feel someone warm, someone solid, someone who didn’t leave even when you quit the one thing tying you together. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t make a snide comment, just lets you sit there while two characters on-screen fall face-first into a giant wedding cake.

You snort softly. He huffs a laugh.

Maybe the world can wait a little longer.

You're not supposed to be here.

You're retired. Done. Free. You’ve been living a soft life, surrounded by overpriced lattes and therapy podcasts, learning to crochet ugly little hats for your houseplants. You’ve earned it. You deserve it.

But the moment the alert flashes across your screen—“Category Red Gate Breach”—your blood runs cold.

You tell yourself you’re just going to check. Just to make sure. You don’t bring your badge. You don’t bring your stabilizing gloves. You bring anxiety, a hoodie, and a tupperware of homemade cookies, because apparently trauma turns you into someone’s tired suburban mom.

When you arrive at the site, the street’s already cordoned off, flickering with damage and Gate residue. Monster ash drifts through the air like cursed snow. The temporary field hospital is chaos—Espers limping, bloody, barely upright, Guides running ragged trying to stabilize them before they keel over.

You’re not supposed to get involved. You’re not.

But then you see him.

Leona. Stumbling slightly as he walks, covered in dirt and blood and smoke. He bats away the hands of every Guide that comes near like they're flies. His expression is sharp, but his eyes are glazed. Too bright. Too wild. His coat’s half off his shoulder and his aura is fraying at the edges—like he’s running on fumes and sheer attitude.

You run to him.

“I told you to take care of yourself!” you shout, more out of panic than anything else. “You absolute menace—what the hell, Leona?! Have you not had a single guiding session since I left?! Are you trying to die?!”

He doesn’t answer. He just turns his head slowly, eyes locking on you like you’re a dream he’s too tired to question. His breath stutters.

And then he’s pulling you forward—no warning, no words—just grabbing you and kissing you like the world hasn’t ended yet because you showed up in time.

And you freeze for a heartbeat. Just one. Then your hands are on his shoulders, in his hair, your lips meeting his as the unstable storm of his aura crashes against yours.

You guide him—not with standard channels, not with gloves or focus crystals, but with your whole self. Through the kiss, through the desperation in your grip, through the way you’re pouring every unspoken emotion into him. Every “I missed you,” every “You idiot,” every “Please be okay.”

And slowly—slowly—his breathing evens. The twitch of his muscles fades. The trembling stops. He leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, and whispers, hoarse and raw, “Knew you’d come.”

You hold him tighter.

It happens on a normal, sunny day.

Leona’s in your apartment, lounging like he lives here—which he sort of does at this point, considering how often he shows up without knocking. He’s flicking at one of your crocheted cactus hats with a deeply unimpressed expression, like it's personally offended his sense of aesthetics.

“You’re wasting perfectly good yarn,” he mutters. “This thing looks like a limp sea anemone.”

You throw a cushion at him. “Shut up. It has character.”

He snorts and catches it easily. He looks too big for your space. Too dangerous for your IKEA throw pillows. Too important to be wearing a hoodie you accidentally shrank in the wash, but he is, and it’s riding up just a bit at his waist.

And you—you’re just watching him, feeling the weight of it. The Gate breach. The kiss. The way he let you in like you never left. The way you still know exactly how to guide him better than anyone.

You set your tea down a little too firmly and blurt, “I want to form a permanent bond.”

The room stills. Leona doesn’t move. His hand is frozen mid-poke, just inches from your succulents-in-hats lineup.

“What?”

You swallow. “I want to bond permanently. With you.”

He turns to look at you slowly, eyes sharp, reading every inch of your face. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You sure this isn’t the post-massacre adrenaline talking?” he says, voice flat. “People say weird shit after trauma.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Okay, yes, I saw several eldritch nightmares and had to fight one with a leek, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I’m not going back to guiding just anyone. I only want to guide you.”

Leona’s quiet for a long time. Then he sits up—really sits up—and leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the floor like it's hiding answers in the carpet pattern.

“You don’t get to change your mind after this,” he says, low. “It’s a one-way door.”

“I know.”

“You’ll feel what I feel,” he says. “You’ll know what I feel. Even the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.”

You smile. “Leona, I’ve seen you eat cold pizza at 7 a.m. while shirtless and complaining about filler episodes. I know ugly.”

He groans like you’ve physically injured him and slumps back again. “You’re gonna make me regret this with your dumb jokes.”

But there’s a warmth in his tone now, soft and fond and careful.

He stands up and walks to you, crowding into your space, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You don’t. You reach out and link your fingers through his.

And he exhales shakily. “Okay then.”

He presses you back into the couch—your stupid, lumpy, too-small couch with the blanket that smells like lavender detergent—and his hands are cupping your face, his forehead resting against yours.

He looks at you, eyes bright. “You’re stuck with me now, y’know.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And just like that, you’re not just a guide and an esper anymore.

You’re his. And he’s yours. Permanently.

Leona remembered the first time he met you like it was a fever dream—a chaotic, embarrassing, infuriating fever dream.

He’d been a rookie then. Raw, unstable, claws out at the world and not interested in anyone who thought they could leash him. He didn’t need a guide. Didn’t want a guide. Especially not in some packed training center with too many bodies and not enough air.

And then you happened.

He had just come out of an intense simulated Gate. Aura flaring wild, brain buzzing with static, teeth gritted like he could physically bite down on the overwhelming noise in his head. The instructors had already radioed for a Class A guide, probably even a Class S, someone who could deal with an untamable lion.

Instead, they got you.

You must’ve been nearby and operating on some unhinged kind of autopilot, because you stumbled into the fray like a grad student five espresso shots deep and grabbed him by the collar without even checking his ID tag.

And then—then—you had the audacity to guide him.

It wasn’t the gentle coaxing kind either. It was hands in his hair, forehead pressed to his temple, murmured words like a mantra while he struggled to get away. He’d cursed, snarled, told you to back off before he did something you’d regret.

And you? You pulled his ear.

Pulled his fucking ear like he was a naughty cat on a countertop.

“Sit still, I’m working,” you’d snapped at him, voice sharp and fed-up like this was your fourth Gate that day and you were not about to let some rookie cat-boy ruin your stats.

And then—

Then it all bled away.

The noise. The storm. The static. It melted under your touch, under that weird, grounding, relentless presence of yours. He remembered your aura—bright, strong, so confident in a way you clearly hadn’t earned yet, but hell, it worked.

By the time he came back to himself, panting and blinking in the too-bright light, you were already gone, off to stabilise the next idiot without even sparing him a backward glance.

He had to ask someone your name.

It pissed him off for weeks.

Because you hadn’t even realized who you’d grabbed. You hadn’t known he was a potential SS-class Esper. You hadn’t cared. You’d just seen a wild beast and told it to sit down while you fixed it.

And somehow… it had worked.

He remembered it like a film reel soaked in rain—gray skies cracked open, streets slick and flooding, people scrambling like wet rats to get to cover. And in the middle of that chaos, you.

The only dry, smug bastard in the entire goddamn city.

The rain hadn’t touched you. Not one drop. Umbrella balanced perfectly, a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, like the gates of hell hadn’t just burst three blocks over. You were humming. Humming, for crying out loud.

And Leona had frozen mid-step. Not because of the gate, or the suppression order blaring in his ear—he didn’t even hear it anymore.

It was you.

The same energy. Same aura. That same maddening calm like a slap to the face. He didn’t even need to reach for his senses to know it was you—the one who yanked his ear and made his soul stop screaming all those years ago.

He’d spent months trying to forget that moment. Or rather, trying not to remember it too fondly. That was the worst part: how easy it had been to just give in to your touch. No fights. No snarling. No claws. Just... quiet.

And now here you were, in his city, acting like the rain had never met you, walking through a Gate breach zone like it was your stupid, peaceful backyard.

You didn’t even flinch when he stepped up to you.

Didn’t bristle.

Didn’t bow like the others.

Just blinked at him and went, “I'm just an S class guide.”

And that—

That pissed him off.

Because you didn’t recognize him.

After all that? The ear-pulling? The spiritual mugging you gave his aura? The time you wrangled his chaos into submission with the annoyed grace of someone trying to fix a printer jam?

You didn’t even remember.

Leona’s eye twitched.

No. Fine. That was fine. He could work with this.

He’d just have to remind you.

He leaned in, voice low and lazy, that smile curling sharp and knowing. “Didn’t think you’d forget me, herbivore.”

Still blank.

“Oh?” you said, sipping your coffee like he wasn’t radiating enough energy to fry the sidewalk. “Should I have?”

Leona huffed a laugh through his nose.

Okay. You wanted to play this game? Cool. He’d just put himself on your schedule. He’d get stabilised. Regularly. By you. He’d show up with his whole chaos bleeding out and dare you not to remember what you did to him back then.

He’d make sure you remembered.

And by the time you did, he'd already be sleeping in your lap.

He remembered that day like a fever dream.

The burn of energy spent down to the marrow. The static buzz in his skull, everything blurred and muffled. He didn’t remember passing out. Only that when he cracked his eyes open again, he was on a couch that was too soft, under a blanket that smelled like you.

And you—

You were pacing.

Pacing like your heart was about to break through your chest. Muttering to yourself. Swearing quietly. Picking up your phone like you were about to call for help—and that was when it hit him.

You were scared.

For him.

You, who once yanked his ear like he was a brat in time-out. Who lectured monsters and officials alike with the same exhausted sigh. You were standing there, shoulders hunched, knuckles white, about to call an ambulance like he was something fragile.

Leona would never forget that look.

Wide-eyed. Raw. Like you’d just lost the world and were scrambling to piece it back together.

He stirred just to stop you from dialing, more out of instinct than anything, and your reaction—Sevens. You swatted him like he was the one who gave you heart failure, your voice wobbly as you whined about how close you’d come to losing your “life juice thief.”

And something in his chest broke a little.

He didn’t say anything. Just patted your head with a heavy hand, tugged you onto the couch like you weighed nothing, and pulled you close. Too tired to talk. Too overwhelmed to pretend.

You didn’t argue. You just curled against him, the two of you folded together on that stupid couch not built for two.

He fell asleep with your heartbeat right there, under his hand.

And later, when he pretended it was the proximity that calmed him and not you, he knew he was lying. Because that image of you—panicked, pacing, nearly in tears because of him—was burned into his brain like a brand.

He thought: No one’s ever looked at me like that.

And maybe that’s when it happened.

Maybe that’s when he stopped running from what you meant to him.

Leona remembers the gate break too clearly.

Not because it was the bloodiest he’d seen—though it was. Not because the air had smelled like ozone and rot, or because the monsters had crawled out of that rift like nightmares given shape. Not even because they lost people, though the weight of that had sunk deep into his spine.

No.

He remembers it because of you.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You were supposed to be off somewhere doing idiot hobbies and yelling at your succulents. Not standing there, pale as ash, looking at the wreckage with wide, hollow eyes.

He’d spotted you across the chaos, just as another stretcher went past you, another guide screaming for medics. And you just stood there, frozen. Staring. Not blinking.

Leona moved before he even realized it, instincts kicking in harder than battle mode ever had.

You didn’t flinch when his hand covered your eyes from behind.

"Don’t look, herbivore," he muttered. Not like a command. Like a plea.

You made a small sound—shaky, half-choked—and he felt it. That tremble that ran through your body like a frayed wire.

And he knew, right then, that he’d never forget your expression. The look of someone who’d seen one horror too many. The kind that made you never sleep easy again.

He turned you around, tucked you under his arm like he could shield you from the world with just his presence alone, and walked you to the temporary camps.

You guided him there—your hands still trembling, voice quiet—but you guided him all the same.

He watched you carefully the whole time, like if he blinked, you’d disappear. Like if he wasn’t careful, you'd shatter.

And he swore—

If he could help it, he’d never let you wear that look again. Not for gates. Not for anyone. Not even for him.

Leona had felt fear before.

The kind that came with being outnumbered by monsters too big for even his claws to take down. The cold sweat of overusing his abilities to the point his bones felt like glass. The fury of watching comrades fall mid-battle.

But none of it—not once—had made his stomach drop the way it did when he opened your office door and saw the place getting cleared out.

Your desk was bare. The plant you used to scold for not thriving was gone. The mug that said “Espers are drama queens” was nowhere to be found. There was just a box, some paperwork, and a couple of Guides gossiping in the hallway.

“Transferred?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Nah,” someone said. “Resigned. Burnout, probably.”

His vision tunneled.

Burnout.

You’d burned out—and you hadn’t said a word.

Leona didn’t even remember leaving the office. He just remembered standing in front of your door, knuckles aching from how hard he knocked, heart rattling in his chest like something was trying to break free. You opened it after what felt like eternity, hair a mess, hoodie too big, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

And you smiled.

Small. Tired. But real.

It wrecked him.

You explained in soft words—words that he barely heard because he was watching the way your shoulders curled in, the way your voice wavered when you said “I needed a break.”

And Leona… he said nothing.

Because what could he say?

“Come back?”

“Let me fix it?”

“I need you?”

No. He wasn’t good with words like that. So he just walked past you, flopped on your couch, and turned on the dumbest show in your streaming queue. The one with the laugh track you always made fun of. The one you claimed made your brain smooth enough to nap.

And you came and curled next to him without saying a word.

Leona didn’t sleep that night. He watched you instead. Watched your face soften as the tension bled away. Watched your chest rise and fall. Watched the proof that you were still here, even if a little frayed at the edges.

He stayed until morning.

Because if you couldn’t carry the world for a while, he’d hold it up for you instead

Leona refused to let anyone guide him after you left.

They tried, of course. S-class guides who were calm and polished, eager to work with him. People with pristine records and delicate, careful hands. They hovered around him after every mission, offering stabilizing touches and soft-spoken reassurances, but he bared his teeth at every single one of them.

He didn’t want calm. He didn’t want pristine.

He wanted you.

And it wasn’t like he meant to be dramatic about it, either. He knew how it looked—how reckless it was to take on gate after gate without being stabilized. He could feel it in his bones, the exhaustion chewing at the edges of his mind. His temper frayed easier. His sleep was worse. But every time someone reached for him, he’d shrug them off like their hands burned.

Because letting someone else guide him after you?

It felt like cheating.

Even if you’d never been his. Even if you’d never called him yours. Even if you’d left the job entirely and moved on, arms full of groceries and that stupid smug grin on your face like you hadn’t just ripped something vital out of him.

He endured. And endured. And endured.

Until that gate. The breach that nearly turned into a disaster. His vision had been half-gone from the overload, his hands shaking from pushing himself too far. He was stumbling toward his car, snarling at the idiots trying to grab him, when you came out of nowhere, yelling at him.

Scolding him for not taking care of himself.

You, who had no reason to be there. You, with your arms full of cookies and your dumb little apron still dusted with flour. You, who looked so heartbreakingly angry and worried all at once, like he’d carved a hole in your chest and left it open.

He barely heard the words. He couldn’t think past the rush of your voice and the you-ness of it all.

So he kissed you.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just leaned forward, dizzy with the ache of needing you, and kissed you.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back with a kind of fury that made his knees weak, like you’d been waiting just as long, like all your feelings were poured straight into your touch. You guided him with your hands on his face, your forehead pressed to his. And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—he could breathe again.

You were his fate. You always had been.

And Leona Kingscholar had never once considered being free.

Now, you're permanently bonded.

Leona comes home, not to silence or tension or the eerie calm of an empty apartment—but to you. You, burning something in the kitchen again. You, curled up on the couch in those ridiculous socks that he secretly bought two more pairs of because you kept losing them. You, complaining about your houseplants like they personally offended you, even as you tuck a blanket around one because “she’s sensitive to cold.”

He walks through the door and something tight in his chest unwinds. Every time.

Sometimes he still expects it to go away. Like he’ll blink and wake up, stuck in some sterile recovery room with a lecture coming and a headache already forming.

But then you smile at him, bright and familiar, and you say, “Welcome home, dumbass,” with that soft tone you always save just for him.

And it hits him again: you’re his.

You bonded with him. Not temporarily. Not out of desperation. You chose him.

Leona doesn’t care for sentimentality. But he knows—knows—he’ll never forget the day you tugged on his ear and made him yours.

Because something about the way you touched him… the way your hands didn’t shake… the way your voice didn’t flinch…

He hadn’t felt fear. He hadn’t felt chaos. He’d just felt—settled.

Even now, when you steal his hoodies and press kisses to the corners of his mouth and scowl when he eats the last cookie, he still remembers that exact moment. The tug on his ear. Your hand in his hair. The audacity you had to treat him like a person before he’d ever earned it.

He comes home to that now.

To you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Leona Kingscholar doesn’t feel like he’s enduring the world.

He feels like he’s living in it.

You’re both tangled up in the sheets, legs braided together, skin warm with the afterglow, when you roll onto your side and ask, “Hey… why me?”

Leona blinks at the ceiling, arms behind his head. “Why not you?”

You nudge his side, unconvinced. “No, seriously. You had your pick. So what made you want me?”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, almost casually, “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“Our first meeting. It wasn’t during that gate in the rain.” He shifts, turning to face you fully, voice low and quiet. “It was way before that. Back when we were both still rookies.”

You squint, thinking hard. “You mean—?”

“I was a mess,” he says, lips twitching at the memory. “Raw, half-feral. I’d just come off a surge and nobody could get near me.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

“You,” he says, tapping your forehead lightly, “stomped over, grabbed me by the ear like I was a misbehaving mutt, and told me to ‘stay put,’ like you weren’t terrified I’d snap your arm off.”

And then it clicks. It clicks.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “That was you?!”

He raises an eyebrow, almost smug.

You burst out laughing. Actual, full-body, face-hiding, breathless laughter.

Leona watches you lose it, and something deep in his chest tugs—gentle, powerful, unmistakably warm.

He thinks, this.

This right here. The sound of your laughter in his sheets, the crinkle of your nose, the disbelief in your eyes as if you couldn’t possibly have manhandled one of the most dangerous espers in the country—this is what he wants every damn day of his life.

You’re still giggling when you huddle closer to him, pressing your forehead to his.

“I pulled your ear,” you murmur, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “No wonder you’ve been so whipped since day one.”

“Watch it,” he warns, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness.

You grin, and he kisses it right off your mouth.

Masterlist

[enhaflixer]

pjs. The Marriage Law

synopsis: A Marriage Law was the last thing you expected to dictate your future, let alone shackle you to Park Jongseong. A pureblood heir, painfully composed, infuriatingly good at everything, and—unfortunately—now your husband.

What starts as reluctant cohabitation, filled with awkward silences and sharp words, slowly unravels into something neither of you can ignore. Stolen glances, fleeting touches, and the illusion of normalcy turn into a dangerous game neither of you meant to play. Is it all for show? Or has the line between pretend and real already disappeared?

But love alone isn’t enough to erase the past—or the law that forced you together. As the Ministry looms over your every move, and whispers of rebellion grow louder, you and Jay must decide: fight the law, or fight for each other.

wc: around 20.5K

warnings: Marriage Law AU, Harry Potter AU, forced marriage, government control, slow burn, forced proximity, awkward domesticity, enemies to lovers, bickering, rivalry, mutual annoyance, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, doubt, insecurities, fear of the future, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, sexual tension, intense intimacy, fear of love, conflicted feelings, vulnerability, mentions of pregnancy, future parenthood, domesticity, soft Jay, pining, repressed feelings, denial, yearning, lingering touches, stolen glances, smut, sexual content, F! receiving.

A/N: PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU GUYS THINK I'D REALLY APPRECIATE THE FEEDBACK!!!!!

Masterlist

______________________________________________________________

The owl came at dawn.

You woke to the sharp tap, tap, tap against your window, the early morning light bleeding through the tattered curtains of your London flat. Sleep still clung to your body, but the incessant tapping forced you upright, rubbing the remnants of last night’s exhaustion from your eyes. You recognized the Ministry’s wax seal before your fingers even touched the envelope. Your stomach dropped.

It was here.

The letter you had been dreading for months. The whispers of the Marriage Law had been circulating for nearly a year, rumors passed between hushed conversations at pubs, in hidden corners of Diagon Alley, and among former classmates who refused to believe that the government could enforce such a thing. But deep down, you had known it was only a matter of time. The Ministry had already been heading in this direction for years, pushing for more control under the guise of restoration.

With a deep breath, you slid your nail under the seal, breaking it with a snap. The parchment unfurled in your hands, the ink dark against the crisp paper.

Dear Miss Y/N, By decree of the Magical Unity Act, you have been assigned a partner as part of the Ministry’s initiative to preserve and strengthen magical bloodlines. Your assigned match:  Park Jongseong. Pureblood. You are required to present yourself at the Ministry within 48 hours for the formalization of your union. Failure to comply will result in consequences deemed necessary by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We trust you will uphold your duty to preserve our magical world. Sincerely, Matilda Greengrass Head of the Magical Unity Office

Park Jongseong. Of all the people in the world, it had to be him.

You weren’t sure what to think. You had never hated Jongseong—not really. He had always been there in the background, a constant presence in your classes, a name that lingered on the top of exam scores just above yours. He was the type of person who excelled quietly, never rubbing his victories in your face, but still managing to be infuriating simply by existing. You had no idea what he thought of you. If he had any feelings about your academic rivalry, he had never shown it.

And now, he was going to be your husband.

You hadn’t even processed the letter properly before you found yourself in a booth at The Leaky Cauldron, sitting across from Riki. You had sent an urgent owl the moment you had read the letter, needing to talk to someone—anyone—who might understand.

Riki was younger than you by only a couple of years, but you had always seen him as something of a younger brother—mischievous, quick-witted, and annoyingly perceptive when it came to your emotions. He was the kind of friend who teased you relentlessly but would hex anyone who dared to cross you. If there was anyone you could turn to in a moment like this, it was him.

“You got him?” Riki’s eyebrows shot up when you showed him the parchment. “That’s...sure, yeah.”

You groaned, letting your head fall into your hands. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Well, I mean—it could be worse, " Riki shrugged, taking a sip of his Butterbeer, “He’s not, like, awful. He’s just...Jongseong. A bit awkward, not much of a talker, but not the worst person to be tied to for life.”

You groaned again. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”

He grinned. “A little,”

You shook your head, trying to focus. “I don’t even know how I’m going to tell my parents. They’re barely involved in my life as it is, and now I have to explain to them that I’ve been legally bound to someone they don’t even know?”

Riki’s face softened. He knew how complicated your relationship with your parents was—how they had never truly accepted the magical world, even after you got your Hogwarts letter. “You don’t have to tell them right away,” he said gently. “Focus on getting through this first.”

The Ministry of Magic smelled like ink, parchment, and old magic. The weight of history pressed down upon you as you walked through its grand halls, flanked by Aurors ensuring that every witch and wizard assigned under the Magical Unity Act appeared for their mandated marriage registrations. The building was colder than you remembered, or maybe it was the weight of what was about to happen that made you shiver.

Jongseong was already waiting when you arrived, standing stiffly in the corridor outside the registration chamber. His posture was impeccable, shoulders squared, his hands buried in the pockets of his finely tailored robes. The deep green fabric complimented his sharp features, accentuating the strong lines of his jaw and the dark intensity of his eyes. There was always something enigmatic about Jongseong—he was the type of person who carried an air of quiet authority, a man who never wasted unnecessary words. He rarely let his emotions show, but now, even beneath his composed expression, you could see the subtle signs of tension—the way his fingers tapped idly against the parchment he held, the way his lips pressed together a little too firmly.

You swallowed hard, gripping your own letter tightly. His eyes flickered toward you, assessing.

“Y/N.” His voice was steady, but there was something unreadable beneath it. He gave you a small nod, nothing overly familiar, yet not entirely cold.

The Ministry official cleared his throat, pulling you both out of the awkward moment.

”Park Jongseong and Y/N L/N,” he announced, his voice devoid of emotion, as if he had done this a hundred times before. He motioned toward the chamber doors. “Step inside. We will begin the legal binding process.”

Your breath hitched as you stepped forward, feeling the heat of Jongseong’s presence beside you.

The chamber was larger than you had expected, with high ceilings adorned with ancient runes glowing faintly in the dim light. At the center of the room stood a grand mahogany desk, where stacks of parchment were neatly arranged. Hovering above it was a blood-binding quill, pulsing faintly, attuned to the magic that would soon seal your fates.

“Please, be seated.”

You and Jongseong sat across from each other, the tension between you thick, though neither of you acknowledged it. The official took his place behind the desk, flipping open a massive leather-bound ledger.

“Before we proceed, it is my duty to inform you of the terms and expectations set forth by the Ministry under the Magical Unity Act. This marriage is legally binding under magical law, and both parties are required to uphold their roles as husband and wife.”

Your stomach twisted. You knew this was coming, but hearing it laid out so plainly made it harder to ignore.

“First, you will be required to cohabitate within the next twenty-four hours. The Ministry has provided accommodations, though should you choose to relocate, you must inform the Department of Magical Law Enforcement within seven days.”

Jongseong’s fingers drummed lightly against the desk, his gaze unreadable. He was listening carefully, though he gave nothing away.

“Second,” the official continued, flipping to another section of the document, “you will be required to consummate the marriage within one year. This will be monitored magically, and failure to do so may result in penalties.”

Your breath caught. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, but you couldn’t help the way your fingers curled slightly against your lap.

Jongseong’s face remained calm, though you thought you saw the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw.

“Third,” the official continued, “as part of the act’s goal to maintain the magical bloodline, you are expected to conceive a child within two years. Failure to comply will result in further legal interventions. Exceptions will only be granted under rare circumstances, such as medically confirmed infertility.”

You exhaled slowly, heart pounding. This was the part that had haunted you the most. It wasn’t just about being forced into marriage—it was about being forced to give up control over the future you had always imagined for yourself.

You had wanted children, eventually. You had imagined raising them in a world where they could make choices freely, where they could love and marry without being told when and how. But now, that dream had been reduced to a cold deadline set by the Ministry.

Jongseong finally spoke. “What are our rights in terms of autonomy?” His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it.

The official barely looked up. “You are granted limited autonomy. While you may maintain employment and personal activities, your primary duty remains fulfilling the obligations of the act. Any attempt to break the contract is considered an act of defiance against the Ministry.”

Jongseong gave a slow nod, as if he had expected that answer but wanted it spoken aloud regardless. The official placed two scrolls of parchment in front of you, followed by the hovering blood-binding quill.

“By signing this document, you are agreeing to all conditions and responsibilities dictated by the Magical Unity Act. Once signed, the bond is sealed permanently under wizarding law. Any attempts to nullify it without Ministry approval will result in severe consequences.”

Jongseong’s eyes met yours then, and for the first time, there was something there—a quiet understanding, a shared reluctance. Neither of you wanted this. But there was no choice.

With a deep breath, you reached for the quill. The moment your fingers touched it, a sharp, warm sensation prickled against your skin, and the magic within it stirred in response. You watched as your name etched itself onto the parchment in deep crimson ink.

Across from you, Jongseong did the same.

The moment his signature was completed, the parchment glowed gold, sealing the contract. A faint hum of magic filled the air as the binding took effect.

It was done. You were married.

The official gave a brisk nod, gathering the signed documents. “The bond is sealed. You are now husband and wife under magical law.” He closed the ledger with a dull thud before standing. “Congratulations.”

The word felt hollow.

The moment you stepped into the apartment the Ministry had assigned, the full weight of your situation slammed into you. This wasn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare anymore. It was real. It was your life.

The space was larger than you expected, a sleek, magically expanded flat that felt caught between two worlds—modern and traditional, functional and intimate, impersonal yet unsettlingly designed for romance. It was clear that whoever had designed these living quarters had done so with the idea of a happily married couple in mind.

The open-concept living space had softly enchanted lighting, walls painted in neutral, calming tones that could be adjusted to fit the residents' “mood.” A fireplace sat in the center of the lounge, with a plush sofa curved just enough to suggest cozy nights spent tangled together. The kitchen was fully stocked, fitted with both Muggle and magical appliances, making it impossible to avoid the domestic intimacy the Ministry seemed so determined to impose.

Two bedrooms were set at opposite ends of the flat, though one was clearly meant to be temporary. The master bedroom, which you tried to ignore, was the worst of it. The king-sized bed was too large, too luxurious, the silk sheets far too inviting. The enchanted wardrobes had already been merged, both your belongings stored together, blending lives you hadn’t chosen to entwine.

Even the bathroom was designed for two people meant to share everything. The tub was massive, the type built for indulgent baths, fitted with potion-infused oils meant to relax muscles—meant to encourage closeness. The sinks, the mirrors, the counter space—everything was structured with a life of intimacy in mind.

Jongseong was standing stiffly just inside the doorway, his hands still shoved into the pockets of his dark robes. He looked as out of place as you felt. His eyes flickered over the surroundings, lingering on the details, his expression betraying nothing.

“Well,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “This is… something.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah.”

An awkward pause stretched between you. Neither of you moved.

You cleared your throat. “So… Do you want to set some ground rules?”

Jongseong finally looked at you, his head tilting slightly. “Ground rules?”

You shifted uncomfortably. “For… coexisting.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but it disappeared just as quickly. “Fair enough.” He nodded toward the hallway. “You can take the bedroom on the left.”

You hesitated. “The Ministry expects us to share one eventually.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained calm. “We don’t have to rush into that.”

You let out a breath of relief. “Good.”

Another silence settled. This was going to be excruciating.

You thought the first night would be easier because you had separate rooms. It wasn’t.

The walls were too thin. Every tiny shift, every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the bed linens as one of you turned over—it was impossible to forget that you weren’t alone. That there was someone else here, just a few steps away, existing in the same space, adjusting to the same forced reality.

You lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, feeling every inch of the strangeness that had settled into your life. The silence of the apartment was deafening. Somewhere beyond your door, Jongseong was doing the same. Not sleeping. Not moving. Just existing in this same, uncomfortable limbo.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there before you heard it—

A soft, almost hesitant knock on your door.

You sat up immediately, heart stammering in your chest. “…Yeah?”

You moved toward the coffee pot, pretending not to notice how he was gripping his quill a little too tightly. The sight of him already reading the regulations booklet made your stomach twist. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know what new absurdities the Ministry had included.

“What’s that?” you asked warily.

Jongseong turned the booklet toward you so you could see the bold title stamped on the front.

A Guide to Magical Marital Expectations: Understanding the Unity Act.

You stared at him. “You’re actually reading that?”

He shrugged, flipping to the next page. “Figured it might be useful to know what we’re legally bound to.”

You sighed, sinking into the chair across from him. “And? What’s in it?”

Jongseong skimmed a few lines before speaking. “Mostly just reinforcing what we were already told. Cohabitation, marital duties, legal ramifications if we break the contract.” He hesitated, his fingers pausing on the page. His jaw tensed slightly, and that was when you knew whatever he had just read wasn’t going to be pleasant.

A beat of silence.

Bravely, you cleared your throat. “What else are you working on?”

Jongseong’s eyes flickered up briefly before he tapped the page with his quill. “Just organizing my work schedule. Trying to figure out how to balance—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “All of this.”

Right. Work. You hadn’t even thought about how this new life would affect your schedules. You needed to figure out yours, his, how to exist in this space without stepping on each other’s toes.

“I have a morning shift at Flourish and Blotts starting tomorrow,” you said after a pause. “And I have an evening class twice a week.”

Jongseong nodded slowly. “I start work at the Ministry at eight every morning. Sometimes later, depending on meetings. But I’m usually back by seven.”

You absorbed that. That meant you’d have the mornings mostly to yourself, but the evenings… “So we’ll see each other mostly at night.”

“Yeah.” His expression didn’t change, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. Maybe he was just as wary of that realization as you were.

You stirred your coffee absentmindedly. “And, uh… weekends?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t usually work on weekends, but I study. And sometimes I meet up with friends.”

Right. Friends. You almost forgot that, despite everything, he had a life outside of this.

That thought stuck with you longer than it should have. Maybe because you were realizing that your life, your freedom, had been traded in for something else. For something you didn’t get to choose.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “Also.” He looked up at you, his dark eyes unreadable. “The shared bed rule.”

You grimaced. “I was hoping they’d forgotten about that part.”

Jongseong sighed, setting the booklet down with more force than necessary. “Unfortunately, the Ministry doesn’t forget anything.”

The booklet sat between you on the table, the pages filled with carefully worded regulations, all designed to ensure that the couples formed under the Magical Unity Act fulfilled their “duties.” The words seemed too sharp, too final, as if they carried an unspoken command beneath them.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your mug as you read the clause for yourself.

Clause 7.3 - Marital CohabitationIn order to promote a natural and successful union, married partners must reside within a shared living space and engage in consistent physical proximity.

It is required that both parties sleep within the same quarters by the third month of marriage.

Noncompliance will result in Ministry intervention.

You exhaled sharply, closing your eyes for a moment. “They’re really monitoring everything.”

Jongseong tapped his fingers against the table, his expression carefully neutral. “We have three months to figure that part out.”

You rubbed your temples. “Three months is… not a lot of time.”

He looked at you for a long moment before setting the booklet aside. “We’ll deal with it when we have to.”

And for some reason, that stuck with you.

Jongseong—or Jay, as his closest friends called him—was totally unamused by his morning conversation.

He sat at his desk in the Ministry, flipping through paperwork as Jake lounged against the opposite desk, watching him with a knowing look. The blond Auror had a casual ease about him, one leg stretched out, a quill spinning between his fingers as he regarded Jay with mild amusement.

“So,” Jake finally said, dragging out the word. “How’s married life?”

Jay didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”

His friend snorted, adjusting his robes as he leaned in. “Oh, come on. I know you better than that.”

Jay set his quill down with a sigh. “What do you want me to say?”

Jake tilted his head, considering. “I don’t know. That she’s unbearable? That she’s the love of your life? That you’ve realized you actually have a thing for arranged marriages?”

Unamused, Jay shot him a flat look. “None of the above.”

But the blond was relentless, he leaned forward, arms resting on the desk. “So, what? You guys are just awkwardly existing in the same space?”

Jay hesitated, fingers tapping against the parchment in front of him. “…Something like that.”

“Is she at least decent company?”

Jay exhaled, stretching his arms before finally looking up. “She’s normal. It’s awkward. We’re trying to figure out how to coexist without making it worse.”

“Makes sense. I mean, you didn’t exactly get a say in this. Neither of you did.”

Jay appreciated that Jake wasn’t trying to force humor into the situation, not like their other friends probably would. Jake had a way of knowing when to joke and when to actually listen, which was why he was one of the few people Jay actually talked to about things that mattered.

the Australian smirked. “Alright, I’ll leave it alone. But tell me one thing.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “What?”

The blond's grin was slow and knowing. “Do you find her attractive?”

Jay’s hand froze mid-page turn.

Jake caught it immediately. “Ohhh. That’s interesting.”

rolling his eyes, setting the file aside a little too forcefully, the married man in question responds. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Jay pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.”

Jake laughed, standing up and stretching. “Well, I’d say welcome to married life, but…” He gave his friend a mockingly sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve already figured out it’s a mess.”

Jay shoved his hand away. “Get out of my office.”

“See you at lunch, hubby.”

Jay groaned as Jake walked away, already regretting every life decision that had led to this conversation.

Jongseong was a morning person. You learned that quickly.

He was always the first to wake up, moving around the apartment with an effortless ease that was frankly annoying to someone like you, who preferred to cling to sleep for as long as possible. You often woke to the sound of the shower running, the smell of coffee brewing, and the faint rustling of parchment as he read through Ministry documents while waiting for breakfast.

This morning was no different a few weeks later.

By the time you groggily dragged yourself out of bed, Jongseong was already fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, a towel slung low around his waist. His toned chest and broad shoulders glowed slightly in the morning light, water droplets still clinging to his skin as he casually walked toward his dresser, seemingly unaware—or unbothered—by your presence.

You immediately averted your eyes, heart stammering in your chest. But you could still feel him, still sense the heat radiating off his skin, and the way the air seemed thicker in his presence.

“Morning,” he greeted smoothly, voice still slightly hoarse from sleep.

Your throat felt impossibly dry. “Yeah. Morning.”

He smirked slightly, as if noticing your discomfort, and continued dressing—slowly. The deliberate way he pulled his shirt over his head before taking it off again, deciding he wanted a different one, the flex of his muscles, the way he pushed his damp hair back… it was infuriatingly distracting.

You turned toward the kitchen in desperation, fingers gripping the edge of the counter as you tried to steady yourself. You were not going to be affected by this.

But then he walked past you, his bare arm brushing against yours, the heat of his skin searing through the fabric of your sleeve. You felt the breath hitch in your throat, a sudden rush of awareness sparking along your spine.

You had just taken your first sip of coffee, finally feeling somewhat human, when a loud knock echoed through the apartment. You and Jongseong exchanged a glance.

“Expecting someone?” you asked.

He sighed, setting his mug down. “No. But I have a bad feeling about it.”

The moment Jongseong opened the door, a tall, severe-looking woman in a charcoal robe strode in without invitation. She introduced herself as Ms. Alderton, her expression a mixture of polite authority and thinly veiled scrutiny.

“We’re conducting routine compliance inspections under the Magical Unity Act,” she said, flipping through her clipboard. “It’s a simple process, really. Just verifying that the two of you are… adjusting well to married life.”

Your stomach dropped.

Jongseong had not finished dressing.

He was still only wearing a towel around his waist.

You saw the exact moment Ms. Alderton’s eyes flickered downward—not in a scandalized way, but in a very obvious assessment of the situation.

“Oh.” She blinked, arching an eyebrow. “I see I’ve caught you at a… private moment.”

Jongseong’s entire body tensed. You scrambled to grab his shirt off the chair and shove it at him.

“Right, um, we weren’t expecting company,” you said quickly, willing your face not to burn.

Jongseong took the shirt, clearing his throat as he pulled it on, but not before you saw the way his abs tightened under the scrutiny, the way his fingers twitched as he buttoned his shirt with forced composure.

Ms. Alderton hummed, clearly unimpressed. She began the inspection, moving through the apartment with cold efficiency.

She examined your living quarters, asked too many questions about how often you and Jay were together in the same space, and, of course, dropped the expected question:

“And how are you finding the transition into… intimacy?”

You nearly choked on your tea.

Jongseong, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “We’re taking our time with that,” he said evenly. “As I’m sure the Ministry is aware, not all couples move at the same pace.”

Ms. Alderton gave him a knowing look, scribbling something onto her parchment. “Well, as you both know, there are expectations to be met. We’ll check in again soon.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving the weight of her unspoken warnings hanging in the air.

You let out a long breath, still feeling the residual heat of the morning’s tension clinging to your skin.

At work, Jongseong barely had time to sit at his desk before Jake was on him.

“Alright, listen, I’ve been patient, but you’re dodging, man,” the blond Auror said, plopping down in the chair across from Jay’s desk. “We need to meet her.”

Jay sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Jake gave him a pointed look. “You’ve been married for weeks and we haven’t even met your wife. Sunghoon’s convinced you made her up.”

“We’re fine. We’re adjusting. That’s all you need to know.”

Jake smirked. “See, the more you say it’s fine, the less I believe it.”

“You’re impossible.”

Jake shrugged. “That’s why you love me. So, what do you say? A small get-together. Nothing crazy.”

Jay sighed again, but this time, he hesitated. He knew the Blond wouldn’t let this go.

“I’ll… think about it.”

When Jay got home that evening, you could immediately tell something was on his mind.

“What is it?” you asked, watching as he loosened his tie.

“Jake keeps pushing for us to meet up with him and the guys,” Jay admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I told him we were fine, but he wasn’t buying it.”

You thought about it for a moment before shrugging. “Maybe we should.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

You nodded. “I mean, we’re supposed to be building a life together, right? It might help to actually know the people in it. And… if something ever happens, it’d be good to have them as a support system.”

Jay studied you for a moment, then sighed. “Alright. But there’s an issue,” You arched your brow in response, “ They think we’re like them, you know, more settled into our married life” 

“Ah, I see.” 

He chuckled dryly, “And I haven’t had the chance to correct them.”

And that was how you found yourself getting ready to put on a show.

You weren’t sure why you felt so on edge. It was just a night out with his friends—people who, by all accounts, had no real expectations of you beyond existing at Jongseong’s side. But still, as you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your outfit for what felt like the tenth time, something in your chest felt tight.

Jongseong passed by behind you, fastening the cuff of his crisp, navy button-up. The color complemented his complexion unfairly well, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms, just casual enough to look effortless.

His reflection met yours in the mirror. “Are you ready yet?” he asked, smoothing a hand through his hair.

You exhaled through your nose. “You act like getting ready is as simple as putting on a shirt.”

He smirked. “It is, actually.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t push it. Instead, you turned slightly, watching as he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing just the faintest sliver of his collarbone. It wasn’t intentional, but it made something stir deep in your stomach.

The silence stretched between you as you turned back toward the mirror. He lingered behind you, close enough that the warmth of his body made the air feel heavier.

His voice came softer this time. “You look fine.”

Fine. Not breathtaking, not beautiful—just fine.

You scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

Jongseong’s gaze flickered over you, his brows drawing together slightly like he wanted to say something else but thought better of it. Instead, he just let out a short exhale and reached for his wand. “Let’s go before Jake tracks me down and drags us there himself.”

As he stepped closer, brushing past you to grab his jacket, your breath caught in your throat. The scent of his cologne—clean, warm, just faintly spiced—wrapped around you before you could react. Your skin prickled as he leaned past you, his fingers grazing the dresser beside you.

You didn’t move until he pulled back, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with practiced ease. Jongseong glanced at you once more, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, before he disappeared into the Floo Network.

You stepped into the Floo Network, watching as Jongseong disappeared in a swirl of green flames before following suit. The familiar tug of magic sent you tumbling through the space between, and in the next moment, you landed just behind him in the bustling pub.

The scent of warm ale, roasted meat, and burning firewood wrapped around you, the low murmur of conversation filling the air. The pub was lively but not overly packed—just busy enough to feel comfortably distracting.

Jongseong placed a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. His touch was light, but it lingered, a silent reminder that this was part of the act.

Jake spotted you first, grinning. “There they are!” He leaned back in his chair, tilting his glass toward you both. “The happy couple.”

You tried not to stiffen at the word. Happy. That was the goal, right?

Jongseong slipped into the role easily, his arm around your waist a little firmer now. “You make it sound like we’ve been in hiding.”

Jake clapped him on the back as everyone scooted over to make space. “Well, you have! We needed proof you didn’t just run away.”

The conversation flowed smoothly, the group’s laughter blending into the warm, buzzing atmosphere. But you couldn’t help noticing the way Jongseong’s hand lingered on your waist, the way his thumb traced lazy circles over the fabric of your dress. It was subtle—just enough to be convincing, just enough to make your pulse jump.

Sunghoon smirked, raising a brow. “So, how’s married life? Are you two still in the honeymoon phase?”

Jake chuckled. “Yeah, Jay keeps insisting they’re doing just great.”

You felt Jongseong’s hand tighten slightly on your hip as he hummed in agreement. “We are.”

And then, before you could react, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple.

It was brief, chaste, and yet… oddly intimate. His lips lingered just long enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.

The table burst into cheers.

As the night went on, the conversation shifted from teasing to storytelling. Jake leaned back in his seat, shaking his head fondly. “You know, I still don’t know how the hell Jay managed to get through Hogwarts without completely embarrassing himself.”

Sunghoon chuckled. “That’s because he had us covering for him.”

Jongseong scoffed. “You mean causing more problems than helping?”

Jake smirked. “Call it whatever you want, mate. But let’s not forget that one time you tried to impress a girl by showing off on the Quidditch pitch and almost broke your arm.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Now this sounds like a story I need to hear.”

Jake grinned. “See, back in school, Jay was all business, all the time. But one day, some girl in Ravenclaw was watching him practice, and he got it in his head that he should show off—flew higher than necessary, tried a fancy dive, and nearly knocked himself unconscious.”

Heeseung chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, young love.”

Sunghoon leaned in. “Speaking of, we should all introduce our wives one day. Maybe have a proper dinner.”

Jongseong stiffened slightly, and you felt it. But before he could say anything, you jumped in.

“That would be nice,” you said, smiling. “Though, I’ll admit, I’d probably be terrible at hosting.”

Jake waved a hand. “Nah, don’t worry about that. Besides, I heard you’re friends with Riki?”

Your brows lifted. “Yeah, I basically treat him like my little brother.”

Jake laughed. “Figures. We were both in the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. He was a Seeker, I was a Chaser—best duo ever.”

Sunghoon snorted. “And yet, somehow, Jay was the one always getting all the attention.”

Jake groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

The banter continued, light and warm, and despite yourself, you found that you were enjoying it. The illusion of normalcy was beginning to feel real.

Jongseong wasn’t just your forced husband tonight—he was someone who had a past, who had friends that truly cared about him. And maybe, you were starting to see why people cared about him, too.

The moment the Floo Network spit you both out into the apartment, the spell of the night started to break. Gone was the warm, buzzing atmosphere of the pub. Now, there was only quiet, filled with nothing but the ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall and the soft rustle of Jongseong adjusting his sleeves.

You expected him to make some dry remark about the night, maybe joke about Jake’s relentless teasing. But instead, he just stood there, staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

You blinked, taken aback. “I—yeah. Why?”

He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “You were… different tonight.”

Your throat felt dry. “We were both acting.”

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, unreadable. “I know.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you quite knew what to do now.

The next few days were… different. Not drastic, not obvious, but something had changed. You noticed it in the way Jongseong lingered in rooms a little longer than before, the way his gaze flickered to you more often, the way silence between you no longer felt so hostile—just heavy.

Even the small moments carried weight. The way he passed you a cup of coffee in the mornings without needing to ask how you took it. The way he let his hand linger just a fraction longer than necessary when handing you something. The way your name sounded softer when he spoke it.

It was nothing. It was everything.

And then came the first real break in the routine.

You hadn’t expected to see Jongseong standing outside your workplace that evening. His presence was striking against the backdrop of hurried Ministry employees, his sleeves rolled up, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against a lamppost.

For a moment, you just stared, thrown by the sight of him waiting for you.

It felt unnatural—this wasn’t part of your unspoken agreement. You met in shared spaces at home, interacted when necessary, but waiting for each other? That was… different.

You hesitated before approaching. “What are you doing here?”

Jongseong glanced up, his dark eyes flickering over you before he straightened. “Picking you up.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Since when do we do that?”

Jongseong exhaled, shifting his weight. “Since now.”

You studied him, waiting for an explanation that never came. Instead, he pushed off the lamppost and nodded toward the street. “Come on.”

A flicker of uncertainty settled in your stomach as you fell into step beside him. You weren’t used to this—him reaching out first.

As you walked, the sounds of Diagon Alley surrounded you—shopkeepers closing up for the night, the faint hum of distant chatter, the flickering glow of enchanted street lamps. But the quiet between you was louder.

At some point, he spoke again. “You get along with them.”

You glanced at him. “With who?”

“My friends.”

You hummed. “They’re easy to like.”

Jongseong nodded, his hands tucked into his pockets. His steps were measured, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“They like you too.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your bag strap. Was that what this was about?

“You fit in well,” he added, his voice lower.

Something warm unfurled in your stomach. “Would it have been a problem if I didn’t?”

Jongseong smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Jake would’ve grilled you until you caved.”

You laughed, and for a moment, things felt effortless.

But as you reached the entrance of your shared home, a thought lingered at the back of your mind.

Why did he come to get you in the first place?

It was well past midnight when you shuffled into the kitchen, craving nothing more than a glass of water. You weren’t expecting to see Jongseong standing there, already by the counter, a mug in his hands.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, his gaze flickering down your figure.

It wasn’t until you followed his line of sight that you realized exactly what you were wearing.

A nightshirt. Just a nightshirt. One that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs.

You hadn’t thought about it before leaving your room, but now, under his scrutiny, it suddenly felt like the single most scandalous thing you could’ve worn.

Jongseong cleared his throat. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You nodded, stepping closer, reaching for a glass. His presence felt larger in the quiet, like it filled the room in ways you weren’t prepared for. Like he was waiting for something neither of you had the words for.

After a moment, you sighed, staring into your mug as if the swirling liquid inside had all the answers. “I texted my parents about… this,” you finally admitted, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Two weeks ago.”

Jongseong’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t interrupt.

“They never replied,” you continued, voice carefully even. “Not that I was expecting them to.”

Jongseongs fingers tapped lightly against the table, a thoughtful rhythm. “They’re Muggles, right?”

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I didn’t exactly have the best relationship with them before this. But I thought—” You paused, exhaling sharply. “I thought they’d at least say something.”

He was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice softer than before. “Maybe they just… don’t know how to respond.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Or maybe they just don’t care.”

Jongseong shifted in his seat, glancing down at his hands. He looked like he wanted to say something, to reach for the right words, but he hesitated. Instead, he settled for a careful, almost reluctant, “I’m sorry.”

You lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It’s fine.”

The silence stretched. The air felt thick. Too thick.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes flickering up to yours. And for the first time, you didn’t look away.

His fingers twitched. His jaw tensed. His eyes darkened, just slightly. And then, he took a step back. A deliberate one.

You swallowed. “I should—”

“Yeah.” His voice was lower than before. Rougher. “Me too.”

Neither of you moved for a long moment. And then you did.

The next morning, the reminder came. A letter, crisp and official, waiting for both of you on the breakfast table.

Jongseong opened it first, scanning the words, his jaw tightening. You peered over.

Ministry of Magic Directive 492-B: Cohabitation Progress Assessment As part of your continued marital integration, you are required to submit a Cohabitation Progress Report detailing shared living arrangements and physical proximity. As per Clause 7.3 of the Unity Act, proof of continued cohabitation will be assessed in the next Ministry visit. Failure to comply with expectations may result in reassessment and intervention.

You let out a slow breath. “They’re watching us closer now.”

Jongseong scoffed, tossing the letter aside. “Of course they are.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. Something about the wording unsettled you.

“Physical proximity,” you murmured. “They’re pushing for more.”

Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at you. “Yeah.”

Silence.

The weight of the words hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating.

“We need to practice.”

You looked up from your book, momentarily caught off guard. “Practice what?”

He closed his own book, exhaling like he had already anticipated your reaction. “Being more… natural with each other. The Ministry is expecting real signs of a relationship, not just two people coexisting in the same space.”

You swallowed, shifting slightly. “You mean touching, kissing, all of that?”

He nodded, meeting your gaze with a calmness that only made your stomach tighten further. He wasn’t wrong, of course. If anything, you should have expected this conversation to happen sooner. But something about the way he said it—so practical, so unaffected—sent a nervous flicker through your chest.

“How do you want to start?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

Jongseong hesitated for only a moment before he pushed himself off the couch and extended a hand. “Come here.”

You stared at his outstretched fingers, debating, before finally placing your hand in his. His palm was warm, steady, and as he gently pulled you up, you felt your breath catch slightly at how close he was now.

“Hugging first,” he murmured, like he was giving instructions.

You exhaled softly before stepping forward, wrapping your arms around his waist. It felt awkward at first—stiff, calculated—but then, as his arms circled around you in response, something shifted. He was warm, solid, and despite the tension in your shoulders, there was a comfort in the closeness. You felt the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers rested lightly against your back.

“This isn’t terrible,” he muttered, voice lower than usual.

You huffed a small laugh, eyes still pressed against his chest. “High praise.”

He chuckled, a small vibration against your body. The silence stretched between you, no longer heavy with hesitation but something else—something unspoken. You weren’t sure how long you stood like that before he finally murmured, “Next.”

You swallowed, stepping back slightly. His hands lingered a second longer than necessary before dropping away.

“Kissing?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Jongseong nodded, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “We should get used to it.”

You inhaled, forcing yourself to meet his gaze head-on. “Alright.”

His fingers reached for your chin, tilting it up slightly, and the air in the room seemed to shift. He didn’t move immediately, as if gauging your reaction, waiting for the tension to settle before he finally leaned in.

The first brush of his lips was light, cautious. Testing.

Your breath caught. It was such a simple touch, barely there, and yet it sent a strange warmth curling in your stomach. His lips were soft, warm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he pressed in again—this time firmer, deeper.

A slow, deliberate slide of lips.

Your fingers curled involuntarily into his shirt, as if steadying yourself, as his lips moved against yours with a patience that sent your pulse hammering in your ears. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t merely going through the motions. He was learning you.

There was something unbearably intimate about it, something in the way he lingered, in the way his fingers flexed slightly against your waist. Like he wasn’t sure where to place his hands, but he knew he didn’t want to let go.

Your own breath had turned uneven, the warmth between you making your skin prickle. You weren’t supposed to feel this. It was just practice. Just a test.

And yet, your heart betrayed you with every second he refused to pull away.

Just when you thought he was done, his lips barely parted from yours, he hesitated—and then he pressed a featherlight kiss to the corner of your lips, softer than the first, but somehow infinitely more dangerous.

Your eyes snapped open, breath stalling in your throat.

Jongseong didn’t move for a second, his gaze locked on yours as if waiting for a reaction. Then, he took a small step back, clearing his throat. “See? Not so hard.”

You exhaled shakily, forcing a smirk. “Speak for yourself.”

He smiled slightly, but there was something else there now. Something neither of you were quite ready to address.

That night, long after you had gone to bed, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The feel of his lips hadn’t left you. The warmth of his touch still clung to your skin, lingering in a way that made sleep impossible.

The first morning after the kiss, you had been unsure what to expect. Would he pretend it hadn’t happened? Would the air be awkward between you?

You walked into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and saw him standing by the stove, making coffee like he always did. The difference was how he looked at you.

"Morning," he said, and before you could respond, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with an ease that made your stomach turn over. The touch was fleeting, barely there, yet entirely intentional.

By the second day, it was a hand at your waist when he passed by you in the hallway, fingers lingering as if testing his boundaries. You weren’t sure when it started feeling natural, but you knew that by the third day, when Jongseong pressed a small peck to your temple as he handed you your morning coffee, you didn’t freeze.

You accepted it.

Maybe even welcomed it.

By then, you had decided that if he could do it so easily, so could you. That morning, before leaving for work, you turned back to him just as you reached the door.

"See you later," you murmured, before pressing a quick peck to his cheek.

It was supposed to be casual, unthinking, but as soon as you stepped back, you caught the slight widening of his eyes before he composed himself. You had caught him off guard.

You swallowed, feigning nonchalance, before leaving quickly. You were the one initiating now.

It was the second evening when Jongseong offered to pick you up from work again.

"If people see us together more often, it might help with the whole convincing thing," he had reasoned.

Logical. Sensible. Everything Jongseong was.

Except when he showed up outside your building, leaning against the stone wall with his hands in his coat pockets, looking entirely unbothered while your coworkers noticed.

"Your husband’s here again," one of them teased as they nudged you.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the heat crawling up your neck as you stepped outside. He looked good under the streetlights, the cool air turning his skin slightly pink. His gaze met yours, and something flickered in his eyes before he pushed off the wall and walked toward you.

"Long day?" he asked as he fell into step beside you.

"Exhausting," you murmured. "Thanks for picking me up."

He glanced at you, then, as if on impulse, reached for your hand. Not a performance. Just instinct. His fingers laced through yours with the same steadiness he always carried, and even though you told yourself it was just for show, your pulse didn’t get the memo.

Halfway down the street, you spotted a familiar figure across the road—Jake. He caught sight of you at the same time, waving enthusiastically.

Without thinking, you smiled and waved back. "Jake!"

Jongseong’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, just barely noticeable, but he didn’t say anything.

Jake grinned, giving a knowing look before disappearing into the crowd. You cleared your throat, hoping Jongseong didn’t read into anything. But of course, he had noticed.

The morning of the visit felt different. Heavier.

You woke up to the quiet sounds of Jongseong moving around the flat, the faint scent of coffee drifting through the air. The weight of the upcoming meeting sat in your chest like a stone—there was no ignoring the fact that today, the Ministry would scrutinize everything you and Jongseong had been working toward.

You lingered in bed for a moment longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, feeling the heat of your own overactive thoughts. Had you practiced enough? Would they believe you? Would they catch on that some of these moments had started feeling far too real?

You sighed, forcing yourself up, and padded into the kitchen. Jongseong was leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he sipped from his mug. His hair was still damp from his shower, sticking to his forehead slightly, and—

You blinked. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.

Again.

Jongseong barely acknowledged you as he took another sip of coffee, then set the mug down with an exhale. “We should go over a few things before they get here.”

You were still staring at his bare chest, lips slightly parted. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this—Merlin, you lived together now—but something about it felt different today.

“Uh,” you said eloquently. “You’re—”

“I know,” he replied, completely unbothered. “I forgot to grab my shirt from the other room.”

Before you could respond, a loud knock at the door shattered the moment.

Panic seized your chest.

“They’re early?” you hissed.

Jongseong swore under his breath, grabbing for the nearest thing—your cardigan, which had been draped over a chair. He threw it at you before sprinting toward the bedroom, leaving you standing there, gripping the fabric uselessly as another knock sounded.

Forcing down your nerves, you rushed to the door, opening it just enough to see the official standing there, a clipboard in hand.

“Mrs. Park?” the man asked in a clipped tone.

“Yes,” you said, trying to sound composed.

“We’re here for the cohabitation assessment,” he continued, adjusting his glasses as he glanced down at his paperwork. “May we come in?”

You stepped aside, letting them in, just as Jongseong reappeared—this time fully dressed, but slightly breathless. The Ministry official’s gaze flickered between you both, already taking notes.

The official took a seat at the dining table, motioning for both of you to do the same. His assistant, a younger witch with keen eyes, remained standing near the bookshelf, observing.

“We’ll start with some basic questions,” the man said, clicking his quill against the parchment. “How has married life been treating you both?”

Jongseong leaned back slightly, arm draping over the back of your chair in a practiced motion. “It’s been an adjustment,” he said smoothly, glancing at you with what looked like amusement. “But we’re settling in well.”

The official hummed, eyes narrowing. “What would you say has been the biggest change since getting married?”

You hesitated, heart pounding. What was a normal answer?

Jongseong, of course, had no problem answering. “Waking up to each other in the house.”

You nearly choked on air.

The official scribbled something down. “And how do you usually spend your evenings together?”

Your mind raced. Jongseong was the first to respond, again, far too at ease with all of this. “Dinner, talking about our days, sometimes reading together on the couch.”

That was true. But the way he was selling it so smoothly made heat creep up your neck.

The assistant tilted her head. “And your sleeping arrangements?”

The air in the room thickened.

Jongseong barely hesitated. “We have separate rooms for now, but we’re adjusting.”

The official’s quill paused. A bad sign.

“That will need to change,” he said briskly. “As you know, starting next week, it will be mandatory for all married couples under this law to share a bedroom. The Ministry will have enchantments in place to verify compliance. Any deviation from this could result in a reevaluation of your union.”

Your stomach twisted. They were going to monitor your sleeping arrangements?

The assistant added, “It’s a common concern among couples who haven’t previously lived together, but physical closeness is a necessary step toward a successful marriage.”

Your hands clenched beneath the table. Necessary? Successful? What did that even mean in a marriage you hadn’t chosen?

The official leaned forward slightly. “Are you prepared for that transition?”

Jongseong’s grip on the back of your chair tightened just slightly before he nodded. “Of course.”

The official’s gaze flickered between you two, scrutinizing every reaction, every hesitation. “Then we will expect that adjustment to be complete by the next check-in.”

The assistant cleared her throat. “One last thing. We need to verify your comfort with one another.”

You barely had time to process before Jongseong’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward him.

You should’ve seen it coming.

His lips brushed against yours softly, gently at first. But the moment your breath caught, the moment he felt your fingers instinctively tighten around his, he pressed in just a little more—lingering, deepening, turning what should have been just for show into something you didn’t know how to categorize.

By the time he pulled away, your pulse was hammering.

The official seemed satisfied. “That will do.”

Jongseong didn’t let go of your hand.

The Ministry left shortly after, having seen enough. The moment the door shut behind them, you turned to Jongseong, heart still racing.

“That was—”

“Convincing?” he supplied, arching an eyebrow. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to—”

He cut you off, voice lower. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”

You had no answer to that.

Because the truth was, you weren’t sure anymore.

And, worse still, in just a few days, you wouldn’t be able to avoid the reality of what the Ministry expected from you.

You weren’t just playing house anymore. You were about to start living in it.

You remained standing by the door, arms crossed, still feeling the weight of their scrutiny on your skin. The words lingered between you and Jongseong like an unspoken curse.

You must share a bedroom. You must be physically close. The Ministry will verify.

You turned slowly, eyes meeting Jongseong’s. He was still standing near the table, fingers drumming against the wood. He looked composed—too composed, like he hadn’t just promised the officials something neither of you had fully prepared for.

“You said it so easily,” you muttered.

Jongseong raised a brow. “Would you rather I had hesitated?”

Your arms tightened around yourself. “I don’t know.”

His expression remained impassive, but something in the air shifted—thick, charged with something unspoken.

You swallowed. “We have a week.”

“Six days.”

Your gaze snapped up. “You’re counting?”

He shrugged. “It’s important.”

You exhaled sharply and turned toward the hallway. The flat wasn’t huge, but it had two bedrooms. Your bedroom and his. The safe distance you had clung to was suddenly about to vanish.

You crossed your arms tighter over your chest. “We need to figure out how to do this.”

Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, considering. “We should start by deciding how to—”

“Who’s moving?” you interrupted. “You or me?”

He blinked. You hadn’t even let him finish.

For some reason, the question flustered him more than he expected. He looked toward his room, then toward yours, then back at you. “I… I guess it makes sense for one of us to move into the other’s space.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s obvious.”

His jaw tensed. “Then why do you sound upset?”

You inhaled sharply. “Because this isn’t normal. None of this is normal.”

Silence. The tension was razor-thin, tight enough to snap, but just as the air felt like it might crack open with unspoken frustration, Jongseong suddenly stepped forward.

Your breath hitched as he reached up, fingers brushing lightly against your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. His touch was barely there—soft, lingering, as if grounding you before the moment could spiral too far.

Your stomach flipped. The anger, the frustration—it melted in an instant, leaving something quieter in its place.

“I know,” he murmured. “But we don’t have a choice.”

He hesitated for a beat before his thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, his fingers barely ghosting your jawline. 

“Baby,” he murmured softly, testing the word, letting it hang between you. His eyes searched yours. “Is that okay?”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You weren’t sure what shocked you more—the nickname, or the fact that you didn’t mind it.

You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest, but eventually, you nodded.

Jongseong held your gaze for a second longer before his hand dropped, tension breaking just enough for you to exhale again.

You cleared your throat, stepping back slightly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“It matters,” he murmured again. His gaze flickered with something unreadable before he turned and walked toward his room. He pushed the door open, revealing a clean and modern space—a bed that somehow seemed too big, a desk neatly arranged, shelves lined with things you hadn’t paid attention to before.

“This will work,” he said simply, like it was nothing. Like moving you into his space wasn’t going to alter everything.

You stepped into the room cautiously, running your fingers along the edge of his desk. This was real now.

Jongseong moved beside you, hands slipping into his pockets. “You’ll take the bed, obviously.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“The couch.”

“No.” The word left you before you could think about it. Because that would be too obvious. Too much space. Too much defiance against what they were expecting.

Jongseong tilted his head. “No?”

You swallowed. “If they’re monitoring, we can’t make it look fake.”

His expression was unreadable. Then, after a long silence, he said, “We’ll take sides.”

You nodded slowly. “Sides.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Neither of you moved.

The weight of the agreement pressed in around you. You would share a bed. You would be inches apart at night. The pretense of distance was officially gone.

Jongseong finally sighed. “I’ll move your things in tomorrow.”

You nodded. Then, after a pause, you took a small step toward him. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”

He smirked faintly. “Nothing about this has been.”

You exhaled slowly. “Then we should make it look real.”

Jongseong’s smirk faded slightly. He tilted his head, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. That look. That tension. 

Without thinking, you reached for his wrist, fingers curling around it just briefly before pulling away. Something about touching him first felt necessary.

Jongseong didn’t pull back. Instead, he lifted a hand, his fingers brushing against yours before he murmured, “We’ll figure it out.”

You nodded, stepping back. “We have six days.”

His lips quirked. “Five and a half.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself. Then, before you could change your mind, you turned and left the room, your pulse still unsteady in your chest.

______________________________________________________________

The first night in the same room felt heavier than you had expected. You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the sheets as the reality of the situation fully settled over you.

Jay was in the bathroom, the faint sound of running water filling the silence of the bedroom. Your bedroom now. Your bed, which was suddenly meant for two.

When he stepped out, towel drying his hair, you didn’t look up immediately. Instead, you focused on the shifting space around you—the way your books now lined part of his shelf, your blanket was folded at the foot of the bed beside his, your perfume lingered in the air now.

The room was no longer just his. It was becoming yours, too.

Jay let out a slow exhale as he tossed his towel over a chair. When you finally looked up, your gaze caught on the fact that he was shirtless. He had no intention of sleeping in one, it seemed.

“I don’t sleep with a shirt on,” he said casually, noticing your stare.

You swallowed and cleared your throat. “Can you—just for tonight?”

Jay’s brows lifted slightly before he let out a quiet chuckle. “You really think a shirt’s gonna make a difference, baby?”

Your stomach flipped at the nickname, the casual way it rolled off his tongue. The second time tonight.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Just for tonight.”

He sighed, but didn’t argue, grabbing a t-shirt from the dresser and slipping it on before climbing into bed. “Happy?”

You ignored the warmth creeping up your neck and nodded.

“You okay?” he asked after a beat, watching you.

You blinked. That was the first time he’d asked you that all night.

“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter than intended. “Just… adjusting.”

He hummed, turning onto his back. “You’ll get used to it.”

Would you?

You inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “We should set some ground rules.”

He nodded, shifting to get comfortable. “Okay. Like what?”

You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip. “No unnecessary touching while sleeping.”

Jay smirked. “You think I’m gonna be all over you in my sleep?”

Your stomach flipped at the teasing edge in his voice. “I think accidents happen,” you countered, narrowing your eyes.

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. No unnecessary touching.”

You nodded, though the warmth in your cheeks refused to fade.

“Anything else?” he asked, glancing toward you as he adjusted the pillows.

You hesitated again. “What if, what if one of us wakes up first?”

Jay raised a brow. “Then the other keeps sleeping? That’s usually how waking up works.”

You glared. “I mean, do we pretend to still be asleep? Do we—do we greet each other? What’s the etiquette here?”

Jay let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused. “I dunno. Do you want me to say good morning all soft and sweet? Maybe kiss your forehead while I’m at it?”

You shot him a look, but the mental image sent something warm curling in your stomach.

He grinned. “I’ll just say ‘morning’ and get out of bed. Sound good?”

You nodded. “Okay. That works.”

Jay leaned back against the headboard, watching you for a moment before tilting his head. "By the way," he murmured, "you don’t have to keep calling me Jongseong. Jay is fine."

You hesitated. "Are you sure?"

He smirked slightly. "Yeah. Sounds better when you say it."

Your stomach did an odd little flip at that, but you masked it with a nod. "Alright. Jay." 

“You sure you’re comfortable?”

You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”

He hummed again, like he didn’t fully believe you, but didn’t push.

Then, just as you were about to shift under the covers, he reached over and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.

Your breath hitched slightly at the unexpected softness of the gesture. It was casual, like something natural, something instinctive.

“Relax,” he murmured, voice lower now, almost drowsy. “It’s just me.”

Just him.

The realization settled somewhere deep in your chest as you nodded slowly. You lay back, facing the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the quiet rhythm of the room. Eventually, Jay flicked the bedside lamp off, and darkness swallowed the space between you both.

After a long stretch of silence, you swallowed and, almost in a whisper, asked, "Are you already used to it?"

There was a pause before Jay shifted slightly beside you. His voice was softer than before when he finally answered. "Not yet."

Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. You had spilled coffee on your only clean work shirt, and barely made it to your job on time. Meetings ran over, projects piled up, and no matter how much you tried to get ahead, the day kept dragging you down.

Then, to top it all off, the train home was delayed, and your wand flickered weakly when you tried to summon your keys at the door. By the time you finally stepped inside the apartment, exhaustion clung to your bones, irritation simmering beneath your skin.

You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary, throwing your bag onto the chair with a frustrated huff. Everything sucked. Absolutely everything.

Then you looked toward the bed.

Jay was already there, half-asleep, his head turned toward the door as if he had been waiting for you. His hair was messy, his bare shoulders peeking out from beneath the covers. The dim lighting made his features softer, relaxed in a way that nearly made you forget how awful your day had been.

“Took you long enough,” he mumbled sleepily.

Your frustration flickered, the sharp edges of it dulling almost instantly. You sighed, running a hand over your face. “Yeah. Today was hell.”

Jay hummed, eyes barely open as he shifted, making just enough space for you. “C’mere, baby.”

Your heart clenched at the way he said it, voice thick with sleep, laced with a quiet warmth that had no right making you feel better. 

You sighed again, but this time it wasn’t frustration—it was something softer, something that melted under the weight of his tired gaze.

You moved toward the closet to change, but Jay groaned softly, burying his face in the pillow. “No, just talk to me. I wanna hear about your day.”

You shook your head, exhaling as you unbuttoned your shirt. “You’re barely awake.”

“So?” he muttered, voice muffled. “Still wanna hear you.”

His insistence chipped away at whatever was left of your bad mood. As you moved through your night routine, you found yourself telling him everything—the stupid meetings, the unbearable commute, the way your boss kept mispronouncing your name even after working together for months.

Jay hummed occasionally, nodding in half-conscious agreement, eyes drifting shut between your sentences. But every time you stopped, thinking he had finally fallen asleep, his voice would break the silence.

“What happened after that?”

“Did you tell them off?”

“Bet you rolled your eyes at least five times.”

By the time you finally crawled into bed, most of the weight from the day had lifted, replaced by a quiet comfort that settled deep in your bones. As you exhaled, sinking into the sheets, Jay shifted beside you. His eyes were barely open, sleep pressing heavy against him, but he still reached out, fingers brushing against your cheek.

Without thinking, he murmured, "C’mere," and before you could register what was happening, he pulled you in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss against your lips. It was warm, slow, edged with sleep and something softer, something that made your chest tighten.

By the time he pulled away, his lips barely ghosting against yours, he was already halfway asleep again. "Better?" he mumbled, his voice slurred.

You swallowed, your pulse unsteady. "Yeah," you whispered. Jay’s fingers brushed against your arm as he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Me talking about my day was more for your entertainment than comfort, wasn’t it?”

Jay’s lips curled lazily. “Maybe.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting under the covers. But then Jay mumbled, “No shirt, no pants? I know you don’t like to wear your pants to sleep.”

You exhaled, already feeling the exhaustion tug at your limbs. “Fine.”

His fingers flexed against the sheets, satisfied. “Good. Together, we make one whole pajama set.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jay hummed in agreement, already drifting off. Only when you settled beside him, feeling the shared warmth beneath the blankets, did he finally stop fighting sleep. But before he did, his hand found your cheek, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.

Without thinking, he leaned in again, this time pressing a softer, lingering kiss against your jaw. You exhaled slowly, your hands hesitating for only a moment before one of them lifted, fingers grazing the bare skin of his chest, feeling the warmth beneath your touch. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted closer, his lips trailing down to brush a barely-there kiss against the curve of your neck, his hand moving up to cradle the side of your face. 

"Sleep," he mumbled against your skin, voice fading into exhaustion, before finally letting go.

You woke up to warmth. A slow, steady heat radiating from beside you, the blankets feeling heavier than usual. 

Your eyes blinked open to see him still asleep, lying on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other stretched out lazily, fingers grazing your side. His breathing was even, his face completely relaxed in sleep. 

You hesitated, watching him for just a moment longer than necessary, before attempting to shift away.

The second you moved, Jay groaned low in his throat. “Stay,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His fingers flexed against your hip before retracting as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you yet.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped at his drowsy tone. “I need coffee.”

Jay cracked one eye open. “You always need coffee.”

You huffed. “And you always wake up in a good mood. How?”

He smirked sleepily, rolling onto his back with a slow stretch, his toned stomach peeking out from under the sheets. “It’s a gift, baby.”

The nickname sent a rush of heat to your cheeks, and you pushed the covers off before he could catch your expression. “I’m making coffee.”

Jay hummed, still blinking away sleep. “You’re really just gonna get up and leave me like this?”

You paused, turning to glance at him. “Like what?”

He grinned lazily. “Cold and abandoned.”

You scoffed but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re so dramatic in the morning.”

Jay only smirked as you made your way to the kitchen, the comfortable ease between you lingering even as you started your morning routine.

Moments later, he joined you, still shirtless, hair a mess, moving to grab a mug from the cupboard. As you handed him his coffee, he leaned in absentmindedly, pressing a soft kiss against your shoulder before taking the cup. The motion was so casual, so natural, that it took you a second to process.

You blinked, turning to face him. "Aren’t you kissing me too much?"

Jay stiffened slightly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. But then his lips quirked, and he leaned back against the counter, sipping his coffee.

You watched him for a beat before setting your mug down. "Fine."

Before he could ask what you meant, you leaned in, arms lifting to loosely wrap around his neck as you pressed a soft kiss just beneath his jaw, your lips grazing the warm skin of his neck. You felt the slight shudder run through him, the way his grip on his coffee mug tightened just a fraction. Jay's breath hitched slightly, his fingers tightening around his mug.

When you pulled back, you smirked at the way his ears had turned red. "Happy now?" 

"You should kiss me more," he teased.

You shot him a look, passing him a cup of coffee. “You’re lucky I made extra.”

Jay took a sip, sighing in content. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, baby.”

You pretended not to react to the name, but the warmth stayed with you longer than your coffee did.

As you took another sip of your coffee, the quiet hum of the morning was interrupted by the sound of fluttering wings. An owl swooped in through the open kitchen window, landing gracefully on the counter, a neatly tied envelope clutched in its beak.

Jay sighed, setting his mug down as he reached for the letter. "That'll be from my parents."

You watched as he untied the parchment, unfolding it with a slight frown. The owl hooted softly, waiting for a response.

Jay's eyes scanned the page, his expression unreadable at first. Then, with a small exhale, he muttered, "They want to see us."

Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug. Us.

“You’re staring at it like it’s gonna bite,” he mused, taking a sip of his coffee.

You huffed. “I just don’t know what to expect.”

Jay exhaled through his nose, setting his mug down. “My parents… they’re not bad. Just… traditional. They’ll expect things to look a certain way.”

Your fingers curled around your cup. “And what if they don’t?”

He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “Then we make sure they do.”

There was something unreadable in his expression, something both reassuring and unsettling all at once. He was taking this seriously—not just the Ministry part, but the part where you both had to convince his family, too.

You bit your lip. “One thing at a time?”

Jay smirked slightly, tapping his fingers against the counter. “One thing at a time.”

You weren’t sure why the thought made your stomach twist, but something about meeting Jay’s parents, about having to present this marriage as real to them, felt heavier than anything you had prepared for.

Jay looked at you then, tilting his head slightly. "I can write back later. No rush. Honestly, let’s just get through the last Ministry visit for a while first—then we can deal with my parents."

You swallowed, nodding. "Right. No rush."

The owl flapped its wings, as if impatient, but Jay simply placed the letter aside, returning his focus to his coffee. The weight of the letter lingered in the air between you, unspoken but present.

The morning had started normally enough. Work had been relatively uneventful, save for your coworker Mina pulling you aside as you both sorted through some files in the break room. She leaned against the counter, stirring sugar into her tea with a knowing look in her eyes.

"So," she drawled, "how's married life treating you?"

You blinked. "It’s… an adjustment."

Mina scoffed, taking a sip of her tea. "Adjustment? That’s a diplomatic way of putting it. You barely look married. No ring marks on your fingers, no swooning over your husband’s lunch visits."

You huffed. "He doesn’t visit me at work, but he does pick me up after. And we do kiss and stuff."

Mina’s brows shot up, interest piqued. "Kiss and stuff? So, what, like a peck on the lips? A lingering moment? You making out against the nearest wall?"

Your face burned. "Not making out. Just… normal kissing."

Mina gave you a deadpan look before taking another sip of her tea. "Okay, listen. Make out. Suck his dick. Get laid. In that order."

You nearly choked. "Mina!"

She smirked, unbothered. "What? Jongseong is a total hottie, you’re stressed, and all this weird tension you’re feeling will go away the moment you two start properly acting like husband and wife."

You groaned, rubbing your temples. "You are actually the worst."

Mina shrugged, grinning. "I’m just saying, sweetheart, at some point, you’re gonna have to stop pretending this is a polite roommate situation. Might as well enjoy yourself in the process." 

She only laughed, patting your shoulder. "I’m just saying, if you’re already forced to live together, might as well enjoy the perks, right? Bet he’s not bad in bed either."

Mina shrugged, clearly unfazed. "I’m the realist. You’re the one making this more complicated than it needs to be."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't fully shake her words from your mind as the day went on.

Jay had suggested going out for lunch—something about fresh air being good for you, but you had a sneaking suspicion he was trying to get you out of your own head. The tension of the upcoming dinner with his parents had been lingering between you both, and he was trying to shift the focus.

The café was cozy, tucked into a quiet corner of the city, the kind of place that blurred the line between magical and Muggle. Small, levitating candles hovered above each table, but there was also a very prominent espresso machine steaming in the background, giving the place a strange but warm blend of both worlds.

Jay was different today. More touchy.

The first time he reached for your hand, it caught you off guard. You had been gesturing while explaining something, only to have his fingers wrap around yours mid-sentence, lacing them together as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You blinked down at your joined hands, but he only smirked, continuing to listen as if nothing had changed.

Jay tilted his head slightly. "By the way, you always talk about Niki, but what about your other friends? Jungwon, right?"

You blinked. "Yeah. Jungwon and I have been friends for a while now."

Jay hummed. "Funny. I actually tutored him for like a week back in school."

Your eyes widened. "You? Tutoring Jungwon?"

He smirked. "Yeah. He was struggling with Charms. Thought he could figure everything out by himself, but he kept botching the spellwork."

You laughed. "That does sound like him. How did it go?"

Jay shrugged. "He quit after a week. Said he learned better by messing up on his own."

You snorted. "That sounds even more like him."

Jay smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Guess we’ve had more overlapping connections than I thought."

It wasn’t until later that evening, back at the apartment, that you realized just how much more comfortable Jay had gotten with you.

You were sitting on the couch, legs curled up beneath you as you skimmed through a book, when Jay walked in, plopping down beside you with absolutely no regard for personal space. Without hesitation, he reached for your arm and tugged gently, signaling for you to shift.

You raised a brow. “What?”

Jay smirked. “Come here.”

You scoffed. “Why?”

He sighed, as if you were exhausting, before simply pulling you toward him. You barely had time to react before you were settled against his chest, your back pressed against him as he stretched his legs out comfortably. His arms caged you in, warm and steady.

“Jay,” you muttered, stiffening slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Relaxing.” His voice was easy, like this was normal. Like you hadn’t just settled directly into his lap.

You swallowed, unsure of what to do with yourself. “I—”

“You’re warm,” he murmured, voice dropping slightly.

Your heartbeat stuttered.

The worst part was that he was warm too.

After a few seconds, you exhaled, finally allowing yourself to relax into him. Jay hummed in approval, his lips grazing against the shell of your ear as he shifted slightly, adjusting his grip around you. The touch was fleeting but intentional.

“You really don’t mind all this?” you asked quietly.

Jay chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. “Mind it? I’m starting to think I like it too much.”

You sucked in a breath, but before you could respond, he nuzzled against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your ear before closing lightly around it in a teasing nibble. Your breath hitched, and your fingers instinctively gripped his arm.

"Jay—"

He didn't pull back. Instead, his arms tightened around you, and his lips moved lower, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the curve of your neck. The warmth of it sent a sharp jolt through your spine, and before you could second-guess yourself, you turned slightly in his lap, tilting your head toward him.

It happened naturally—his mouth met yours in a kiss that was slower, deeper than either of you had intended. The shift in energy was unmistakable, tension curling between you like an unspoken understanding neither of you wanted to break.

Jay's hands splayed against your back, pulling you closer as your fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring yourself. When he bit at your bottom lip, a quiet noise escaped you, and he responded by deepening the kiss, tilting his head as if he couldn't get enough.

By the time you finally pulled away, breath uneven, his forehead rested against yours, his lips just barely brushing over yours again in a lingering tease. Your heart was still racing, your hands still lightly curled against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Jay's breath was still uneven against your skin, his hands resting against your lower back, keeping you close. You could still feel the warmth of his lips, the lingering tension settling between you both like an unspoken acknowledgment.

His arms tightened slightly, and he nuzzled against your cheek, pressing a barely-there kiss against your temple. "You feel safe," he murmured, his voice lower, softer.

Your breath hitched. "What?"

Jay exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself in your presence. "With you. I feel safe with you."

The confession sent a warmth through your chest that you weren’t prepared for. Your fingers twitched slightly against his shirt, caught between the instinct to pull away and the need to stay exactly where you were.

Jay tilted his head, his nose brushing against your cheek. "You like taking care of me, don’t you?" he mused, teasing but sincere.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself. "You’re impossible."

His smirk returned, albeit softer this time. "Maybe. But I think you like me this way."

You huffed, shaking your head, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let yourself sink just a little further into his embrace, knowing—deep down—you weren’t quite ready to let go yet.

"Told you you'd get used to it," he murmured, his voice husky.

“Jay,” you warned, though your voice came out softer than intended.

He only smirked, resting his chin on your shoulder like he hadn’t just sent your heart into overdrive. “You’re overthinking again, baby.”

And you hated that he was right.

You had been dreading the Ministry’s visit from the moment the letter arrived, confirming the final scheduled check-in before a long evaluation period. It was supposed to be a relief—this was the last time, for a while at least, that an official would come snooping around, dissecting your marriage like it was an experiment instead of your actual life.

But relief was the last thing you felt.

There was something suffocating about the expectation of passing. You and Jay had gotten good at playing your roles, good at the casual touches, the familiarity, the easy, teasing back-and-forth that had started feeling more real than pretend. But today, something felt… off.

Maybe it was because the words still echoed in your mind.

You should kiss me more.

You feel safe.

Jay had said it so easily, as if it was second nature to him now, to be comfortable around you. But comfort didn’t mean security, and today, everything felt like it was hanging by a thread.

The Ministry official, a stern-looking woman with wire-rimmed glasses, sat across from you both in the living room. A notepad in her hands, quill poised. Watching. Always watching.

“So,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “We’ve received positive reports so far on your integration as a married couple. How has the transition been?”

Jay, as always, was calm, composed, charming. “It’s been good. We’ve built a routine, settled into daily life together.”

Her eyes flickered to you. “And you?”

You swallowed. “It’s… an adjustment, but I think we’re getting there.”

The Ministry woman nodded, making a note. “Good, good. And the cohabitation aspect? Shared space, sleeping arrangements?”

Jay didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

You nodded, feeling the walls close in around you. You wondered if she could sense the strange weight in the air, the tension neither of you had fully addressed.

She glanced down at the file in her lap. “As you know, by the next evaluation period, the Ministry will be monitoring this aspect through magical verification. We must ensure that your union progresses naturally.”

Naturally. As if any of this had been natural from the start.

Her gaze sharpened. “And, of course, I must remind you that by the second year of marriage, procreation is expected. The Ministry understands that adjustments take time, but ultimately, your union is meant to strengthen the magical bloodlines.”

Your stomach clenched. Jay’s jaw tensed.

“Understood,” Jay finally said, his tone even.

You managed a nod, even though your heart was pounding in your ears. The official studied you both for a moment longer before standing, closing her folder.

“I believe that will be all for now,” she said, giving a tight smile. “We will check in again at the next scheduled period. Until then, I suggest you continue settling into your roles as husband and wife.”

And just like that, she was gone. But her words lingered, thick like smoke in the room.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Then, Jay let out a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that was fun.”

Your jaw clenched. “Fun.”

He glanced at you, sensing the shift in your tone. “What?”

You stood abruptly, pacing toward the kitchen, needing space. “Nothing.”

Jay sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Come on, baby, just say it.”

And maybe it was the way he said it—so effortlessly, so casually, as if nothing had just happened—that made something in you snap.

“Say what, Jay?” You whirled around, frustration bubbling over. “That I hate this? That I hate how the Ministry talks about children like we’re required to breed for them? That I hate how we have to act like our lives are some scripted performance?”

Jay exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You think I don’t hate it too?”

“Do you?” The words were out before you could stop them, sharp, biting. “Because sometimes it feels like you’re perfectly fine pretending.”

Jay’s expression darkened. "I’m trying to make the best of this, but you act like I’m the enemy. We’re in this together, or have you forgotten that?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Together? Jay, sometimes it feels like you don't even care. Like you're just rolling with this because it's easier for you."

Jay’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, his posture stiffening. "What do you mean I don't care? Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wake up every morning thrilled about the fact that my life got rewritten by some Ministry law?"

You exhaled sharply. "I never said that."

"No, but you sure as hell act like I’m the one who forced you into this." His voice was sharper now, frustration laced into every word. "I’ve been trying, okay? Trying to make this livable, trying to make it easier for both of us. But every time I do, you push back like you’d rather pretend I don’t exist."

You crossed your arms, hating the way his words stung. "I don’t pretend you don’t exist, Jay. I just—" You swallowed hard. "I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to balance what’s real and what’s not," Your heart pounded, "I haven’t forgotten that we're in this together. But maybe I wish we weren’t."

Jay’s entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter, but no less sharp. "What do you mean, you wish we weren’t?"

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. "Jay—"

"No, say it," he pressed, his voice laced with something raw. "Has this all just been an inconvenience to you? Have I just been another part of the mess?"

You inhaled shakily. "That’s not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" His eyes bore into yours, frustration and something else—something closer to hurt—bleeding into his gaze.

You hesitated. "I just meant… I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore."

Jay’s expression darkened further, his frustration spilling over. "It’s all real, because this is our life now! This isn’t some fantasy, or some nightmare you can wake up from. This is it. We’re here, together, and no amount of wishing it away is going to change that."

Jay let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe it isn’t normal, but it’s ours. And if we keep tearing it apart every time something doesn’t go the way we want, then what the hell are we even doing?"

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Neither of you willing to be the first to break it.

The silence that followed was deafening. Jay’s face didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did. A flicker of something that looked like hurt.

And then, just like that, the moment passed.

His jaw clenched, his voice measured. “We have dinner with my parents tonight.”

You inhaled sharply, your stomach twisting. You had completely forgotten in the middle of the chaos.

“Great,” you muttered. “Can’t wait.”

Jay exhaled, stepping back. “Just… get ready. We’ll deal with this later.”

The carriage ride to Jay’s family estate was quiet, tense. You barely spoke, both still reeling from the heated argument earlier. Jay’s gaze was fixed outside the window, jaw tight, and though you knew this dinner was important, you couldn’t shake the unease crawling under your skin.

By the time you arrived, the grandeur of the Park estate was impossible to ignore. The house—no, the manor—was a striking example of old magic, the kind of wealth that had been passed down for generations.

Tall wrought-iron gates opened with a soft creak, revealing sprawling courtyards lined with lantern-lit pathways, their glow flickering in the cool evening air. The mansion itself was regal, its high stone walls blanketed in ivy, windows aglow with warm golden light.

Jay straightened the moment the carriage stopped, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by something practiced. Reserved. This was his world, and you were only stepping into it.

A house-elf opened the massive front doors before either of you could knock, ushering you into a vast foyer lined with polished marble floors and an intricately carved staircase leading to the upper levels. The walls were adorned with enchanted portraits, all featuring past generations of the Park family—stoic figures in rich robes watching you with unsettling scrutiny.

Jay’s mother was waiting in the grand entrance hall, regal as ever. Her dark hair was elegantly styled, her robes immaculate, her presence exuding the effortless grace of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

"Jongseong," she greeted, her voice smooth but edged with expectation. "It’s been too long."

Jay nodded, a polite smile barely reaching his eyes. "You know how it is."

His father stood just behind her, taller than Jay, his presence commanding even in silence. His features were sharp, his stare assessing, but there was a flicker of curiosity when he glanced at you.

His mother’s gaze shifted toward you, scanning with the precision of someone accustomed to weighing worth. "And you must be my daughter-in-law."

The title landed heavily. Daughter-in-law. It sounded more binding coming from her than it ever had from a Ministry official.

You dipped your head slightly. "It’s lovely to meet you."

She studied you for a long moment before giving a small nod. "Come in. Dinner is ready."

The dining room was ornate and intimidating, the kind of place where silence held weight. A long, polished table stretched across the room, set with fine china and gleaming silverware. Floating candles hovered overhead, casting a warm but almost oppressive glow on the deep mahogany walls lined with more ancestral portraits.

Dinner was served in meticulously timed courses, each plate appearing at the perfect moment as house-elves moved soundlessly through the space. The food was exquisite, but you barely tasted it—your mind too occupied with the undercurrent of tension between you and Jay.

His parents, though polite, were assessing you, their questions carefully crafted to evaluate rather than genuinely get to know you.

"Tell me," his mother finally said, dabbing her lips with a pristine napkin, "how have you been adjusting to married life?"

You forced a smile. "It’s been an adjustment, but we’re finding our way."

Jay’s father hummed, swirling his wine glass. "Finding your way?" His sharp eyes flickered between the two of you. "That’s an interesting choice of words."

You felt Jay tense beside you. "We’re managing just fine."

His mother tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharper than before. "Did you two have a fight?"

Your breath caught in your throat. The room felt smaller. Had they already noticed?

Jay let out a measured sigh, fingers tightening slightly around his fork. "It’s nothing. Just—" he exhaled, sparing you a quick glance, "a disagreement."

His mother hummed thoughtfully, setting her napkin down beside her plate. "Marriage isn’t about never fighting. It’s about how you handle the fights."

His father nodded, his deep voice breaking the tense silence. "A marriage built on avoidance will always crumble. Disagreements are inevitable, but how you choose to move forward from them is what matters."

The weight of their words settled heavily between you and Jay, a third presence at the table. It wasn’t accusatory, nor was it particularly comforting—it was simply fact. And it left you feeling exposed.

His mother’s gaze lingered on Jay for a moment longer before softening just a fraction as she turned back to you. "It will take time, but if you are both willing to build something real from this, then you must learn to meet each other halfway."

You swallowed, nodding slowly. Halfway.

After dinner, as the plates vanished and the dining room emptied, Jay’s mother turned to you with a calm, knowing expression. "Come," she said, rising gracefully from her seat. "Let’s wash our hands before dessert."

You hesitated for only a moment before following her, feeling Jay’s gaze linger on you as you exited the room. The air in the corridor was cool, laced with the scent of fresh linen and aged parchment. You expected her to lead you directly to the washroom, but instead, after you rinsed your hands, she gestured toward a side door that opened into a moonlit garden.

"A walk will do us both some good," she murmured, stepping outside.

The estate grounds were vast, illuminated by the soft glow of floating lanterns. The paths were lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and arching trellises of enchanted flowers that bloomed faintly in the evening air. It was quiet, serene, the opposite of the tension you had felt all night.

She walked beside you in silence for a few moments before speaking. "I can see the weight you’re carrying, dear. You don’t need to hide it from me."

You exhaled slowly. "It’s just… a lot. Adjusting, trying to understand what all of this means, what’s expected of me… and Jay."

Her lips curled slightly, not unkindly. "My son is… difficult at times. But I know him well."

You glanced at her, uncertain. "You seem to know a lot about us already."

She chuckled. "I know marriage is not easy, especially one like yours. But I also know that my son is not as indifferent as he pretends to be. He may act as though he’s handling everything well, but I see the way he looks at you. And I see the way you look at him, even when you don’t realize it."

You swallowed. "I don’t know how to make this work."

She stopped walking, turning to you. In the dim light, her gaze was softer than before. "Then start by meeting him where he is. And let him meet you there, too."

You nodded slowly, her words settling deep within you.

Then, as if sensing your next question, she offered a small smile. "If I know my son—and I do—he’s waiting for you upstairs. In his old bedroom. He may be stubborn, but he won’t go to sleep without trying to fix things."

The warmth in her voice was unexpected, and when she placed a gentle hand on your arm, she added, "Call me Mom. Family is built over time, but you’re part of ours now."

Something in your chest tightened, but you found yourself nodding, feeling the smallest bit lighter.

"Go to him," she murmured, stepping back toward the house. "The night is long, but love is patient."

The hallways of the Park estate were quiet, dimly lit by sconces casting soft, flickering light. The house smelled like old parchment, polished mahogany, and something herbal—like a potion left brewing long enough to become part of the walls. The weight of history pressed in on you as you followed the familiar path to Jay’s childhood bedroom.

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as you stood outside his door, slightly ajar, warm lamplight spilling onto the dark floorboards. Your heart was a riot in your chest, each beat slamming against your ribs.

You pushed the door open.

Jay was there. Waiting.

He sat on the edge of his bed, one elbow propped on his knee, fingers pressed to his temple like he had the beginnings of a headache. His sleeves were still rolled up, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his shirt hung loosely over his frame, collar slightly undone like he’d been tugging at it in frustration. His hair was tousled—from his hands, or maybe from the weight of the night.

He looked up as you entered. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders tensed.

The room was suffocatingly personal. The bed, bigger than you expected, was covered in dark gray sheets that had long lost their crispness. The walls, lined with old Quidditch posters and bookshelves crammed with textbooks and novels, spoke of a younger, more ambitious Jay—one you had never known.

Your throat tightened. This was his space. His past. And now you were stepping into it.

You shut the door behind you, your breath unsteady.

“Your mom told me you’d be here,” you said softly.

Jay scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. "Of course, she did."

The silence that stretched between you was thick with unspoken things. You shifted on your feet, nerves crawling up your spine. It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to him.

You exhaled. "She also told me to call her Mom."

That got his attention. His brow furrowed slightly, his gaze flickering over you like he was trying to decide if you were serious. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "She gave me some advice, too. About meeting halfway."

Jay inhaled deeply, rubbing at his temple before looking at you fully. "Sounds like her."

More silence. It wasn’t cold anymore, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Just hesitant. Fragile.

Finally, he sighed. "I don’t like fighting with you."

The words hit you harder than they should have. A lump formed in your throat. "Me neither."

Jay’s eyes softened just slightly, his posture relaxing the smallest bit. "I meant what I said earlier. This… us. It’s real, whether we wanted it to be or not."

You swallowed against the sudden sting behind your eyes. Real. That word lodged itself deep in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You took a slow step forward. Then another. And another, until you were standing between his knees.

Jay’s hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.

"I don’t know how to do this," you whispered, voice tight.

Jay’s throat bobbed as he exhaled, and this time, he didn’t hesitate. His hands slid up your hips, fingers digging into your waist just enough to make you feel it.

“Then let’s figure it out together,” he murmured.

A small, broken sound escaped you before you could stop it. His grip tightened.

Tears slipped past your lashes, and Jay’s entire expression shifted. His fingers brushed up, cradling your face, wiping them away.

"Baby, hey—" his voice dropped lower, raw. "Why are you crying?"

You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t know. I just—" You sucked in a breath. "You call me baby like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like we’re normal. And I don’t know what to do with that."

Jay studied you for a long moment, then tilted his head forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

His warmth seeped into your skin, anchoring you. He smelled like home.

"You don’t have to do anything with it," he murmured. "Just let me hold you."

You let out another shaky breath before you did something you hadn’t done before.

You settled into his lap.

Jay’s entire body stiffened, but he didn’t stop you. His arms came up instinctively, wrapping around your waist, holding you tighter, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Your fingers toyed with the edges of his collar, trailing along the warm skin just beneath it. His pulse thrummed under your fingertips, fast but steady.

Then, without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft at first, hesitant—a brush of lips meant to test the waters. But when Jay sighed against your mouth and pulled you flush against him, the hesitation melted away.

He kissed you deeper.

You could feel everything in the way he held you—his hands sliding up your spine, his fingers tracing your ribs, the weight of every moment leading up to this one.

By the time you pulled away, you were breathless. Your forehead rested against his, lips still tingling.

Then, in a hushed, teasing voice, you whispered, "I love it when you smother me with yourself. It makes me feel beautiful."

Jay froze.

Then—a deep, rich laugh rumbled in his chest. He tipped his head back, grinning. "What?"

Your cheeks burned. "It sounded better in my head."

Jay’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing over your temple as he chuckled. "God, you’re ridiculous."

You hummed, tracing absent patterns over his chest. "But you love it."

Jay exhaled, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as if he belonged there. "Yeah, baby," he murmured against your skin. "I do."

For the first time that night, everything felt right.

The morning sun poured through the windows the next morning, casting golden streaks across the bedroom floor. You stirred slightly, feeling warmth wrapped around you—solid, firm, undeniably Jay.

His arm was draped over your waist, his breath hot against the back of your neck, slow and steady. His entire body was flush against yours, the weight of his leg thrown over yours, as if he had unconsciously tangled himself around you in the night.

You froze, hyper-aware of every point of contact. His hand splayed low on your stomach, fingers curled just barely under the hem of your shirt. His breath fanned over the shell of your ear, sending shivers racing down your spine.

Then, he tightened his grip.

You sucked in a breath as his fingers flexed against your skin, pulling you back against him. A low hum rumbled in his chest, deep and sleepy.

"Mmm. Stay," he muttered, voice thick with sleep, gravelly in a way that made your stomach flip.

You should move. You should pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, just for a second. The feel of him—his bare skin against yours, the solid press of his body—had your mind spiraling into dangerous places. He was so warm, so strong, so impossibly close.

Your breath stuttered as you felt his fingers slide just a little lower, his palm pressing just a little firmer.

And then, realization hit.

You jerked away, heart hammering, but Jay barely reacted. He let out a tired groan, stretching his arm over his head before blinking at you through half-lidded eyes.

"What’s wrong?" His voice was hoarse, his gaze still heavy with sleep.

You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to stay even. "Nothing. Just… we should get up."

Jay smirked, lazy and knowing.

"If you say so, baby."

The walk home was silent, but thick. Every brush of your arms, every accidental glance, every moment of quiet between you carried an unbearable weight.

You weren’t sure when it had started—this undercurrent of something more, something dangerous. But you could feel it burning beneath the surface.

When you stepped inside the apartment, the air changed.

Jay lingered near the kitchen, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. He watched you, gaze heavy, unreadable. You could feel it—the tension crackling between you like a live wire.

Finally, he broke the silence. "You’re different."

You glanced at him. "So are you."

His lips quirked. "That a bad thing?"

You didn’t answer. Because no, it wasn’t. And that was the problem.

It started small. A test. A game.

You began pushing his buttons—on purpose.

Brushing past him with too much force. Leaning in just a little too close when speaking. Letting your fingers trail over his wrist absentmindedly, just to see if he’d react.

And Jay? He played back.

His palm ghosting over the small of your back when he passed behind you. His lips brushing your ear as he murmured something teasing. His fingers trailing down your spine for just a second too long.

Then came the moment when he finally called you out.

One night, as you passed him in the hallway, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

He turned to face you, his eyes dark, smirk sharp.

"What’s this, baby? Trying to get my attention?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You had been. But you weren’t about to admit it.

You scoffed. "In your dreams."

Jay chuckled, but there was something dangerous in his expression now.

"Oh, I think you’ve been in my dreams, too."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. He was winning. And you couldn’t have that.

So, you did something reckless.

As you moved past him, you let your fingers drag over his stomach, just barely skimming the skin exposed by his loose shirt.

Jay stiffened.

For the first time, he looked affected. His jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides.

Then, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You keep playing with fire, baby."

You turned, eyes locking onto his. "And what if I am?"

His lips parted. His fingers curled into fists.

He was so, so close to losing it.

It happened in the smallest, most ridiculous way.

You were reaching for something on the top shelf in the kitchen when Jay stepped behind you, his body pressing up against yours, his hand effortlessly grabbing it before you could.

"Let me," he murmured, his voice low and deep in your ear.

You froze. Every inch of him was against you. His chest, his hips, his hands.

Then, you pressed back against him.

Jay let out a quiet, shaky breath. His fingers dug into your waist.

"You don’t know what you’re doing to me," he whispered. His lips brushed your ear, his breath warm.

You turned slightly, your lips just barely grazing his.

"Then show me."

And that was it. That was the moment. Jay grabbed you, spun you, backed you against the counter.

His mouth crashed against yours—needy, desperate, hungry. A gasp escaped you, swallowed instantly by his lips. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you onto the counter with ease.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, so, so close.

Jay broke the kiss, panting, pressing his forehead against yours. His hands shook as they held onto you. "Tell me to stop."

You shook your head. "Don’t you dare.".

The air between you and Jay was electric, charged with unspoken desire that had been simmering for far too long. It was too much now, a weight pressing down on you both, demanding to be released. When his lips finally claimed yours, it was with urgency, with hunger, as if he had been holding back for months.

The kitchen—such a normal, mundane setting—was suddenly transformed into something far more intimate, more dangerous. The cool granite countertop pressed into your back as Jay’s lips crushed against yours, sending shockwaves through your body.

At first, your lips parted in surprise, but the moment you surrendered, it was over. His kiss was hungry, his mouth moving fervently against yours, tasting, exploring, claiming. His tongue swept inside, demanding, possessive, like he was marking you as his own.

A soft moan escaped you, a sound of surrender, of need.

It seemed to unleash something in him.

His hands, which had been resting gently on your thighs, tightened with fierce intensity. His long fingers dug into the soft flesh, leaving imprints as he pushed you further into the counter, molding you against him. Your back arched instinctively, pressing your body closer, craving more of the heat between you.

The kiss deepened, turning hotter, messier. A whimper slipped from your lips, and Jay responded with a deep, primal growl, his mouth leaving yours to trail fire along your jaw, your neck.

“God, baby,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, wrecked. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine, curling in your stomach. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

Your thoughts were incoherent, lost in the sheer intensity of him.

Your hands, which had been resting against his broad shoulders, now tangled in his dark hair, tugging, pulling him closer. You needed more, needed to be consumed by him, needed to drown in the way he was touching, kissing, ruining you.

"Do something about it," you whispered, your voice thick with want, raw with need.

It was a challenge, a dare—one that Jay was more than willing to accept.

With a feral grin, he pulled back, his eyes dark with pure desire. “Oh, I will.” His voice was low, dripping with promise.

In a swift motion, his hands gripped your waist, strong fingers spanning your sides as he lifted you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his hips on instinct, as if you had done this dance with him a thousand times before.

And then, you felt it.

His hardness pressing against you, just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to send a delicious thrill racing down your spine.

Jay devoured your mouth as he carried you out of the kitchen, his footsteps unsteady, his grip unrelenting. You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, matching his fervor with your own.

The urgency between you both was palpable, nearly unbearable.

By the time Jay kicked open the bedroom door, his lips never leaving yours, his hands never loosening their grip on you, your entire body felt like it was burning from the inside out.

He stumbled inside, kicked the door shut with his foot, and suddenly, everything blurred.

You barely had time to register the bed before you were falling onto it, your body sinking into the mattress as he followed, covering you, pressing you down, making sure you felt every inch of him.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he growled, his voice thick, rough with need. “Every fucking day, I’ve fantasized about having you, about claiming you like this.”

Your fingers traced the strong lines of his jaw, relishing the roughness of his unshaven skin.

"Then take me," you whispered, a boldness you didn’t even know you possessed. “Make me yours.”

Jay’s response was immediate.

His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pinning them above your head, his grip firm but careful. His free hand roamed, tracing your curves, exploring, memorizing.

His thumb brushed over the peak of your nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp from you, your body arching instinctively.

“I want to see you,” he murmured, his voice like gravel, heavy with restraint. “All of you.”

Your heart pounded as you sat up, pulling your shirt over your head, revealing the delicate black lace beneath.

Jay’s eyes darkened. His breath hitched.

Releasing your wrists, his hands moved to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing the hardened peaks, rolling, stroking, watching you squirm beneath him.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his lips finding yours again, a searing, devastating kiss.

His mouth trailed down, down, down, leaving a path of kisses, nipping, sucking, making you tremble beneath him.

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, and you arched into him, desperate.

"Please, Jay," you begged, your voice a breathless plea. "I need you."

He let out a dark chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Oh, you’ll have me, baby. But first… I want to taste you."

And then, he did.

His lips, his tongue, his fingers—all of him, taking his time, taking you apart.

You were a trembling, gasping mess beneath him, gripping the sheets, crying out his name.

And when you finally shattered, when he pulled every last moan from your lips, he moved back over you, watching you, waiting, drinking in the sight of you undone beneath him.

You reached for him, pulling him down, wrapping yourself around him, whispering his name.

And when he finally slid into you, deep and slow, filling you in one smooth stroke, you knew. This wasn’t just need. This wasn’t just hunger.

This was everything.

Jay buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning as your body clenched around him, gripping him perfectly. He moved slow, deep, deliberate. Like he wanted to make sure you felt everything. Like he wanted to ruin you.

And he did. He whispered your name against your skin.

And when you both tumbled over the edge together, it wasn’t just ecstasy. It was something more.

Something terrifying, something dangerous, something neither of you were ready to name. Afterward, Jay didn’t move.

He just held you, his lips pressing absentminded kisses against your temple, your jaw.

The sheets were a tangled mess beneath you, the room still thick with the remnants of last night—the heat, the whispered names, the overwhelming need.

But morning had arrived, and with it, clarity.

You lay still, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, stomach twisting. You could feel him beside you, the warmth of his body still clinging to yours, the weight of his arm draped lazily over your waist.

You should move. You should get up.

Instead, you stayed still, afraid to break the moment. Afraid of what came next.

Then, Jay stirred.

A slow inhale. A shift of weight. Then, his hold on you tightened.

“Baby, you know I'm in love with you right?” he murmured, his voice thick, raspy from sleep.

Your stomach flipped, heat rising to your cheeks at the way the word slipped so effortlessly from his lips.

Then, he pressed a lazy kiss to the back of your shoulder.

Something inside you clenched at the tenderness of it. The way his lips lingered, soft and warm, like he was memorizing you, grounding himself in the feel of you.

It was so different from last night. Last night had been fire, hunger, pure desire. But this? This was something else entirely.

Something terrifying.

You swallowed hard, your body going stiff beneath his touch. He noticed.

Jay let out a quiet exhale, his fingers tracing soothing circles over your hip. Then, finally, he spoke.

“I meant what I said.”

Your breath caught in your throat. His words. The confession you hadn’t acknowledged.

“I know,” you whispered.

He shifted, his grip tightening just slightly, as if afraid you’d slip away. His lips found your bare shoulder again, pressing another slow, lingering kiss.

“My Doll,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, but still weighted with emotion. “You don’t have to say anything. Not yet.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes meeting his for the first time that morning. He looked different.

Softer. More open. But just as intense. Your lips parted, but no words came. Because what could you say? You weren’t ready. You weren’t sure what this was.

But Jay just smiled, small and knowing, like he understood anyway.

“You don’t have to figure it out right now,” he murmured, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just… let me be here with you.”

Your chest tightened. That was the problem. He was already here. Closer than he had ever been. You didn’t know if you had it in you to push him away.

It took days. Maybe longer. But it was always there, lingering between you.

Jay never said it again, but you could feel it in everything he did.

The way he pulled you close when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he touched you—not just with heat, but with reverence. The way he whispered "Baby" like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But the moment it finally hit you, it was almost embarrassing how obvious it had been all along.

It wasn’t in the quiet nights, or the way he held you in his sleep.

It was something as simple as Jay waiting for you outside of work.

It had been a rough day. One of those days where everything felt heavy. And when you stepped outside, seeing him leaning against the lamppost, hands in his pockets, waiting for you like it was the most natural thing in the world—

It hit you like a train.

He smiled the second he saw you, pushing off the post and walking over like he couldn’t get to you fast enough. “Hey, babe. You okay?”

And instead of answering, you just stood there, staring at him—this man who had somehow become everything.

Jay frowned slightly, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

You let out a breath, and before you could stop yourself, the words just slipped out “I love you.”

Jay stilled. His fingers twitched against your cheek, his expression unreadable.

Then, his lips parted. “Y/N…”

You panicked. “I—I mean it too I-”

But before you could take it back, Jay was already moving, already kissing you like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear you say those words.

And when he finally pulled back, breathless, a little dazed, he just grinned.

“You can say it again, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, but when he leaned in and whispered, “Say it again, baby,” you did.

Because you meant it.

Months later, the apartment felt different. Warmer. More like a home than a place you had been forced into.

The nursery had been Jay’s latest obsession. He had spent the entire day painting the walls, rearranging furniture, making sure everything was perfect. And now, he was sprawled across your bed, half-asleep, waiting for you.

You stood in the doorway, hand resting on your six-months-pregnant belly, watching him with amusement. His shirtless form was stretched across the mattress, hair still messy from the day’s work, an arm thrown over his eyes.

“Babe,” you called softly.

He groaned. “Mmm.”

You stepped forward, nudging his foot with yours. “You’re hogging the bed.”

Jay cracked one eye open, a slow, sleepy grin spreading across his lips. “And you’re glowing, mama.”

You rolled your eyes, crawling into bed beside him, letting out a relieved sigh as you sank into his warmth. Jay turned onto his side, one large hand coming to rest on your belly, thumb rubbing slow circles over the fabric of your shirt.

“Tired?” you asked.

“Exhausted,” he muttered, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “But you’re worth it.”

You smiled, letting your fingers trace the ridges of his forearm. “You’ve been working too hard.”

Jay hummed, shifting closer, his lips grazing your jaw, your cheek. “You’re carrying my kid. I’d build a whole damn castle if you wanted one.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He nuzzled against your cheek, voice growing drowsy. “Only for you, my Doll”

You turned your head slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips.

Jay smiled into it, whispering, “Can’t wait to meet them.”

Your heart squeezed, warmth flooding through you.

“Me too,” you whispered, letting yourself sink into him. “Me too.”

Then, in his half-asleep state, he muttered, “But if they have your stubborn streak, we’re doomed.”

You snorted. “Then you better start preparing now.”

He pulled you in tighter, his lips brushing your forehead. “I already have everything I need.”

You yawned, stretching your fingers along his bare chest before whispering, “Come here, baby.”

Jay let out a pleased hum, shifting fully into your arms, resting his head against your shoulder. His strong arms wrapped around you, careful yet firm, his warmth seeping into your skin as he melted into you.

“Mm, I like it when you call me that,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.

You smirked, running a hand through his messy hair. “Good. Because I’m not stopping.”

As sleep began to claim you both, Jay murmured, “You know, I hated every second of that damn law.”

You sighed, your fingers tightening against his chest. “Me too.”

“But…” he continued, his voice soft and full of something deep, something real, “I’ve loved every second with you.”

You smiled, pressing a final kiss to his skin. “Me too, Jay. Me too."

fin.

taglist: @wonnienyang @firstclassjaylee @belle643 @ijustwannareadstuff20 @heelovesmeknot @heeseunggotrizz @jaeyunsbimbo @immelissaaa @somuchdard @jkslvsnella @vernorica123 @lillotus17

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

It’s You

Where Y/N’s chaotic energy clashes with her grumpy, tattooed neighbor, her mission to get on his good side turns into stolen glances, quiet moments, and a connection she never expected.

Au Harry

Word count: 13,395

Content warning: Cursing, smut, alcohol.

The warm glow of string lights illuminated Y/N’s cozy Los Angeles apartment as the sound of laughter filled the air. The small space was a mix of bohemian chic and personal touches—a gallery wall of polaroids, a cluttered coffee table covered with open bags of snacks, and a few empty wine bottles standing like trophies from their earlier indulgence.

Y/N flopped back onto the couch, a glass of red wine in hand, her cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and nonstop giggling. Her two best friends, Harper and Lila, sat cross-legged on the floor, snacking on popcorn and chips, fully embracing the childlike joy of their adult sleepover.

“This feels so right,” Y/N said, her voice slightly tipsy. “Why don’t we do this more often?”

“Because we’re responsible adults now, remember?” Harper teased, adjusting her oversized hoodie. “Nine-to-five, bills, and pretending we know what we’re doing.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lila quipped, popping a gummy bear into her mouth. “I’m thriving in my chaos era.”

Y/N snorted, and Harper rolled her eyes with an affectionate grin. Lila was the wild card of the group, always coming up with unpredictable ideas. And she didn’t disappoint tonight.

“You know what we should do?” Lila suddenly said, sitting up straighter. “Karaoke.”

“Yes!” Harper exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Oh my God, yes. Do you still have that mic we bought for New Year’s Eve?”

Y/N groaned dramatically, but her smile betrayed her fake reluctance. “You mean the mic that nearly got us evicted? Of course, I still have it.”

Lila grinned wickedly. “Perfect. Let’s wake up the entire building with our stunning renditions of 2000s throwbacks.”

Without waiting for further approval, Lila dashed to the hall closet and pulled out the karaoke mic, triumphantly waving it in the air. Harper grabbed her phone, already scrolling through a playlist.

“You’re starting,” Harper declared, pointing the mic at Y/N.

“What? No!” Y/N laughed, holding her hands up defensively. “I’m not ready!”

“Too bad,” Lila said, shoving the mic into Y/N’s hands. “You can’t escape destiny. Pick your song.”

Y/N sighed theatrically before smirking. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when your ears bleed.”

As Y/N queued up Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson, the room erupted in cheers. The first few notes played, and soon enough, Y/N was belting out the lyrics with unrestrained enthusiasm, her friends joining in for the chorus. It didn’t matter that they were slightly off-key; in that moment, they were superstars in their own private concert.

Wine glasses were forgotten, snacks spilled, and every lyric was sung at full volume. It was the kind of night they’d remember for years—a reminder that no matter how grown-up they pretended to be, some things never lost their magic.

The girls were in full swing, harmonizing (poorly) to “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys. Lila stood on the couch holding the mic as if she were performing at Madison Square Garden, while Harper played air guitar with a half-empty wine bottle. Y/N was doubled over in laughter, her cheeks aching from smiling so much.

Just as they hit the iconic, “Tell me why—” part, a loud knock echoed through the apartment, cutting through their drunken fun like a record scratch. The girls froze, their voices trailing off mid-note. Y/N straightened up, exchanging wide-eyed looks with Harper and Lila.

“Uh… did someone order pizza?” Lila whispered, her voice unsure.

“Nope,” Y/N said, setting her wine glass on the coffee table. “Stay here. I’ll get it.”

With a mix of nerves and annoyance, Y/N padded to the door. She peered through the peephole and groaned. It was her new neighbor, Harry. She’d only exchanged a polite “hello” with him in passing, but he’d already struck her as the brooding, grumpy type.

Bracing herself, she opened the door.

There he stood: tall, disheveled hair pushed back in a lazy attempt at taming it, wearing a faded gray hoodie and black joggers. His sharp green eyes narrowed as he took in her flushed face and the muffled chaos behind her.

“Good evening,” he started, his British accent dripping with sarcasm. “I just wanted to say how much I’ve been enjoying your concert tonight. It’s like living next door to a live music venue. Only… worse.”

Y/N blinked, momentarily stunned by his dry humor. “Oh. Uh, sorry about that. We didn’t realize how loud we were being.”

Harry crossed his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe. “I figured. Thought I’d come over before I lost the ability to hear entirely.”

From behind her, Lila’s voice chimed in drunkenly. “Is it a noise complaint? Tell him to sing with us!”

Y/N turned and shot Lila a glare. Harper muffled a laugh.

Y/N sighed and looked back at Harry. “We’ll keep it down. Promise.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching into the faintest smirk, though his tone remained gruff. “Appreciated. Just… try not to turn it into a full-on festival.”

With that, he turned to leave, but Y/N couldn’t help herself. “You know, you could’ve just sent a passive-aggressive text or something.”

Harry glanced back over his shoulder, one brow arched. “I thought this had more impact.”

And then he was gone.

Y/N closed the door, leaning her forehead against it for a moment. When she turned around, Lila and Harper were staring at her like she’d just walked off the set of a rom-com.

“Um, who was that?” Lila asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Harry. My new neighbor,” Y/N replied, walking back to the couch.

“And Mr. Grumpy Pants is cute,” Harper added, grinning.

Y/N rolled her eyes, picking up her wine glass. “Yeah, yeah. He’s cute and cranky. Now can we please move on before you two start planning a love story?”

But the mischievous glint in her friends’ eyes told her they weren’t letting this go anytime soon.

The karaoke mic had been put away, and the girls now lounged in the cozy living room, passing a bottle of wine between them. The earlier buzz of excitement had mellowed, but the energy was still warm and lively. Lila was sprawled on the couch with her legs dangling over Harper’s lap, while Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping from her glass.

“I mean, let’s just talk about him for a second,” Lila began, her voice dramatic. “The mopey neighbor with the accent? And did you see those tattoos? They were peeking out, Y/N. He’s giving mysterious bad boy energy.”

Y/N groaned, her cheeks warming instantly. “Oh my God, Lila. He was literally just here to tell us to shut up.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not hot,” Harper chimed in, grinning. “He has that whole ‘I’m grumpy but secretly charming’ vibe. Like, did you see the way he smirked when he made that little joke?”

Y/N tried to hide her flustered reaction by taking another sip of wine, but she couldn’t stop the blush creeping up her neck. She’d noticed too—his smirk, his sharp jawline, the tattoos curling up his forearm, just barely visible under his hoodie sleeves. She’d noticed everything.

“I mean, he’s okay, I guess,” Y/N mumbled, keeping her tone nonchalant.

“Okay?” Lila shot up, nearly spilling her wine. “You’re lying. You’re the worst liar ever.”

“Shut up,” Y/N said, laughing as she buried her face in her hands. “Fine, he’s cute. So what? He’s also my neighbor, and he’s probably annoyed with me forever now.”

“He’s not annoyed,” Harper said, nudging her with her foot. “If he were, he wouldn’t have made the effort to come over himself. He would’ve sent an email to management or something. He wanted an excuse to see you.”

“Right,” Y/N said, rolling her eyes. “Because nothing’s more attractive than a drunk girl singing Backstreet Boys at full volume.”

“Exactly!” Lila exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air. “You’re memorable. He’ll never forget you now.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing despite herself. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Harper said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “But I bet he thinks you’re cute too.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed deeper, and she quickly changed the subject. But as the night went on, she couldn’t shake the image of Harry standing in her doorway, his messy hair, his smirk, and those tattoos. Maybe her friends weren’t entirely wrong.

The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds of Y/N’s apartment, illuminating the chaos left behind from the night before. Wine glasses, half-eaten snacks, and the abandoned karaoke mic were scattered around the living room. The girls were tangled up in blankets, sprawled across the couch and the floor like a scene from a sitcom.

Y/N was the first to stir, groaning as she rubbed her eyes and sat up. Harper was curled up on the couch with a throw pillow over her head, while Lila lay on the floor in a makeshift nest of cushions, one arm dramatically draped over her face.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Y/N teased, nudging Lila with her foot.

Lila groaned. “Why are you awake? It’s illegal to be this alive right now.”

Harper peeked out from under her pillow, her voice muffled. “What time is it? Do we even have the energy to exist today?”

“Barely,” Y/N replied, standing and stretching. “But I’m starving, so I’m making breakfast. Come help me.”

Harper and Lila grumbled but eventually dragged themselves up and into the kitchen, where Y/N was already cracking eggs into a bowl. Together, they whipped up a chaotic but delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and a mountain of coffee.

The girls sat around the small dining table, eating in comfortable silence at first. Then Lila broke the quiet with a wicked grin.

“So… Harry.”

“Oh my God,” Y/N groaned, covering her face. “Not again.”

“Listen, I was just thinking,” Lila said, smirking. “Next time we do this, we should make it even louder. Really make him come back over.”

Harper snorted into her coffee. “Yes! Like, full-blown karaoke night but with amps and disco lights.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. “You two are the worst.”

“But you love us,” Harper said, nudging her with an elbow.

After breakfast, the girls cleaned up and packed their things before heading out. Harper hugged Y/N tightly. “We definitely need to do this again.”

Lila nodded enthusiastically. “Louder next time. You know, for research purposes.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing as she walked them to the door. “You’re both insane, but I love you. Drive safe.”

Once they were gone, Y/N flopped onto the couch and opened their group chat. Almost immediately, messages started flooding in.

Lila: Next sleepover, let’s bring a fog machine. If Harry shows up, we’ll just act like it’s a concert.

Harper: Or we could rent a spotlight. Make it an event

Y/N: You guys are unbelievable. No more wine for you next time.

Lila: Admit it, you want him to show up again.

Y/N: …maybe.

Harper: KNEW IT.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at her phone, her cheeks warming yet again. As ridiculous as her friends were, they weren’t entirely wrong.

The day passed in a blur of cleaning and tidying as Y/N tried to get her apartment back to its usual organized state. By the time the sun started to dip low in the sky, the chaos from the night before had been erased, leaving her apartment looking like a picture of calm domesticity. Feeling accomplished, Y/N decided to check her mailbox before settling in for a quiet evening.

She padded down to the mailroom in her building, dressed in a casual but presentable outfit—high-waisted jeans and a simple white top. As she rifled through the usual junk mail and a couple of bills, the sound of someone entering the room caught her attention.

Glancing to the side, she saw Harry walking in, his hoodie replaced by a fitted black t-shirt and dark jeans. His tattoos were on full display now—intricate designs that wound up his forearm and disappeared under the sleeve of his shirt. He barely glanced at her as he moved to his mailbox, unlocking it with practiced ease.

Y/N swallowed her nerves and decided to seize the moment. It was better to make a proper introduction now than to let the awkwardness from last night linger. Turning slightly toward him, she cleared her throat.

“Hey, neighbor,” she began, keeping her tone light. “Figured I should introduce myself officially now that I’m not, you know, half-drunk and screaming karaoke at midnight. I’m Y/N.”

Harry turned his head, his green eyes locking onto hers. His expression was neutral, almost unreadable, as he gave her a quick once-over. “Harry,” he said simply, his voice low and clipped.

Y/N bit back a grin, determined not to let his gruff demeanor throw her off. “Nice to meet you, Harry. Sorry again about last night. I promise we don’t usually host impromptu concerts. Unless, of course, you’re a fan of boy band throwbacks.”

Harry let out a soft exhale that could’ve been a laugh—or just a sigh. “I’ll survive.”

Encouraged by the hint of amusement, Y/N decided to keep the conversation going. “You know, if you’re ever feeling nostalgic, you’re welcome to join us. We could use a fourth member for our extremely off-key girl group.”

Harry’s lips twitched slightly, but his expression remained mostly stoic. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Y/N tilted her head, giving him a mock-serious look. “You’re really hard to read, you know that? Most people at least chuckle at my jokes.”

Harry glanced at her, his gaze steady and calm. “Maybe I’m just not most people.”

For a moment, Y/N didn’t know how to respond. There was something almost challenging in his tone, but it wasn’t harsh. If anything, it piqued her curiosity even more.

“Well, Harry,” she said finally, flashing him a bright smile. “Challenge accepted. I’ll make you laugh one of these days.”

He didn’t respond right away, instead closing his mailbox and tucking the letters under his arm. As he moved to leave, he paused, looking over his shoulder.

“We’ll see about that.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Y/N standing there with her stack of mail and a strange mix of frustration and intrigue swirling in her chest. One thing was for sure—Harry might be grumpy, but he was far from boring.

As soon as Y/N got back to her apartment, she tossed her mail onto the counter and grabbed her phone, already smirking to herself. She opened the group chat with Harper and Lila, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

Y/N:

Guess who I just ran into in the mailroom?

It didn’t take long for her phone to buzz with replies.

Lila:

Was it… oh, I don’t know… Mr. Grumpy Hot Neighbor?

Harper:

Harry! Tell us everything right now.

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly, typing out her reply.

Y/N:

Yes, it was Harry. I introduced myself properly. You know, as a fully functional adult and not a drunken mess.

Lila:

And? Did he swoon? Did he drop all his mail and propose on the spot?

Harper:

Or at least crack a smile?

Y/N sighed and leaned back against the counter, smirking to herself as she typed.

Y/N:

Absolutely not. He was… well, Harry. Polite but distant. He might’ve almost smiled, but I can’t be sure.

Lila:

Ugh, he’s really sticking to the mysterious moody thing. It’s so hot. What did you say to him?

Y/N:

I told him he was hard to read and said I’d make him laugh one day.

Harper:

Bold move, I love it. What did he say?

Y/N:

He said, ‘We’ll see about that.’

Lila:

STOP. That’s basically flirting.

Harper:

Right? That’s flirty! Subtle, broody flirting.

Y/N:

You two are ridiculous. It wasn’t flirting. He’s just… like that.

Lila:

Y/N, this is your rom-com moment, and you’re living in denial. Grumpy guy + sunshine girl is literally a trope for a reason.

Harper:

Exactly. Next step: get him to join us for karaoke.

Y/N:

Oh, sure, because he definitely seems like the kind of guy who wants to sing ‘Toxic’ with us.

Lila:

You never know. Maybe he has a secret karaoke voice that’ll blow us all away.

Y/N laughed to herself, shaking her head. Her friends were relentless, but she couldn’t deny that their enthusiasm made her smile. As much as she tried to brush off the encounter, she couldn’t stop replaying it in her head—the way Harry’s green eyes lingered just a second too long, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. 

It had been a couple of weeks since Y/N’s encounter with Harry in the mailroom, and she’d managed to push him to the back of her mind. Between work, friends, and her usual routine, she hadn’t bumped into him in the halls or around the building. Life went on, and the memory of his grumpy smirk became just another amusing anecdote to share with Harper and Lila.

Until one night.

Y/N was jolted awake by the blaring sound of the fire alarm. Disoriented and groggy, she stumbled out of bed and grabbed a sweatshirt, pulling it over her pajama tank top. She shoved her feet into sneakers, grabbed her phone, and headed for the door. The hallway was chaotic, filled with neighbors in various states of sleepiness and confusion, all heading for the exits.

Once outside, Y/N joined the crowd of residents gathering on the sidewalk. The chilly night air bit at her skin, and she crossed her arms to keep warm. She craned her neck, scanning the crowd to see if there was anyone she knew—until her eyes landed on a familiar figure leaning against a lamppost.

It was Harry. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction, and he wore a hoodie over loose sweatpants. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, which, to be fair, he probably had. His expression was pure exhaustion, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he yawned.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She made her way over, her footsteps crunching on the gravel. “Hey, neighbor,” she said, coming to a stop next to him.

Harry turned his head, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he registered her. “Y/N,” he said, his voice rough from sleep. “This is… unexpected.” He waved his hand around. 

She grinned, shifting her weight to one foot. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. But hey, at least it’s the fire alarms being obnoxiously loud this time and not me.”

Harry’s lips twitched, and for a second, she thought she’d finally gotten him to crack a smile. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” he asked dryly.

“Never,” Y/N replied, a teasing lilt in her voice. “It’s too good of a story.”

Harry exhaled softly, almost like a laugh, and shook his head. “Fair enough.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching as a fire truck pulled up and a couple of firefighters headed inside to investigate. The air was crisp and carried a faint chill, but Y/N barely noticed. She glanced at Harry out of the corner of her eye.

“Do you think it’s an actual fire?” she asked.

“Doubt it,” he said, crossing his arms. “Probably just someone burning their midnight snack.”

“Sounds like a riveting Saturday night,” Y/N joked, earning another small exhale from him.

“Tell me about it,” he muttered, glancing down at her. His gaze lingered for a moment, and Y/N could feel her cheeks warm, though she tried to play it cool.

“Well,” she said, rocking back on her heels. “If it turns out to be a drill, I’m demanding a formal apology from management for ruining my beauty sleep.”

Harry’s lips quirked, just enough for her to notice. “I’m sure they’ll get right on that.”

For the first time, standing outside in the middle of the night with Harry didn’t feel awkward or forced. It was easy, natural even, despite his perpetually tired and broody demeanor. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the situation, or maybe her persistence was finally wearing him down.

Before either of them could say more, a firefighter emerged from the building, shouting to the crowd that it was a false alarm. People groaned, some laughing as they shuffled back toward the entrance.

Harry pushed off the lamppost and looked at Y/N. “Guess that’s our cue.”

“Looks like it,” she said. “Catch you later, Harry.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Night, Y/N.”

As she headed back to her apartment, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a small spark of satisfaction. Sure, he was still grumpy, but she was getting closer to breaking through. And honestly, she didn’t mind the challenge.

By the time Y/N woke up the next morning, she had already drafted the text she knew Harper and Lila would demand. Still half-asleep, she grabbed her phone and opened their group chat, typing out the full story in detail.

Y/N:

So… guess who I bumped into at 3 a.m. when the fire alarm went off?

It didn’t take long for her phone to buzz with rapid-fire responses.

Harper:

Oh my God. HARRY?

Lila:

Please tell me you were both standing there in your PJs like the meet-cute of the century.

Y/N:

 No, it wasn’t a meet-cute. We just talked. Very normal. Nothing groundbreaking.

Harper:

What did you talk about?

Y/N:

I made a joke about how this time it wasn’t me being loud, it was the fire alarm.

Lila:

YES. Classic Y/N. What did he say?

Y/N:

He just… smirked. Or sighed. I’m honestly not sure anymore. He’s so hard to read.

Harper:

Smirking counts as flirting. I’m logging it.

Lila:

Definitely flirting. He wouldn’t have smirked if he wasn’t secretly interested. Men don’t waste smirks on people they don’t like.

Y/N:

Or he was just tired and didn’t care enough to argue.

Harper:

Nope. Not buying it. He’s interested. He’s just grumpy interested.

Lila:

Exactly! Brooding types like him don’t wear their feelings on their sleeves, but trust me, he’s intrigued. You just need to keep working on him.

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile.

Y/N:

You two are absolutely ridiculous. We talked for five minutes, tops. Nothing more, nothing less.

Harper:

Sure, keep telling yourself that.

Lila:

Face it, Y/N. This is your slow-burn romance, and we are here for it. We’re already planning the playlist for your wedding.

Y/N:

Oh my God. I can’t with you two.

Despite her protests, Y/N couldn’t stop replaying the interaction in her mind—the way his eyes lingered on her, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Harper and Lila were reading too much into it… weren’t they?

Shaking her head, Y/N tossed her phone onto the couch. She had no intention of indulging their wild theories. But deep down, a small, stubborn part of her couldn’t help but wonder. 

Y/N lay in bed, staring at the faint shadows cast by her bedside lamp on the ceiling. The city sounds outside her window were faint but constant—cars in the distance, the occasional murmur of voices. She’d been tossing and turning for what felt like hours, her brain refusing to shut off.

It didn’t help that every time she closed her eyes, all she could think about was Harry.

It wasn’t intentional, or at least that’s what she told herself. She’d been trying to push him out of her mind all day, but now, in the stillness of the night, his image seemed to surface unbidden. The way his messy hair stuck out when she’d seen him by the mailboxes. The tattoos peeking out from under his shirt sleeves, the intricate designs winding across his arms like a story she desperately wanted to read.

And then there was his face—sharp jawline, green eyes that seemed to pierce through her defenses, and that faint smirk he’d given her last night when she’d cracked her fire alarm joke. It wasn’t a full smile, but it had been enough to spark something in her. Something she couldn’t quite shake.

She groaned, rolling onto her side and burying her face in her pillow. “Get a grip,” she muttered to herself.

But it was no use. She kept thinking about the way his voice sounded—low, calm, almost soothing in its quiet confidence. The way he seemed perpetually unimpressed but not unkind, like he was holding back a part of himself from the world. And the way, despite all that grumpiness, she felt drawn to him.

The worst part was that she barely even knew him. A few brief encounters, a handful of words exchanged—it wasn’t enough to warrant this level of overthinking. And yet, here she was, wide awake at 2 a.m., her thoughts spinning in circles around a guy who probably wasn’t thinking about her at all.

She sighed, flipping onto her back again and staring at the ceiling. “You’re losing it, Y/N,” she whispered into the dark.

But no matter how hard she tried to distract herself—counting sheep, replaying her favorite movie in her head, anything—her mind kept drifting back to Harry. How frustratingly attractive he was. How much she wanted to figure him out. And how, for reasons she couldn’t explain, she kind of liked the challenge.

The next afternoon, Y/N tied her apron around her waist and stepped onto the floor of the bustling Italian restaurant where she worked. The warm scent of garlic, fresh basil, and baking bread filled the air as the sounds of clinking silverware and cheerful conversations hummed around her. It was her favorite kind of shift—steady but not overwhelming, just busy enough to keep her energized.

She loved being a server. There was something satisfying about knowing the menu by heart, from the way the chef perfectly folded the handmade ravioli to the rich, velvety tiramisu that always left customers raving. She enjoyed the rhythm of it all: taking orders, making guests laugh, weaving between tables like she was part of a well-rehearsed dance.

By the time her shift ended, the sun was low in the sky, casting a soft golden glow over the city streets. Y/N slipped her bag over her shoulder, said goodbye to her coworkers, and began her short walk home.

The evening was warm, the kind of weather that made her glad she’d chosen this neighborhood to live in. She liked the convenience of being close to work, the charm of the old brick buildings, and the occasional vendor selling flowers or roasted nuts on the sidewalk.

But as she rounded the last corner toward her apartment building, the sky darkened suddenly. Heavy clouds rolled in overhead, and before she could process what was happening, the first fat drops of rain began to fall.

“Seriously?” Y/N muttered, looking up at the sky as if it might offer her an explanation. Within seconds, the light drizzle turned into a full-on downpour. She didn’t have an umbrella, of course—it had been sunny when she left for work—and now she was too far from the restaurant to go back.

She quickened her pace, pulling her bag closer to her body to shield it from the rain. Her hair was already plastered to her forehead, and her clothes clung to her as the rain soaked through. She groaned in frustration but couldn’t help laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

By the time her apartment building came into view, she was drenched. She jogged the last stretch, her sneakers splashing in puddles, and darted toward the lobby entrance. As she reached for the door, it opened from the inside—and there, standing in the doorway, was Harry.

Of course, it was Harry.

He was holding a takeout bag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. His green eyes widened slightly when he saw her, taking in her rain-soaked appearance.

“Rough night?” he asked, his voice dry but laced with faint amusement.

Y/N brushed a wet strand of hair out of her face, shaking water from her arms. “You could say that. Apparently, the weather decided I needed a shower.”

Harry stepped back, holding the door open for her. “You’re dripping everywhere.”

“Thanks for the observation,” Y/N said with a wry smile as she stepped inside, water pooling around her feet. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He smirked, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary before he nodded toward the elevators. “You should probably get upstairs before you flood the lobby.”

“Wow, you’re so thoughtful,” she teased, her sarcasm barely masking the warmth in her voice.

Harry didn’t reply, but his lips twitched like he was holding back a comment. He stepped aside, letting her pass, and as Y/N headed toward the elevator, she couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder. He was still standing by the door, his attention now on the rain outside, but she could’ve sworn she caught him sneaking a glance at her as she walked away.

Y/N stepped into her apartment, water dripping onto the floor as she kicked off her soaked sneakers. She stripped off her rain-soaked clothes and tossed them into the laundry basket before heading straight to the bathroom. The hot water of the shower was bliss, washing away the chill of the rain and the lingering frustration of getting caught in it. By the time she stepped out, wrapped in a fluffy towel, her skin was warm and her mind was clearer.

Slipping into her favorite pair of soft pajamas—shorts and an oversized t-shirt—she towel-dried her hair and grabbed her phone from the counter. She hadn’t checked it since leaving work, and the screen lit up with a few notifications. Most were unimportant, but one text made her freeze.

Unknown Number:

Hey, it’s Harry. Got your number from the resident book. Hope that’s okay. I, uh, ordered way too much food. If you’re not busy and don’t mind eating with someone who’s terrible at small talk, you’re welcome to join me.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. Harry had texted her? She stared at the message, rereading it a couple of times, unsure what to make of it. The grumpy, brooding neighbor had gone out of his way to invite her over for dinner?

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she thought about what to say. She could easily come up with an excuse, blame the rain, or even politely decline. But something about his message—how he’d gone through the trouble of looking up her number and even made a self-deprecating joke—made her hesitate.

Finally, she started typing.

Y/N:

Hey! I’m surprised you didn’t mention how loud I was running through the lobby earlier. I’d love to join, but fair warning: I’m in my pajamas. I’ll bring wine to make up for it.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself and immediately got up to rummage through her small wine rack. She picked out a bottle of red, grabbed her favorite corkscrew, and texted him again.

Y/N:

Give me five minutes to make myself look less like a wet dog.

His response came almost instantly.

Harry:

I wouldn’t have said anything about the lobby, but now that you’ve brought it up… five minutes works. Apartment 4D.

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. She quickly towel-dried her hair a little more, tossed it into a loose bun, and grabbed the wine. As she stood by her door, nerves fluttered in her stomach, but she pushed them aside.

Whatever this was—neighborly dinner, an olive branch, or something else—she was curious enough to find out.

Y/N stepped out of her apartment, the bottle of wine in hand, and made her way to the elevator. As she descended a floor, her nerves started to tingle, though she shook them off. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just dinner with her neighbor. Her very attractive, grumpy neighbor with tattoos and a British accent. Nothing to overthink at all.

When she reached Harry’s door, she raised her hand to knock—but before she could, the door swung open. Harry stood there, leaning casually against the frame, one eyebrow raised.

“I could hear you coming down the hall,” he said, his tone dry but his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

Y/N let out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I’ll take that as your way of saying you’re happy to see me.”

“Something like that,” he replied, stepping aside to let her in.

Y/N walked in, glancing around as she entered. Harry’s apartment was similar in layout to hers but had an entirely different vibe. The walls were painted a deep, moody gray, with shelves lined with books, records, and a few small plants that looked suspiciously well cared for. A guitar rested in the corner by the window, and the faint smell of takeout wafted from the small kitchen.

“Nice place,” she said, setting the wine on the counter. “Very… broody chic. Fits you.”

Harry arched a brow as he closed the door. “Broody chic? Is that a compliment?”

“Depends how you take it,” Y/N shot back with a grin.

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he moved toward the kitchen. “Hope you’re hungry. I may have overestimated how much I can eat on my own.”

She followed him, glancing at the spread on the counter. There were containers of what looked like Thai food—pad thai, green curry, fried rice, and spring rolls. Definitely enough for two, if not three.

“You weren’t kidding,” she said, grabbing a spring roll. “Planning on feeding the whole building?”

“Only the loudest resident,” he said, smirking again.

She gave him a playful glare before grabbing plates from the counter and handing him one. “Lucky for you, I came prepared,” she said, holding up the wine. “This should balance things out.”

As they settled at the small table, Y/N couldn’t help but notice how relaxed Harry seemed. He wasn’t smiling, not really, but there was something softer about him tonight. Less guarded. And as they started eating, trading sarcastic comments and occasional small talk, she realized she didn’t mind the challenge of cracking through his tough exterior one bit.

Harry handed Y/N two wine glasses, their fingers brushing briefly as she took them. He didn’t say anything, but his lips moved slightly as if he was trying not to smirk. Y/N poured the wine, filling each glass just enough before sliding one over to him.

Meanwhile, he plated the food, carefully dividing the dishes between two plates. His movements were deliberate, almost methodical, and Y/N found herself watching him for a moment before realizing what she was doing. Shaking herself out of it, she grabbed her glass and followed him to the bar counter.

They sat side by side, the warm glow of the pendant light above them casting a cozy atmosphere. Y/N took a sip of her wine, her gaze flicking to Harry as he started eating in silence.

For a while, she stayed quiet, enjoying the food and the unspoken rhythm of their shared meal. But her curiosity got the better of her. Setting her glass down, she turned toward him slightly, resting her elbow on the counter.

“So,” she began, her tone light but probing, “why are you always so grumpy?”

Harry paused mid-bite, his fork hovering over his plate as he looked at her. His green eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but as if he were trying to decide how serious she was.

“Grumpy?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, grumpy,” she said, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “You know, the whole emo, barely-smiling, ‘I don’t have time for your nonsense’ vibe you’ve got going on. Is it like… your thing?”

Harry leaned back slightly, taking a slow sip of his wine as he considered her question. “Maybe I’m not grumpy,” he said finally, his voice calm. “Maybe you’re just too… cheerful.”

“Cheerful?” she echoed, laughing softly. “That’s your explanation? I’m cheerful, so that automatically makes you grumpy?”

“Something like that,” he said, his lips quirking into the faintest smirk.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling. “You’re deflecting.”

He raised his glass, meeting her gaze over the rim as he took another sip. “Maybe.”

“Come on,” she pressed, leaning in slightly. “There’s got to be a reason. I mean, you’re not actuallymiserable all the time, are you?”

Harry sighed, setting his glass down and leaning his forearms on the counter. For a moment, he seemed to be debating whether or not to answer. Finally, he shrugged.

“I’m not grumpy,” he said, his voice quieter. “I just… don’t see the point in pretending all the time. People put on this front like everything’s great, but most of the time, it’s not. I’m just… honest about it.”

Y/N tilted her head, studying him. There was something in his tone—something unspoken but heavy, like he was revealing more than he intended.

“Well,” she said softly, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think being happy is the same as pretending. And I’m not pretending.”

Harry glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “I noticed,” he said simply.

Her cheeks warmed, and for a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of the conversation settling between them. Then Y/N picked up her glass and raised it toward him.

“To being honest,” she said with a small smile.

Harry’s eyes flicked to her glass before he picked up his own, clinking it against hers. “To being honest,” he echoed.

And for the first time that evening, his smirk softened into something closer to a smile.

Harry swirled the wine in his glass, staring at the deep red liquid for a moment before setting it down and looking at Y/N. His expression was more open now, his usual guarded demeanor softened.

“You seem nice enough,” he said, his tone casual but sincere. “I could use a friend around here.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the admission. For a moment, she wasn’t sure how to respond. Then a warm smile spread across her face.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” she said, her voice light with humor. “I thought for sure you hated me after the whole karaoke fiasco.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, his lips twitching in amusement. “Hated you? No. Annoyed, maybe. But hate’s a strong word.”

“Good to know,” Y/N said, laughing softly. “Because I was convinced you’d written me off as the world’s loudest neighbor.”

“I’ll admit,” Harry said, smirking now, “the karaoke was… a lot. But it’s hard to hate someone who sings ‘I Want It That Way’ with that much enthusiasm.”

Y/N covered her face with her hands, laughing harder. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember the song. That’s so embarrassing.”

“It’s unforgettable,” he said with mock seriousness, taking another sip of wine.

When her laughter died down, Y/N looked at him, her expression softening. “For what it’s worth, I’d be happy to be your friend. You don’t seem as scary as you pretend to be.”

“Scary?” Harry echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah,” she teased. “You’ve got the whole ‘grumpy lone wolf’ thing going on. It’s a little intimidating.”

Harry shook his head, but there was a faint smile on his face. “I’m not scary.”

“No,” Y/N said, grinning. “You’re not. You’re just… Harry.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Finally, he nodded, his tone soft but certain. “Yeah. Just Harry.”

As they continued eating, the conversation grew lighter, the initial tension between them fading into something comfortable. By the time they finished their meal, Y/N realized that beneath Harry’s gruff exterior was someone she genuinely wanted to know better. And judging by the way his smirk had softened into something warmer, she suspected he felt the same.

After finishing their plates, Harry leaned back in his chair, resting his forearm on the bar counter as he glanced at Y/N. There was a comfortable silence between them, one she hadn’t expected when she first showed up at his door.

“Thanks for coming over,” he said finally, his tone quieter but sincere. “I don’t usually… do this.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, swirling her wine in her glass. “What? Order too much food or invite people over?”

He smirked faintly, shaking his head. “The second one. I’m not exactly the ‘neighborly dinner’ type.”

“Well, I feel special then,” she teased, tilting her head at him. “Although, if you’re not usually this social, why’d you invite me? I mean, not that I’m complaining.”

Harry shrugged, glancing down at his glass. “You seemed… different. I don’t know. Most people I meet just seem fake, like they’re putting on a show. But you’re…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Real.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the raw honesty of his words. “Oh,” she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips. “Well, thanks. I think.”

“I mean it,” Harry added, looking at her directly now. “You’re… not what I expected when I moved here. In a good way.”

Her cheeks warmed at his words, and she tried to play it off with humor. “Careful, Harry. You’re starting to sound like you actually like me.”

“Don’t push it,” he said with a smirk, though his eyes were softer than usual.

They fell into another comfortable silence, sipping their wine and letting the moment stretch out. Y/N felt herself relax more with each passing second, realizing how easy it was to be around him now that some of his walls had come down.

After a moment, she broke the quiet. “You know, for someone who claims not to be social, you’re pretty good company.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” she said, her grin widening. “You should let yourself be social more often. You might surprise yourself.”

He scoffed softly, shaking his head. “One step at a time.”

They shared a small laugh, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel like this was a turning point. Whatever Harry had been holding back before, he was letting her in now, even if only a little. It felt… nice.

Eventually, she glanced at her phone and realized how late it had gotten. “I should probably head back,” she said, setting her empty wine glass down. “I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

Harry stood as she got up, shaking his head. “You haven’t. But… thanks for coming. I mean it.”

She smiled, grabbing the bottle of wine. “Anytime, Harry.”

As she walked to the door, he followed her, leaning casually against the frame as she turned back to face him. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at her, a softness she wasn’t used to seeing from him.

“Goodnight,” she said, her voice lighter now.

“Night, Y/N,” he replied, his smirk returning.

She headed back to her apartment, her heart unexpectedly lighter. Maybe Harry wasn’t as grumpy as he seemed—or maybe she was just getting used to it. Either way, she found herself smiling as she closed her door behind her. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t overthinking anything.

The next morning, Y/N woke up to the sunlight filtering through her blinds and a faint smile lingering on her lips. The night before with Harry had been… unexpected, but not in a bad way. She stretched, grabbed her phone from the nightstand, and immediately opened her group chat with Harper and Lila.

Y/N:

So, guess what? Harry invited me over for dinner last night.

It didn’t take long for her phone to explode with notifications.

Lila:

WHAT. DETAILS NOW.

Harper:

DID YOU SLEEP WITH HIM?!

Y/N rolled her eyes, her cheeks warming despite being alone.

Y/N:

No, I didn’t sleep with him. Calm down.

Lila:

Boring. But continue.

Harper:

Okay, but like, did it feel like it was going there?

Y/N:

No! It wasn’t like that. He said he had too much food and could use a friend, so I brought wine, and we had dinner. That’s it.

Lila:

You brought wine. That’s a date move.

Harper:

Right? Totally a date.

Y/N:

It wasn’t a date. We ate at his bar counter, talked a little, and that’s all. But…

Lila:

BUT WHAT?!

Harper:

Spill, Y/N. Don’t make us beg.

Y/N sighed, biting her lip as she typed out her next message.

Y/N:

Okay, fine. I wouldn’t mind if something happened, but it’s not like I know much about him. I don’t even know what he does for work.

Lila:

Oh my God. You want to bang the mysterious, tattooed neighbor. I KNEW IT.

Harper:

This is your grumpy/sunshine romance, and we are living for it.

Y/N:

You two are ridiculous. I’m just saying he’s attractive, okay? That doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen.

Lila:

It’ll happen. The sexual tension alone is probably unbearable.

Harper:

Agreed. You just need to ask him questions about himself. What he does for work, what his favorite food is, if he’s single—

Lila:

Definitely ask the last one. For research purposes.

Y/N groaned, shaking her head but smiling despite herself.

Y/N:

You two are impossible. But fine, if the opportunity comes up, I’ll try to find out more about him. Happy?

Harper:

Ecstatic.

Lila:

Can’t wait to hear how this unfolds. We’re already planning the wedding playlist.

Y/N laughed, tossing her phone onto the bed. Her friends were relentless, but they weren’t wrong about one thing—she was curious about Harry. And as much as she tried to deny it, she wouldn’t mind getting to know him better… or seeing where this strange connection between them might lead.

Later that month Y/N walked into her apartment after a long day, expecting the usual cozy warmth to greet her. Instead, an icy chill hit her the moment she stepped inside. She frowned, rubbing her arms and heading straight for the thermostat. She fiddled with it for a minute, but no matter what she did, the heater refused to turn on.

“Great,” she muttered, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders. It wasn’t unbearably cold outside, but inside her apartment, it felt like a freezer.

With no other options, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. She didn’t know many people in the building—just Harry, really. And as much as she hesitated, her fingers hovered over his name before she finally sent a text.

Y/N:

Hey, random question. Do you happen to have a small heater or something I can borrow? My heater’s broken, and it’s freezing in here.

A few minutes later, her phone buzzed.

Harry:

Why don’t you just stay here tonight? I’ve got heat, and I don’t own a portable heater.

Y/N stared at the message, her heart skipping a beat. She hadn’t expected that. Borrowing something was one thing, but staying at his place? She hesitated, her fingers tapping lightly against the screen. Before she could overthink it, she typed out a response.

Y/N:

Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.

His reply was quick.

Harry:

You’re not intruding. Besides, it’s better than you freezing to death in your apartment. Bring whatever you need.

She bit her lip, a mix of nerves and curiosity swirling in her chest. Finally, she grabbed a bag and threw in some essentials—pajamas, a toothbrush, and a few other things—before bundling up and heading out.

When she reached his door, she knocked softly. It opened almost immediately, and there was Harry, leaning against the frame with his usual calm demeanor.

“Figured you’d take me up on the offer,” he said, stepping aside to let her in.

“Yeah, well, hypothermia didn’t sound appealing,” Y/N replied with a small smile, brushing past him into the warmth of his apartment.

As she set her bag down by the couch, she glanced at him. “Thanks for this, by the way. I really appreciate it.”

He shrugged, closing the door. “No problem. It’s just one night.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Wow, Harry. That almost sounded like you’re happy to have me here.”

He gave her a dry look but didn’t respond, instead gesturing toward the couch. “You can take the couch if you want, or I can grab some extra blankets for the guest room.”

She looked at the couch, then back at him. “Guest room? You have a guest room?”

“Barely,” he said with a shrug. “It’s more of a storage room, but there’s a bed in there.”

“Well, as long as it’s warmer than my apartment, I’ll take it.”

Harry nodded, heading toward the hallway. “I’ll grab some blankets.”

As Harry disappeared down the hallway to grab blankets, Y/N called after him, her voice light and teasing. “By the way, I brought some wine as a thank-you! You know, for saving me from my frozen wasteland of an apartment.”

She heard him chuckle faintly, his voice drifting back from the other room. “Thoughtful of you. What kind?”

“Red. A classic, nothing too fancy,” she replied, smirking as she started to take the bottle out of her bag. “Figured you’d prefer something a little understated, given your whole ‘mysterious and broody’ vibe.”

Harry reappeared in the doorway, carrying a thick blanket over one shoulder. He raised an eyebrow at her. “I think you enjoy calling me broody a little too much.”

“Well, it fits,” she shot back, grinning. “Speaking of which, I realized something earlier—I don’t even know what you do for work. So, enlighten me, oh mysterious one. What is it that you do?”

Harry paused for a moment, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I own an art gallery,” he said simply, setting the blanket on the couch.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “You own an art gallery?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning casually against the back of the couch. “Small place over in Silver Lake. Nothing flashy, just local artists and smaller exhibitions.”

She stared at him, her curiosity piqued. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“What did you see coming?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Y/N admitted, laughing softly. “Something more… I don’t know, corporate? Like sitting at a desk all day and brooding at spreadsheets.”

Harry actually laughed at that, a low, warm sound that surprised her. “Sorry to disappoint. No spreadsheets involved.”

“No, it’s not disappointing,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s just… unexpected. I mean, you own an art gallery. That’s cool. Artistic and grumpy? You’re full of surprises, Harry.”

He shook his head, but there was a faint warmth in his expression, like her enthusiasm had caught him off guard. “It’s just a business.”

“Just a business?” she repeated, tilting her head. “Don’t undersell yourself. That’s impressive.”

He looked at her for a moment, his gaze steady. “Thanks.”

They fell into a brief silence, and Y/N felt the air shift slightly. It wasn’t awkward—if anything, it felt… comfortable. She gestured to the wine. “So, should we open this or what?”

Harry nodded, stepping into the kitchen to grab two glasses. “Why not? You’re my guest, after all.”

As he poured the wine, Y/N couldn’t help but think that for someone who seemed so guarded at first, Harry was slowly becoming an open book—one she was eager to keep reading.

Y/N leaned against the counter, swirling her glass of wine as she watched Harry pour his own. “So, how did you end up owning an art gallery?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. “I mean, that’s not exactly the most common career path.”

Harry took a sip of his wine, his gaze thoughtful as he set the glass down. “I’ve always loved art. Painting, sketching… that sort of thing. But it’s not exactly the easiest way to make a living.”

Y/N nodded, understanding the struggle. “So, the gallery was a way to stay involved in the art world?”

“Something like that,” he said, leaning his hip against the counter. “I came into some money after my mom passed a few years ago. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to make me think about what I really wanted to do. I didn’t want to sit in an office or work for someone else. I wanted something that felt… personal. The gallery felt like the right choice.”

“That’s incredible,” Y/N said, her voice soft. “I mean, turning something you love into a business? Not many people can say they’ve done that.”

Harry shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. “It has its challenges, but I don’t regret it.”

Y/N smiled at him, feeling a new layer of respect for her neighbor. After a moment, he tilted his head, his eyes flicking to her. “What about you? What do you do?”

She hesitated, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh, nothing nearly as impressive as you,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m just a server. I work at an Italian restaurant a few blocks from here.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was holding back a laugh. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?” she asked, frowning.

“Like it’s nothing. You said you’re ‘just’ a server,” he said, taking another sip of his wine. “You’re in food service, right? That’s an art in itself. Just… a different kind.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his perspective. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

He nodded, gesturing with his glass. “Think about it. You’re part of creating an experience for people. The way the food’s presented, the way you interact with customers—it’s all part of the artistry. Doesn’t matter if it’s a painting on a wall or a plate of pasta. It’s still something people connect with.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, a mix of surprise and gratitude washing over her. “That’s… actually really nice of you to say.”

“It’s true,” Harry said simply, his green eyes meeting hers. “Stop selling yourself short.”

She smiled, feeling unexpectedly lighter. “Thanks, Harry. I guess I’ll try to keep that in mind the next time someone complains about their breadsticks not being warm enough.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. “Breadsticks or not, it sounds like you’re good at what you do.”

Y/N sipped her wine, the corners of her lips curving up. 

Y/N swirled the wine in her glass, glancing at Harry over the rim. She hesitated for a moment, then decided to push the conversation a little further. “You know,” she began, her voice softer now, “you have a really nice way of thinking about things. The way you look at art, even food… it’s kind of impressive.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with an amused expression. “Is that your way of saying I’m not just a grumpy neighbor?”

“Maybe,” she said with a small grin, her tone almost teasing. “But seriously, you’ve got a smart mind, Harry. You see things in a way most people don’t.”

He tilted his head slightly, his green eyes studying her as if trying to figure out her angle. “Are you flirting with me, Y/N?”

She laughed, feeling her cheeks flush slightly. “And if I was?”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smirk, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving hers. “Then I’d say it’s about time you stopped pretending you find me intimidating.”

“I never said you intimidate me,” she shot back, her grin widening. “I said you have a grumpy vibe. Totally different.”

“Right,” he said, his tone dry but his smirk giving him away. “Good to know I’m not scaring you off.”

“Not even close,” Y/N replied, her voice confident now. She leaned her elbow on the counter, resting her chin in her hand as she looked at him. “You’re not as scary as you think, Harry. In fact, I think you’re kind of… interesting.”

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

“Right back at you,” she said, her gaze warm.

For a moment, the air between them shifted. The playful banter was still there, but beneath it was something quieter, something unspoken. Y/N didn’t know what exactly was happening, but she wasn’t in a hurry to break the moment.

Harry finally set his glass down, his expression softening just slightly. “Careful, Y/N,” he said, his voice low but with a hint of amusement. “You keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like having me around.”

“Maybe I do,” she said simply, holding his gaze.

The corners of his mouth twitched, and for the first time, he didn’t deflect her comment. Instead, he just looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his green eyes. Y/N felt her heartbeat quicken, but she didn’t look away.

The mood in the room shifted as Harry leaned forward, his green eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down Y/N's spine. 

He tilted his head slightly, his voice low and teasing as he said, "You wouldn't be able to handle me."

Her breath caught, but she wasn't about to let him have the last word.

 "Try me," she challenged, her voice steady but laced with anticipation.

Harry's eyes darkened, the playful smirk on his lips giving way to something deeper, something more raw. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and placed his hand lightly on her throat-not gripping, just resting, his thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. The warmth of his touch made her heart race, and she felt her breath hitch as he leaned in closer.

For a moment, the world around them seemed to disappear, the only sound her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Then, without another word, Harry closed the gap between them, capturing her lips in a deep, searing kiss.

It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't rushed either-it was deliberate, like he'd been holding himself back and was finally letting go. His lips moved against hers with a confidence that left no room for hesitation, and Y/N melted into the kiss, her hand instinctively reaching out to grip the edge of the counter for balance.

She kissed him back just as fervently, tilting her head to deepen the connection. His fingers slid from her throat to the back of her neck, pulling her closer as though he couldn't get enough of her. The heat between them was undeniable, and in that moment, nothing else mattered-not the chill of her broken heater, not the wine, not the playful banter that had led them here.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads nearly touching. Harry's green eyes searched hers, and for once, his usual guarded expression was nowhere to be found.

"Still think I can't handle you?" Y/N whispered, her voice a little breathless but tinged with humor.

Harry smirked, his hand still lingering at the nape of her neck. 

"Guess I underestimated you," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "But l'm not done yet.”

Harry's hand slid down from Y/N's neck to her wrist, his grip firm but careful as he led her through his apartment toward his bedroom.

Her heart pounded in anticipation, her breath catching when he opened the door and gently but deliberately pushed her onto the bed.

Y/N gasped softly, propping herself up on her elbows as she looked up at him. The intensity in his green eyes made her pulse race, and the energy between them was electric, the room feeling heavier with every passing second.

Harry stepped closer, his movements slow and controlled, like he was savoring the moment.

He placed a hand on her throat again, this time with a gentle but deliberate squeeze that sent a shiver down her spine. His thumb brushed along her jawline as he leaned in, his voice low and commanding.

"Are you going to be a good girl for me?" he asked, his tone dripping with authority and heat.

Y/N's breath hitched as she nodded slowly, unable to look away from his piercing gaze.

Her voice was caught somewhere in her throat, so she let her actions speak for her, tilting her head slightly into his touch.

Harry smirked, leaning down until his lips were just a breath away from her ear. His voice dropped even lower, a whisper that made her skin prickle with anticipation.

"I knew you would be," he murmured, his tone both teasing and possessive.

The words sent a jolt through her, and she felt her body react instinctively, her cheeks flushing as she surrendered to the moment.

Harry's lips brushed against the corner of her jaw, trailing down her neck as his hand stayed firmly but gently in place. Every movement felt deliberate, like he wanted her to feel every second of his attention.

Whatever control Y/N thought she had going into this was slipping fast, and the way Harry's touch consumed her made it clear—he knew it, too.

Harry paused, his intense green eyes meeting Y/N’s as he leaned over her. His hand lingered on her throat, his grip light but enough to hold her attention completely. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, didn’t move any closer. He just looked at her, his gaze softening slightly, as if he were silently asking her a question.

It wasn’t just a look—it was a pause, a chance for her to stop him if she wanted to. His eyes, usually so guarded, were now open and searching, silently asking for her consent.

Y/N’s heart raced as she looked back at him, feeling the weight of his unspoken question. She swallowed, her breath shallow as she gave him the answer he was waiting for. Slowly, purposely, she nodded.

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile, a mixture of relief and satisfaction crossing his face. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with an edge of tenderness.

He leaned down again, his lips brushing hers as his hand on her throat tightened just slightly, enough to make her feel both safe and completely at his mercy. And as the space between them disappeared, Y/N felt herself giving in fully, her trust in him unwavering.

Harry's piercing gaze never left Y/N's face, his touch as light as a butterfly's wings. He slowly pulled her to the edge, his hands on her hips. The soft rustle of sheets filled the room as she sank into the bedding, eyes darting up to meet his.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him undoing his pants, revealing his hardness beneath. She gulped audibly as he climbed onto the bed with her, their bodies pressed together from chest to knees. His hand trailed down her side, stopping just above her thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze. His touch sent shivers of anticipation up and down her spine.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered against her earlobe, his hot breath causing goosebumps to form on her skin.

She bit her lip, hesitating for only a moment before whispering back, "I want you to take control."

Harry's smirk was both predatory and reassuring as he nodded once in understanding. His hand slid underneath her shirt, tracing patterns across her stomach before moving higher till it reached its destination: her lacy black bra. He palmed one of her breasts through the fabric, eliciting a moan from deep within her throat that echoed around them. His thumb circled her nipple roughly, making it harden into a tight bud underneath his touch.

His lips followed suit, kissing along her jawline and trailing down towards that erect nipple. He flicked it with his tongue teasingly while simultaneously tug

His smile was wicked as he leaned back, a glint in his eye. "Is that so?" He trailed kisses down her neck, his stubble grazing against her sensitive skin, making her shudder with pleasure. His hand slid between their bodies and brushed against her center, indulging in the wetness there. She gasped at the sensation, arching into his touch.

"You're so ready for me," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He pushed her shorts aside and slid one finger inside her slowly, feeling the tightness surrounding him. Y/N moaned softly, her hips grinding against his hand in encouragement.

Harry removed his finger, teasing her as he lowered his head to capture one of her nipples in his mouth. He growled softly against her skin, sucking gently as he began to thrust two fingers inside her in short, quick motions that sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body. She cried out softly, gripping the sheets beneath her as he continued his ministrations. He quickly undressed her and stared at her body. Y/N felt hot under his eyes. 

They quickly lost themselves in each other's touches. The squeak of the bedframe echoed in the room as Harry positioned himself at her entrance and pushed inside her slowly. She gasped at the fullness but welcomed it, urging him on with a nod of encouragement.

He slowed down, taking deep breaths to regain control as he braced himself above her. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" he asked hoarsely, gaze locked onto hers.

Y/N nodded fiercely, signaling him to continue. With a low growl of approval, he began moving inside her slowly but steadily, their 

bodies meeting in a dance of desire. Every thrust sent ripples of pleasure through them both, their skin slick with sweat under the dim light of the bedside lamp. The air was thick with an almost palpable tension as they moved together, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room.

Harry's grip on her hips tightened, his rhythm becoming faster and harder, mirroring the desire that flared in his eyes. Y/N met him stroke for stroke, their eyes locked on each other as if they were the only two people in the room. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the silence beneath the duvet, broken only by their heavy breathing and soft moans.

Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she neared her climax, his name falling from her lips in a whispered plea. Without missing a beat, he quickened his pace, his cock driving into her with urgency. Their connection was intense, overwhelming, everything she could have asked for and more.

As she cried out in ecstasy beneath him, feeling her orgasm wash over her like a wave, Harry followed close behind. His body tensed as he groaned loudly, filling her with his warmth and love. Their hearts raced in unison as they finally collapsed onto each other, panting heavily but content.

He rolled off her slowly, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead before rolling onto his back beside her. 

Harry lay on his side, propped up on one elbow as he looked down at Y/N. His green eyes were softer now, a flicker of mischief dancing in them as he smirked. 

"So," he said, his voice low and teasing, "are you going to text your little girl chat and tell them we fucked?" Y/N let out a surprised laugh, turning her head to look at him. 

"What? No! They'd never let me live it down."

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. 

"You should. Tell them the hot, mysterious guy was really grumpy the whole time."Y/N laughed even harder, covering her face with her hand. 

"Oh, right. That'll really sell it. 'Hey, girls, just an FYl, my grumpy neighbor is not only hot but also excellent in bed. Highly recommend.'"

Harry chuckled, his grin widening. "Not bad. Make sure you add in the part about how I stayed in character the whole time-grumpy and all."

She rolled her eyes, still smiling as she nudged him playfully. "Fine. I'll throw in that your scowl is even sexier up close. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," he said dryly, though the amused glint in his eyes gave him away. YN shook her head, the laughter subsiding into a warm smile.

 "You know," she said, her tone softening, "you might be mysterious and grumpy, but you're also a little cocky. Just saying."

Harry leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"Maybe," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "But I think you like it."

Her cheeks flushed as she looked up at him, biting back a grin. "Maybe I do."

"Good," he said simply, before capturing her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss that made her forget about everything else-including her friends waiting for updates in the group chat.

The week passed in a blur of near-misses and brief encounters between Y/N and Harry. She saw him in the mailroom once, where he gave her a small nod and the faintest hint of a smirk before disappearing upstairs. Another time, they crossed paths in the hallway, exchanging quick hellos but nothing more.

Neither of them brought up the night they spent together, and while Y/N tried to brush it off as a casual hookup, part of her couldn’t help but wonder if he was deliberately avoiding the topic. She didn’t want to push, figuring Harry would open up if and when he was ready.

Then, one evening, as she was curled up on her couch with a glass of wine and her laptop, her phone buzzed with a text.

Harry:

Hey. Sorry I’ve been so distant this week. The gallery is getting ready for a new showing, and it’s been… a lot.

Y/N stared at the message for a moment, her stomach fluttering. She hadn’t expected him to reach out, let alone apologize.

Y/N:

Hey, no worries. I figured you were busy. New showing sounds exciting though!

A moment later, her phone buzzed again.

Harry:

It is. Stressful, but worth it. You should come by. It’s this Saturday night. Bring your friends if you want.

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Harry inviting her to his gallery? That felt… significant.

Y/N:

I’d love to. Are you sure you want me to bring my friends? They’re a little… loud.

Harry:

If they’re anything like you, I’m already prepared for chaos.

She laughed softly, shaking her head.

Y/N:

Fair warning: chaos is guaranteed. But I’ll be there.

Harry:

Good. I’ll send you the details tomorrow.

Y/N set her phone down, a small smile tugging at her lips. For all of Harry’s grumpiness and guarded demeanor, this felt like his way of extending an olive branch—a step toward something more. And she couldn’t deny that the idea of seeing him in his element, at the gallery, intrigued her.

She grabbed her phone again and opened the group chat with Harper and Lila.

Y/N:

Ladies, clear your schedules for Saturday night. We’re going to an art gallery.

Predictably, her phone exploded with responses almost immediately.

Lila:

Wait, is this Harry’s gallery?

Harper:

The grumpy tattooed neighbor has an art gallery?

Y/N:

Yes. He invited me. And before you ask—no, we’re not talking about the other night.

Lila:

Boring. But fine, we’re in. Is there wine?

Harper:

And snacks?

Y/N:

I’ll ask. But behave yourselves. He already thinks I’m loud.

Lila:

Oh, honey, we’re just getting started.

Y/N laughed, already imagining the chaos her friends would inevitably bring. But deep down, she was looking forward to Saturday more than she cared to admit. 

The week crawled by as Saturday approached, each day slower than the last. Y/N found herself obsessing over small details—whether Harry would be too busy to notice her, what kind of people attended art gallery showings, and most importantly, what to wear. She wanted to look effortlessly put-together, like someone who appreciated art but wasn’t trying too hard.

By Saturday afternoon, her room was a battlefield of discarded outfits. Finally, she settled on a sleek black jumpsuit paired with a cropped denim jacket and ankle boots—stylish but not over the top. She added a few gold accessories and a swipe of lipstick before grabbing her bag and heading out the door.

On the way to Silver Lake, she picked up Harper and Lila, who were already buzzing with excitement when they climbed into the car.

“You look hot,” Lila said, eyeing her outfit. “Very ‘I like art but I’m too cool to talk about it.’”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, laughing as she started the car. “I’m going for low-key, not intimidating.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” Harper chimed in, adjusting her blazer. 

Y/N glanced at them in the rearview mirror, grinning. Harper wore a bold red jumpsuit, while Lila had opted for a metallic skirt and leather jacket. 

By the time they pulled into Silver Lake, the sun had set, and the neighborhood was alive with energy. The gallery came into view, its windows glowing warmly against the evening sky. People were milling about on the sidewalk, chatting in small groups with glasses of wine in hand, while others filtered in and out of the bustling space.

“This is it,” Y/N said, parking the car and taking a deep breath.

“It’s so fancy,” Lila said, practically bouncing in her seat. “Look at all these people!”

Harper leaned forward, peering out the window. “I’m already picturing Harry brooding in a corner, glaring at anyone who talks too loud.”

“Probably,” Y/N muttered, her heart fluttering as she got out of the car. She grabbed her bag and adjusted her jacket before turning to her friends. “Okay, let’s not embarrass me too much, yeah?”

“No promises,” Harper said with a grin, looping her arm through Y/N’s as they headed toward the gallery entrance.

Inside, the space was even more vibrant. The walls were adorned with bold, eclectic pieces of art—paintings, sculptures, and mixed-media pieces that immediately drew attention. Soft music played in the background, and servers wove through the crowd with trays of wine and hors d’oeuvres. The hum of conversation filled the air, blending with the occasional burst of laughter.

Y/N’s eyes scanned the room, searching for Harry. She didn’t spot him right away, but she noticed how carefully curated the space felt—each piece arranged with intention. It was a reflection of him, she realized, meticulous and thoughtful.

“This is amazing,” Harper said, grabbing a glass of wine from a passing server. “He really knows what he’s doing.”

Lila nudged Y/N. “Speaking of, where is Mr. Grumpy Art Dealer? I want to see him in his element.”

“I don’t know,” Y/N said, glancing around again. “He’s probably—”

Before she could finish, her gaze landed on him. Harry stood near the back of the room, dressed in a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showcasing his tattoos. He was talking to a small group of people, but his eyes flicked toward her as if he could feel her presence.

Their gazes locked for a moment, and he gave her a subtle nod before turning back to his conversation. Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, and she felt Lila squeeze her arm.

“Oh, he definitely saw you,” Lila said, grinning. “And I’m not imagining the way he looked at you.”

“Stop,” Y/N hissed, her cheeks flushing. But she couldn’t deny it—there was something in his gaze that felt personal, even in the middle of the crowd.

“Go say hi,” Harper urged, giving her a nudge.

“Not yet,” Y/N said, grabbing a glass of wine for herself. “I’ll wait until he’s free. Let’s just look around first.”

As they wandered through the gallery, admiring the artwork, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that Harry’s eyes were on her—even when she wasn’t looking his way.

Y/N wandered through the gallery, sipping her wine as she admired the artwork. Each piece was so different—some abstract, others intricate and detailed—but all of them carried a sense of purpose. It was easy to see that Harry had a good eye for curating.

She glanced across the room and saw Harper and Lila chatting animatedly with a group of women, likely bonding over their outfits or the wine. Typical, she thought with a smile, shaking her head.

As she moved to the next painting—a striking piece of layered colors and textures—she felt someone step up beside her. There was a shift in the air, a quiet presence that made her turn her head.

It was Harry.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the painting. His black shirt, with the sleeves still rolled up, contrasted sharply against the warm tones of the art, and his tattoos seemed to blend seamlessly into the aesthetic of the space.

“It’s acrylic and resin,” he said, his voice low but steady. “The artist used palette knives for the texture and then poured resin over it to give it that shine. Took weeks to cure properly.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard for a moment before she found her words. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly, turning her attention back to the piece. “I love the depth in it. It feels like you could reach in and get lost.”

Harry glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That’s the idea. The artist wanted it to feel immersive, like stepping into an emotional landscape.”

She looked at him, her curiosity piqued. “Do you know all the details of every piece in here?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted, his smirk growing. “Part of the job. I like to understand the process—it helps me connect with the artists and explain it to people who come through.”

Y/N smiled, sipping her wine. “It’s impressive. You’ve created something really special here.”

Harry looked at her again, his green eyes studying her for a moment. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “It means a lot, coming from you.”

She tilted her head, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “Why me?”

He shrugged slightly, his gaze flicking back to the painting. “Because you actually look at the art. Most people just see it, but you’re trying to understand it.”

Her cheeks warmed at the unexpected compliment, and she turned back to the painting to hide her flustered expression. “Well, you make it hard not to appreciate it. The way you talk about it… it’s obvious how much you care.”

He didn’t respond right away, and the silence between them felt comfortable, almost intimate. Finally, he leaned in just slightly, his voice softer now.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

Y/N turned to look at him again, her heart skipping a beat at the closeness between them. “Me too,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the bustling crowd around them faded into the background, leaving just the two of them standing there, the art surrounding them as if it were part of their story.

Harry slipped his hand into Y/N’s, his fingers warm and steady as he gently tugged her through the gallery. She followed without question, her curiosity mounting as they weaved between groups of people. He didn’t say a word, just led her down a quieter section of the space where fewer people were lingering.

When they stopped, Y/N noticed the piece in front of them was a painting—bold yet delicate, with strokes that somehow conveyed both strength and softness. She tilted her head, studying it, drawn to the way the light and shadows played across the figure in the painting. There was something familiar about it, something that tugged at her memory.

She took a step closer, her heart beating faster as the realization slowly dawned on her. The painting wasn’t just beautiful—it was her.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she turned to Harry, her eyes wide. “Is this…?”

He nodded, his gaze steady but unreadable. “It’s you.”

Y/N stared at the painting again, her mind racing. The details were unmistakable—the way her hair fell, the soft curve of her face, the hint of a thoughtful expression she’d never realized she wore. But it wasn’t just her likeness; it was the way the he had captured something deeper, something vulnerable and raw.

“How?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “I started it a few weeks after I moved in. I didn’t even know your name then. I just… saw you.”

Her chest tightened as she turned to him again. “You saw me?”

He nodded, his green eyes softer now. “In the mailroom. In the hallway. On your balcony once, drinking coffee. I didn’t know why, but there was something about you that I couldn’t get out of my head. So, I painted.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, a mix of emotions swirling inside her—flattery, disbelief, and something she couldn’t quite name. “Harry, this is… incredible. I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I just thought you should see it. This is the first time I’ve shown it to anyone.”

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she took a step closer to him, her voice soft. “Why me?”

Harry’s gaze locked on hers, his expression open and sincere. “Because it’s you, Y/N. I couldn’t have painted this if it wasn’t.”

The noise of the gallery faded around them as she stood there, her hand still in his, staring up at the painting of herself. For the first time, she saw herself through someone else’s eyes—not as the loud, chaotic neighbor, but as something worthy of being captured in art.

And Harry, the grumpy, mysterious neighbor, was the one who had done it.

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt 2 to the dpxdc AU where Danny is a Forever Teen.

[Pt 1 here][pt3 here]

The Justice League and Justice League Dark were confused when the Bat Clan called for an all hands on deck meeting. Usually only one section of the JL was needed, but no one questions it because, HELLO, IT'S THE BATS. If they think everyone is needed, then everyone is needed. Especially when even Nightwing, the sunshine friendly Bat, looks serious.

"Thank you for all coming on such short notice, but something has been brought to my attention, and I believe it's imperative that we get a handle on it before more people get hurt." Batman glances towards Red Robin and suddenly a PowerPoint is pulled up on the projector. "Anti-Ecto Acts" is in bold at the top and frankly scary bullet points are underneath it. Nightwing politely asks Flash to help him past out papers, which he does. "The Anti-Ecto Control Acts are a law that makes it legal for the government to experiment on and terminate anyone or thing that produces or requires a substance called Ectoplasum to survive."

A commotion breaks out with all the magic users in the room. There's choking, terrified shouting, and an irate John Constantine blowing a fuse.

"It also allows anyone who is caught harboring one of these beings to be arrested for treason." Batman mercilessly continues once they quiet down enough for him to be heard by most people. "It was passed into law in XXXX with the help of Dr.s Fenton, a Mr. Masters, and a now disbanded government agency called the GIW or Ghost Investigation Ward."

There was gasps at the agency's name. It's no secret they killed "The First Hero" who was just a kid helping his town survive from attacks of "ghosts" and human alike. The Child Hero was mourned by many, most of whom didn't personally know him.

"I shall begin with what ectoplasm is exactly for those who do not know." And he does. He explains everything Danny informed him of about ectoplasm, as well as explaining its connection to Lazarus Pit Water. He points out which heroes in the room would qualify as an "ecto entity" under these acts. Red Robin jumps in to explain how the entities from the Infinite Realms (que the magic users having another fit) work and how to safely deal with most of them if you do come across them, while emphasizing how unlikely it is to come across one (JL Dark demands they be called if an infinite realm being is found, not trusting the rest of the JL to not get them all killed). The JL/JL Dark are so confused by the Bats having pictures of different levels of Ecto Entities (Danny had some on his phone. He found it again by chance and didn't want to lose his pictures of his family.)

The second half of the presentation is much darker. It dives into the legalized crimes of the GIW and the government agency that became their successor. The Bat Clan spent a month breaking into different government buildings to get all the classified documents they needed to prove the unethical experimentation on ecto entities and contaminated beings was still happening 30 years after the bill passed. They spare no details.

"We would like to introduce you to one of the victims of these acts." Red Robin pipes up once the presentation is over, but before everyone can start talking or try to leave.

"Please tell me you didn't bring an ecto entity on this death trap!" Constantine protests, and Red Robin can't help but smirk.

"Okay, I won't say it out loud then." Red Robin snarks before waving to an "empty" spot near him. "I'll just introduce you to Danny."

A thin child bleeds into view, and the heroes gasp, realizing this particular child. "Hi.."

"Phantom?"

"That's Phantom, right?"

"Oh my stars! That's Phantom!"

Danny flinches when he hears his old hero name. He instinctively turns invisible again.

"QUIET." Batman demands, silencing the heroes. "To answer your questions. Yes, Danny WAS Phantom. Due to the amount of trauma he suffered while baring the name, he would like to be called Danny until he finds a new name for himself. Understand?"

There's muttered apologizes and murmurs of agreement. Danny bleeds back into view, standing an arm's length away from Batman now.

"Good." Batman is still glaring at the heros while softly saying, "Share when you're ready."

Danny's lips press into a thin line before he pulls off this shirt, exposing all of the scars on his upper body. He explains how he got his "powers", showing off the lichtenberg scar. He explains his parents, the portal, and their legacy of death and horror. He explains all his surgical scars. He explains watching less stable people and creatures End going through as little as a third of what he endured before escaping. He explains how he doesn't age anymore, that most things won't kill him now, and how tired he is of never being safe enough to even nap. He's tired of being scared.

All in all, it's very effective. The JL and JL Dark are up in arms and dismantling anything that has anything to do with the Anti-Ecto Control Acts and it awful ideals. Danny feels free and mostly safe for the first time in decades.

[thenerdyindividual]

I love the headcanon that Merlin is scrawny and gawky when he first arrives in Camelot because he was underfed and used magic to cheat at his chores. However, I would love an au where Merlin shows up to Camelot wiry and farm-boy strong, and Arthur’s nose immediately starts bleeding.

[thebubblesareevil]

The Justice league needs the ghost king

So something’s going on, whether it’s Darkseid, klarion or something else, the league needs the help of a powerful entity known as the ghost king.

John said they were incredibly lucky, the stars had apparently aligned because they met all the qualifications to summon the ghost king.

All they had to do was trap him.

Danny feels sick the whole day. It’s the same every year but for some reason the feeling of dread and anguish are stronger this year and all he wants to do is curl up in his bed and wait for this stupid day to end.

As soon as he lays down though, a horrible sensation rushes through his body.

A horrible, familiar sensation.

He could feel the searing heat of the ectoplasm burning away his dna and his heart stutter and race as it stops and restarts over and over and over again.

He cries and screams and begs for it to end but it never does.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he registers the distortion of space as he’s torn away from the comfort of his bed, the terrified faces of his parents in the doorway as they rushed to help him were replaced by the cold uncaring eyes of a sorcerer

He could feel the man’s spell bind him, a thick chain of magic coiled itself around his limbs as he wept and collapsed onto the floor, his world going black.

—-

The Justice league remained cautious as they waited to take their cue from John. They knew better than to trust what they saw when dealing with magic.

John fell to the ground in shock as he watched the burnt, melting, bleeding, broken body of the boy before him slowly, so agonizingly slowly pulled itself back together, changing into something new.

He felt the life leave the boys body, but he felt his soul remain.

He had no idea what had gone so horribly wrong, but he feared they would all soon find out.

Summoning au/death anniversary au: the ghost king can only be summoned on the day he died. Normally a deathaversary just causes anxiety and depression but when Danny is summoned he is forced to relive his death.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

@sammys-magical-au I think this is one of few bird species that Murdock has never seen in person before, and he would absolutely KILL to do so one day.

There's something so poetic about the Bleeding-Heart Dove

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: this chapter is all from Blue's perspective. if anything regarding the abuse or suffering of children triggers you do not read. though it is really not graphic at all (imo) and the SA is EXTREMELY implied and subtle (just a woman looking/potentially touching Blue's private area to check for virginity). I wanted to tell you so there are no surprises.

B

Blue hasn’t been without her father for more than an hour in over five years. There were moments when she'd imagined him disappearing, especially when he said no to her, when he could annoy her, push her too hard, or withhold the words she craved. And yet—now, with her head resting in Twix's lap, she can only long for him. The thought of his absence fills her with cold dread. The kind that erupts goosebumps on her arms despite the stuffy air in the room. Twix’s fingers gently stroke the back of her scalp, but it does little to ground her as her mind drifts to Ghost. He’s alive, that woman said. But it's been over a day, and he still hasn’t come for her.

"Do you think he will come soon?" she asks quietly.

Twix's fingers pause at the top of her hairline. "I think... I think he is doing everything he can to find you."

Blue is old enough to know that is a non-answer.

She knows, deep down, that Twix doesn't think he'll be coming, either.

"I will figure something out, okay?" she promises.

"Okay," Blue whispers noncommittally.

"Hey." A faint smile. "I've done pretty good at getting us out of shit in the past, right?"

Blue mumbles, "I guess so."

But this time felt different from those times. No matter how many times she catches Twix squinting around the room, murmuring things to Nereida, even Blue knows that a bright idea won’t magically appear. Not in here, where there is nothing except the three beds, the bolted cell, and the out-of-reach door that Ghost has yet to barge through.

When Blue's fingers instinctively search for her wrist, Twix’s face softens, and she gently encloses her palm over Blue's knuckles. "Alright. I want you to close your eyes and imagine that beach you showed me once. The one with white sand, and super blue water." Blue plays along with a deep sigh, closing her eyes as she feels a callused thumb brush her cheek. "Almost as blue as your eyes. See it?"

"I guess."

"Good. Now, I want you to imagine that you are lying on the sand, eating all the Twix bars and Nutella you want. Oh, and Grim is there. He was trying to make a sandcastle but got his head stuck in the sand."

Blue's lips twitch despite herself. "This is dumb."

"Dumb? Well, I don't think Grim finds it dumb. He can hardly breathe right now so you better stop eating chocolate and haul his ass up."

Blue snorts quietly, eyes screwing tighter as she imagines it; pulling the bunny out of the sand, giggling, the waves crashing. She falls back onto the sand with him in tow, but he darts away from her hands, toward the water. When she looks over, sun glaring, someone else is there. It's her father, and for a moment she is ready to jump on his back and beg him to play in the waves with her. That's when she notices he is keeled over, ripped apart, bloodied and battered.

Blue jolts, inhaling sharply. When she reopens her eyes, the image is still there. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I just saw—" she rubs her eyes profusely, but he's right in front of her. Blood begins to spurt from a sever in his throat. His head snaps forward, hanging by a thin thread of tissue. "I see him! H-his head is..." 

She jerks upright from Twix's lap, her eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to shake off the vision. When that doesn't help, she buries her face in the pillow, but the image remains too real to ignore. The thread snaps, and her father’s head rolls away silently.

Twix’s voice cuts through, her hands gently shaking Blue’s shoulders, but it feels distant, like a shadow compared to the sickening thud of her father’s headless body hitting the ground. Thick blood pools at her feet, and she tries to move, but her muscles won’t obey. The blood rises and rises, suffocating her, until she can’t breathe.

"Blue, it's just... you're imagining it."

"I can't... I can't..."

Someone flips her over on the bed and hugs her shoulders.

Twix's chapped lips press into her cheek.

"Please, Blue. I'm here."

The touch is enough to drain the blood and free her lungs. Her father's dead body floats away. She gulps for air, cold sweat clinging to her neck, and curls into the body beside her. Lingering panic races through her heartbeat, but then, after a minute, it begins to slow considerably. A new feeling washes over with the force of a tidal wave; fatigue.

Blue suddenly feels so tired that she can't keep her eyes open. It’s as though the terrible images have drained her entirely, leaving only murky water in their place. Her mind begins to float, and the edges of the world blur. Twix's face is in front of her yet feels so far away. Her lips try to part for words to come out, but it takes three tries just to manage: "I feel strange."

Across the cell, Nereida whispers, "I do, too."

Weight shifts on the mattress as Twix tries to sit up, leaning against the wall. Her head dips slightly, then snaps back up. A shaky inhale. "That... that fucking bitch. The oatmeal!"

The oatmeal? Blue’s thoughts latch onto the warm meal they’d been forced to eat, but the memory slips away before she can hold onto it. The slow descent snowballs. Twix’s voice distorts, blending with the chirping of birds outside the window. Her body slides down the wall, crumpling back beside Blue. She tries to hug Twix again, but her arms won’t cooperate.

Minutes later, or maybe hours, Blue hears the metal screech of the cell door swinging open. Veiled ghosts drift in. She can do nothing to run from them. Murmured voices, speaking words she doesn't understand, bleed through the heavy blanket of fog lying over her.

"Vous avez dit que celui-ci était intact?"

"Oui, Maman."

"Nous offrirons son corps pur au Seigneur. Les deux autres seront aptes à avoir des enfants."

"Mais elle est une... Je veux dire, oui, Maman."

She feels something cold and sinuous lifting her—snakes. No, not snakes. Hands. Cold, unfamiliar hands. Twix shouts something slurred. Then Blue is dragged by her feet, her spine no longer supported by the bed. She tries to squirm free, but her limbs feel heavy, useless. More hands clamp down on her arms.

No, no.

She wants to call for Twix, but her voice is muffled beneath a palm, the sound dying in her throat.

A weathered voice coos in her ear. "Sweet child. There is nothing to fear."

She can't scream.

All she knows is Twix is no longer the one beside her.

Cold fear surges through her veins, and she claws at someone’s arm. The retaliation is swift—a prick to her neck.

The strike of pain intensifies her dizziness, the last fight in her body fading away. They're dragging her again. The hard floor beneath her feet melts into soft grass, and the stark white ceiling shifts into a blue, cloudless sky before everything fades to black.

A gentle melody repeats in her subconscious until she rouses.

The same three-note tune, over and over.

Peeling her eyes open against the buttery sunlight, the first thing she notices is an open window above her head, its thin white curtain dancing in the light breeze. Upon the windowsill sits a small, cooing bird with pearly grey feathers and a black ring around its neck. Its head tilts almost mechanically, two little black eyes regarding her. She stares for a long moment before her eyes fall closed once more, lulled by the familiar call. Only when the bird quiets does she truly come to her senses. The sudden silence jolts her upright.

This isn't the same room she was in before. There hadn’t been a window in the cell, and certainly not one left open. The air there had been thick with the scent of old wood and lingering dust. But here... here, the air is different. It smells of fresh flowers, of the tall grass she used to wade through with Ghost while hunting. 

The bird calls once more before flittering away, leaving her reeling.

"A collared dove."

Her gaze snaps to the right where an old woman sits in a mahogany chair, knitting needles in hand. Without looking up from the red yarn she weaves, she explains idly, "They are very common. Lovely, but common."

The accent of her old voice is nothing like Blue's Mancunian one. But she understands each word.

Her voice pulls through her teeth with great effort. "I don't... Where am I?"

The old woman's brow furrows as if she is deep in thought, but it smoothes over after she undoes a stitch and loops it again, hands moving with an unnatural slowness. "You had them in England, yes? They are very common there, too."

Blue's fingers spread into the fine linen, her pulse ticking as she blinks a few times to sharpen her vision. The woman before her is older than anyone she has seen in a long time, though there is a faint resemblance to a woman deep in her memory who she believes was her grandmother. Unlike the woman who visited their cell with food, this one does not wear a veil over her face. Long wisps of gray hair fall over her shoulders. Wrinkles etch around her eyes and lips. She is still cloaked in white, but around her neck hangs a red cord beaded with a cross dangling at the end.

Her fingers clench. "I don't care about the-the stupid bird. Why am I here? Where are my friends? You..." she swallows the feel of sandpaper in her mouth, "You put something in the food. You made me lose control of myself again!"

Finally, grey-blue eyes flicker up beneath a questioning brow. "Oh, sweet child. You are so full of fire." With an unsettling calmness, the woman sets down the knitting needles on a carved side table. Pressing a palm to the surface of it, she rises slowly, then laces her hands in front of her. "Come, and perhaps your questions will be answered. Though, I wouldn't try to run." She moves toward the door, her gait shuffled but steady. A glance over her shoulder beckons. "Your friends are under my care."

The mere mention stiffens Blue's spine. She forces herself to her unsteady feet, swaying slightly, bare toes digging into the wood planks. Each small step feels lighter than the first time she woke up from being drugged, though her body still protests. Ahead, the woman is already walking away. It wouldn’t take much to catch up, but Blue lingers, her eyes sweeping the room with deliberate caution—always stay aware of your surroundings.

For a moment, she considers grabbing the knitting needle and stabbing the woman. But then what? Everyone, her father included, is under her care, and any misstep could mean their deaths. Ghost always told her to never act without some type of plan—to wait for the right moment. Blue doesn’t even know where the others are.

As she hesitantly steps out of the small house, the realization hits her. There are more people here than she’s seen in a long time. Almost like a town, but not really. Smaller than that, but more than her group. The building they just left is a small, home made of light grey stone. To her right are more homes, smoke billowing from the chimneys. She counts at least four of them. Straight ahead of her is gravel road. This is where the woman heads, with Blue trailing behind her. To the left is a stretch of green lawn, bright and lush. She has the itch to sprint over it, but a voice ends that idea.

"Catch up, girl." 

Gravel bites her toes as she walks to the woman's side. She is still only dressed in the simple, white slip. She hasn't worn a dress before.

"Where are you taking me?"

"There are some things I wish you to see." 

"Why... why can't the friends I was with be here to see them, too?"

From the corner of her eyes, Blue catches the woman smile lightly. "What do you think of France?"

Blue digs her nails into her palms, swallowing down her frustration at the non-answer. "It's... nice, I guess." It isn't a lie. The beautiful beach they left from, the fields of wheat and flowers, were things she'd only imagined before. 

"Good. My husband was from India but owned this land. I never wanted to leave it. France is the most beautiful place. I knew I wanted my son to grow here." She exhales in a quiet appreciation. "My husband said this land would thrive, even after the plague. He was right. The Lord spared it. He did not spare Ashwin, though."

Blue doesn't know what to say to that. If she should feel sorry for this person or not. She didn't state her husband's death in a sorrowful way, merely factual. As they walk, they pass a few men hunched over tree stumps, chopping wood. The smell of fresh earth and spilt sap wafts up her nose. The men glance up, their gazes lingering on Blue a moment too long, making her shift uncomfortably. Then, they lower their heads respectfully toward the woman. She speaks to them in French, and their chuckles follow her words.

Under a warm afternoon, they approach what looks like a large barn, bordered by wooden fence posts strung with taut wires. Inside the fenced area, Blue notices a white horse, smaller than Cherry, along with four cows. More men are working nearby, some tending to the animals while others, farther off, wield sickles to harvest stalks of wheat.

When they stop in front of the fence, Blue can't stop herself from asking, "Where are all the girls at? Like the one who fed us? I've only seen guys so far."

The woman doesn't look at her. "Our community is built around the roles God intended for us. Men have bodies made for working under the sun. Women, like those beautiful young ladies you traveled with, are vessels to be cherished, protected. Especially in these times when they have become rather scarce."

A few of the words fail to make sense to Blue, never having learned them from any of the books Ghost read her. "Um, is that why you separated the girls in my group from the men?"

She hums, a slow sound. "Women are kept in their own quarters with the infants."

"Okay," Blue rocks on her feet and grips the hem of the dress before the light air can catch it. So is her dad one of those men working, then? She squints, confused, and shakes her head. No; if he was anywhere out here, he would've come to her. He must be locked up, too. A wave of anger buzzes in her chest, louder than the cicadas. "That still doesn't explain why you are holding Twix and Nereida prisoner. If women are so special, why are they locked up and I am out here? And where are all the men from my group?" Her mind briefly flashes to the others; Kyle, Price, and... Ari. 

"None of them are prisoners, child. They are merely being readied for the role their bodies were created for, by God."

Blue grits her teeth. "You're not really answering my questions. What about me? Why did you bring me to," she glances back at the working men, who haven't stopped to look at her like the others had, too engrossed in the strenuous labor. "A fucking farm. What could you possibly want to show me here?"

"There is someone I need here before our next stop." She leans closer to the barbed fence and calls out, "Pierre! J'ai besoin de toi et de trois hommes pour nous accompagner jusqu'à la cale. Apporte les chaînes."

A man—Pierre, she guesses—strikes one of the cattle's hindquarters, wipes sweat from the back of his neck, then shouts in French to three others following behind him. They unlatch a gate in the fence and slip inside a small shed for a brief moment, emerging with rusted chains in hand. They approach, causing Blue to falter and step back. An old, strange woman is one thing, but three strong men are another. A fissure of terror cracks through her, and she inhales shakily.

"You need not be afraid."

She blinks up at the woman, who for a moment, conjures something similar to a comforting expression. Blue nods, and then they are walking again, with the four men trailing behind them. The sound of the chains dangling in their grasp makes her feel uneasy. What are they for, and why are they coming with them? She is ready to build the bravery to ask when the woman ghosts a hand on her shoulder.

"What is your name, child?"

"It's... um, Blue."

A soft chuckle. "The English and their strangeness. This is not your real name, is it?"

For some reason, Blue finds the truth stuttering out of her. "No, it's—the name I was born with is Amelia."

"Amelia. Much better. Tell me, Amelia, did your mother have blue eyes?"

Blue nearly chokes, her footsteps halting in the grass as she flinches away from her hand, curling her fingers into fists. "What the fu—why are you asking me that?"

The woman stops beside her and clasps her hands together, the long sleeves of her gown falling over them. She is a small woman, hardly taller than Blue, and can't be any stronger than she is, but something about her emits control. Blue can't look away from her eyes, even as her jaw tightens, stomach swirling.

"There are many answers to questions that can be discovered on their own if one simply looks for them. I know which one of them is your father—"

"How could you know?" Blue demands. "I haven't even said any of them was my dad."

Thin lips twitch at the side. "A daughter gets the shape of her face from her father." A bony finger reaches to trail the edge of Blue's cheek, and she trembles from the cold feel of it. "But the features are all from her mother." She looks away and continues walking, speaking over her shoulder, "A little dove might have also told me he was asking for you."

When the men step forward, Blue is forced to continue walking. It feels hard to breathe, even though the canopy of trees offer fresh, rich air. "Then why are you asking about my mother?"

"Your eyes are blue, but your father's are not. I was simply curious."

"My mother is dead," Blue finds herself gritting out. 

"I figured. Neither of those women were her, and many mothers have been lost. A very terrible thing. A child needs its mother. You will call me Maman, Amelia. This is what French children call their mothers."

"I am not going to fucking call you that. Tell me where we are going," Blue presses, swallowing as she looks back at the farm behind them. Through the gaps between the men's shoulders, she sees that it is rather distant now, along with the small homes. She looks back ahead; nothing but overgrown vegetation. Even the flowers have grown sparse over here. It is quiet and still. She can hear the thrum of her own heart.

"Your fire is admirable, but you need to learn respect." For the first time, Maman's voice carries an edge, one that sends a shiver down Blue's spine. A foreign bird call echoes through the leaves, and the woman holds up a hand, signaling for everyone to stop and listen. "Ah. That’s the Bluethroat, if I’m not mistaken. Much rarer than the dove. You won't often find those in England."

The bird calls again—a trilled chirp—as they crest over a small hill, and the air suddenly grows heavier, more pungent. A smell Blue knows well makes her freeze, but a strong grip on her arm keeps her moving toward the source of the stench: an old, smaller building made of much darker stone. The sharp rustle of wings through the trees fades into the distance, but the tension in her body doesn’t ease.

"You, too, are rare, Amelia," Maman continues, voice steady and unhurried. "A pure, young female like you—so virtuous—carries more favor from God than any other. Your friends have their purpose, and you have yours. Each of us plays a part in shaping the new vision of God's children."

The men move in front of them now, except for one who continues gripping Blue. The tremble in her body intensifies, and a cold pit grows unbearable in her chest, thundering. She is forced to stand about four meters in front of the large door, where one man grips the handle while two others, including Pierre, stand beside it, their hands ready with chains and their stances wide. It’s now, through the stinging film that grows over her eyes, that Blue notices large metal muzzles attached to the chains.

Blue is too stunned—too confused, yet frightfully aware—to move a muscle when Maman procures a knife from inside her robe. Pierre shouts something in French, but Blue can barely hear him. Her senses are fixed on the bead of sunlight glinting off the knife, and on the scratching and snarling she hears from the other side of the door.

"Please—" she gasps, unable to finish the thought.

Maman ignores her in favor of snatching hold of her wrist. Cold fingers force her arm to extend, and a burning pain cries out when the knife slashes a laceration from her elbow to the rim of her palm. 

"Une seule coupure pour les attirer."

The blood weeps, and the door shakes from the ignited frenzy behind it.

Tears finally escape Blue’s eyes just before the door opens. She feels it—the sensation of her body being torn apart beneath rotten teeth. She squeezes her eyes shut, thinking of Ghost, when she hears more shouting and the harsh sound of chains being whipped through the air. When she opens her eyes again, the men are wrestling two Greys into the muzzles.

"Deux c'est bien!" Maman orders, and the door is slammed shut over the others that threaten to spill out toward the fresh wound. 

Blue is alive.

Her arm numb and bleeding. 

Maman yanks something else from her robe—a strip of cloth. She wraps it roughly around Blue's forearm, then issues another command. Without warning, Blue is hoisted from the ground and callously tossed over the shoulder of the man who had held her in place. They start heading back the way they came, the leashed Greys trailing behind them, and finally, a scream rips from Blue’s throat.

"You said this one was intact?" "Yes, Maman." "We will offer her pure body to the Lord. The other two will be fit to have children." "But she is a… I mean, yes, Maman." "Pierre! I need you and three men to accompany us to the hold. Bring the chains." "One cut to attract them.” “Two is good!”

[lumhos]

soulmate au where your soulmate’s name is written on your wrist, but it’s their true name.

this isn’t an issue with majority of the population. many people are content with their names and assume their soulmates are the same.

however, it becomes more challenging when these names don’t exactly exist yet. the soulmates of people still in the closet walk around with their soulmate’s real names, their soulmates none the wiser. those who go by nicknames that don’t exist yet. those who change their names for any other reason.

tom hates his name and the one etched across his wrist. in sharp writing, almost like someone drew a dagger and blindly carved it, layed the name “harry”. right above his vein.

it felt like painful irony that someone like him would get such an average name. someone of tom’s excellence, and extremely common name. “a perfect pair” he would internally sneer.

the fact that its a boy’s name is the icing on the cake. tom learns to bind his wrist in thick bandages, ensuring that nobody could peek through the wraps.

tom grows up and eventually forgets about the name. he doesn’t need foolish things like love when he’s meant for something greater. a soulmate would only weigh him down. keep him chained to Earth when he was meant to soar. he couldn’t even tell you the name anymore.

(in reality, tom goes to bed clutching his wrist. his thumb unconsciously caresses the name when he’s in thought. a bitter ache thrums in his chest when he sees his peers walk around the halls, arm-in-arm with their soulmates.

what makes them so much better than him that he can’t find his soulmate? what’s wrong with him? has fate and lady magic deemed him unworthy of her blessing? where is harry?)

and yet, war does a wonderful job of taking things off people’s minds. so when tomorrow sheds his “oh, so muggle” name for the elegant “voldemort”, he doesn’t consider the effect this will take on his soulmate’s wrist.

he doesn’t fully understand until he rises again, robed by pettigrew, looking different. he looks inhuman, but not as much as he should have been, given the blood was taken (forcibly) by an enemy.

as his ruby eyes finally land on potter, he notices a trickle of red dripping off his arm.

a scratched, bleeding red “voldemort” on his wrist.

[youthguk]

✦Encore 3: Curtain call (Finale) | jjk (m)✦

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: “Some endings beg to be rewritten.”.

warnings: explicit sexual content (multiple scenes), oral (f + m), fingering, unprotected sex (be responsible!), angst, unresolved feelings, toxic relationship tension, emotional breakdown

w.c: 13k

author's note: I don’t have enough words to describe what Encore means to me — but maybe that’s the magic of it. This story was born from a single spark of tension, and it grew into something raw, aching, layered, and deeply personal. I poured so much of my soul into this series — every whisper of heartbreak, every charged glance, every line of dialogue that trembled with what wasn’t said. From the first quiet heartbreak to the final kiss — thank you for letting me write it all. Encore will always have a piece of my heart.

part 1 | part 2 | final (you're here)

The hallway is quiet.

Dante’s penthouse suite glows gold behind you, warm and opulent, his cologne still lingering faintly at the collar of your dress, though he never touched you. You stand in your heels, spine stiff, lips parted — trying to think of something elegant to say, something that doesn’t sound like you’re choking on guilt and regret and the echo of Jungkook’s name.

He watches you with that half-lidded charm he wears like a signature suit, loose and luxurious, as if nothing ever truly touches him — not press, not rejection, not women who shift under his gaze but don’t fall.

You inhale sharply and speak, voice smooth even as your fingers tremble at your sides.

“I can’t.”

He doesn’t move. Just smiles.

“You can’t,” he repeats, like it amuses him. “Is this the part where you tell me about office ethics?”

You nod once, but your tone doesn’t waver. “It’s Vogue Korea policy. Editors don’t sleep with partners, clients, or hosts.”

“And I,” Dante murmurs, stepping closer, “am powerful enough to change policy.”

You meet his eyes — calm, perfectly still — and it should be easy to pretend. You’re practiced at this, at being unreadable, untouchable, above desire. But something cracks. And you don’t know if it’s the scent of Jungkook still trapped in your memory, or the way your heart has been aching in silence since you left him in that hallway, but the words leave your mouth before your pride can stop them.

“I can’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “Because my heart’s already taken.”

Dante's expression shifts, a subtle change that sends a chill down your spine. His carefully crafted smile twists into something unreadable as he takes a careful step back.

And then, slowly, his lips curl into something that isn’t quite mocking and isn’t quite sincere. His voice is velvet with a blade hidden underneath.

“First time I’ve ever been used by a woman to get back at someone else,” he says, almost like a toast. “I hope he’s worth all this theater.”

The words hang heavy in the air. You can't bring yourself to answer.

You leave without another word, dress whispering around your legs, hair falling loose as the night finally breaks over your shoulders like a closing curtain. The air outside bites at your skin, sharp and alpine-cold, and the valet raises an eyebrow when you step into the waiting taxi without giving a destination.

“Anywhere,” you say, voice soft, eyes distant. “Just… drive.”

Lake Como flickers by like a dream unraveling, all soft lamplight and shuttered balconies and cobbled hills bleeding into the next. Your cheek leans against the window, chilled glass numbing the side of your face, and you watch the world blur as if motion will erase everything you did, everything you wanted, everything you still feel clawing beneath your ribs.

Lake Como's beauty feels like a cruel joke against your emptiness, its picturesque streets and twinkling lights mocking the deafening silence that reminds you with every step that he didn't come after you this time.

You don’t return until the sky begins to lighten with the haze of dawn, pale lavender washing over the peaks like the softest lie. Your heels echo on the marble of the hotel corridor, a ghost retracing her steps. You dig for your key card, heart still beating too fast, thoughts already shifting to how you'll pack your suitcase in silence, how you’ll leave everything that happened in Italy behind.

Rounding the corner to your door, you freeze in your tracks. The sight before you knocks the air from your lungs: Jungkook lies slumped against your suite door, his usually pristine appearance now a portrait of violence. His head rests back against the wall, revealing a swollen-shut eye and split lip crusted with dried blood. His black dress shirt, now wrinkled and stained crimson, clings to his beaten form while his raw, scraped knuckles tell their own story of the fight.

Your clutch slips from your grasp as instinct takes over. You’re on your knees in seconds, hands on his face, your voice breaking apart with panic as you shake him gently, his lashes fluttering under your touch.

“Jungkook—what—oh my god, what happened—what did you—Jungkook, wake up—”

His eyes barely open, dazed and unfocused, lips parting with a soft groan as you press your palm to his cheek.

“Shh—don’t talk, fuck, just—come on, I need—fuck, we need to get you inside—”

You fumble with the key card, hand trembling, managing to drag the door open and guide his weight into your arms. He’s deadweight at first, but then his hand finds your waist, clutches it faintly, and he lets you lead him inside — not out of strength, but because he trusts you still, even like this.

The suite is still dark. You ease him onto the velvet chaise by the window and rush to the bathroom for towels, first aid, anything — your chest heaving, your pulse thundering in your ears. When you return, he’s sitting hunched over, elbows on his knees, blood dripping sluggishly from the corner of his mouth, but his gaze finds you when you kneel in front of him.

“Y/N,” he rasps, and it sounds more like worship than pain. “You’re here.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, tears hot at your temples. “Don’t talk. Not until I clean this up.”

You press warm cloth to his lip, swearing under your breath when he flinches.

“What the fuck did you do, Jungkook? Who did this to you?”

He doesn’t answer. You dab at the blood on his temple, your fingers gentle, and when you ask again — slower this time, voice shaking — he finally speaks.

“I went after him.”

You freeze and your hand stills against his skin.

“You—what?”

“Dante,” he murmurs, head dropping. “I followed you both. I couldn’t— I thought— I didn’t know if he—”

You close your eyes. “Jungkook—”

“He was alone,” he says, voice hoarse. “I found his place. I lost it. I yelled. Demanded to know where you were. I… I swung at him. I tried to hit him.”

“You what?!”

“His bodyguards came before I got far. They—” he pauses, gesturing vaguely to his bloodied state. “They handled it.”

“They told me you left,” he adds, quietly. “That nothing happened. That you said no.”

You stare at him, heart caving inward.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you whisper, hands trembling again as they fall to your lap.

“I know,” he breathes. “But I couldn’t lose you. Not again. I—I’d rather bleed for you than live pretending I don’t still love you.”

The words hang in the air like smoke. Dangerous. Irrevocable.

You meet his gaze, see the red blooming beneath his eye, the vulnerability split right down the middle of his mouth, and you don’t think — you just lean forward.

And kiss him. Soft at first. Searching. Trembling. But then he surges into it — one hand gripping your thigh, the other cradling your jaw — and the kiss turns deep, slow, devouring. Your tears mix with the blood on his lip, and still you don’t stop. Your fingers curl into his ruined shirt, and his tongue brushes yours like a promise, like a prayer, like a please, please don’t leave me this time.

His lips are cracked, faintly bloodied at the corner, but the kiss is impossibly soft. He moves like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again, like this moment is a thread and he’s terrified to tug it too hard. His hands find your waist — trembling, careful — while yours grip the sides of his face, fingertips brushing over bruised cheekbones and sweat-damp curls.

You kiss him like you’re trying to make sense of all the ruined years. He kisses you like you’re the only reason he’s still breathing.

And when you finally pull away — chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, the silence trembling between your mouths — you whisper, “You need to stop.”

But he doesn’t let go. His eyes are glassy now, lashes wet, pupils wide with everything he’s been swallowing for years. His fingers slide from your waist to your hands, curling around your wrists like he’s trying to anchor himself in them.

“Please,” he breathes, and his voice cracks on the word and you freeze.

“Y/N,” he says again, and this time, the plea is quieter — more broken. “Don’t send me away. Not like this. Not when I just found you again.”

He’s crying now — not the dramatic kind, not the kind that demands anything from you. Just quiet tears slipping down his cheeks, landing in the creases of his lips, the bruises on his skin. The boy who left you all those years ago has become a man who’s falling apart in your hotel room, weeping for a version of you he never stopped needing.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” he says, voice trembling, hands tightening slightly on yours. “I know I was selfish, and cowardly, and fucking blind. But I’m not that kid anymore. I’m not running. I’d stay this time. I’d stay even if it killed me.”

You feel your heart twist, stretch, threaten to shatter. But you’ve rebuilt too many pieces of yourself alone to let them crack again now.

You reach up, thumbs brushing away the wetness on his face, and it breaks something in you to see how he leans into your touch like it’s the only comfort he’s known.

Still, your voice stays steady. “You need to go pack. Our flight leaves in a few hours.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t care about the flight.”

You step back slightly, but his hands follow — ghosting over your hips, then gripping them, desperate.

“Please,” he chokes out, voice cracking again, lower now, raw like his throat’s been scraped hollow. “Please don’t ask me to walk away. Not after this. Not when I finally—”

You shake your head, gently, firmly. “Jungkook—”

“I’ll stay,” he says. “I’ll wait. I’ll do anything. Just... don’t let this be the end. Don’t shut me out again.”

His eyes are shining, his hands trembling as they slide up your arms, as if trying to memorize the shape of you through his touch alone. He leans in again, forehead resting against yours, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye onto your cheek. It doesn’t sting — it only reminds you how close he still is.

“I love you,” he whispers, wrecked and breathless. “I love you more than I’ve ever known how to say. And I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything, but please—don’t send me back into a world that doesn’t have you in it.”

Your eyes flutter shut. You want to say yes. You want to let him stay, crawl back into his arms, pretend it’s enough — just this moment, just this need. But you can’t.

You open your eyes and lift your hands, placing them softly over his as you gently — almost tenderly — remove them from your waist.

“You need to go,” you whisper.

His lips tremble. You press a kiss to his forehead — one final grace — and then step away completely.

“This,” you murmur, voice steady even as it aches, “stays in Italy.”

He lingers in the doorway, eyes searching yours one last time. His fingers trace the doorframe, hesitating.

"Y/N..." His voice catches, barely a whisper.

You keep your gaze steady, arms crossed against your chest. The silence stretches between you like a physical thing.

Finally, his shoulders slump. Without another word, he turns away, each step heavy with resignation. The door opens with a soft creak, then closes behind him with a quiet click that echoes through the empty room.

You stand there in the darkness, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway until there's nothing left but the hum of the air conditioning and the weight of your decision settling into your bones.

Seoul, One Month Later

There is something strangely comforting about the hum of the Vogue Korea office — the way espresso steams through the marble-counter café bar on the sixth floor, the way heels echo down glass-lined corridors, and how every monitor glows with Pantone palettes, layout grids, and a rotating carousel of pre-spring collection drafts. You’ve always found sanctuary in this rhythm — the precision, the pressure, the need to be perfect and perform it effortlessly.

The November air is sharp, bracing as it filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Seoul glints outside like a jewelry box, all chrome and movement, as you sip your Americano from a Maison Kitsuné mug and scan the proofs spread across your desk — feature layouts for Chanel Beauty, three possible headlines for the Balenciaga editorial, and a string of half-formed notes for a Seoul Fashion Week retrospective you were too tired to finish last night.

Your laptop pings. You don’t flinch. Another edit request for the holiday issue. You glance at the schedule on your phone — back-to-back today, copy deadlines and a round-table pitch for the February Valentine’s campaign — and somewhere in the middle of it, a fitting appointment with a model who’ll be shot draped in Loewe’s upcoming campaign shawls.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve trained your body to move without letting the inside show. No one here knows what happened in Italy.

No one knows how you’ve been waking up at 3:17 a.m. every night since, sheets tangled between your legs, the ghost of his breath still hot on your neck. No one sees the way your hand freezes sometimes while drafting interviews, your mind skipping like a scratched vinyl — back to the way he whispered your name while tasting your skin. Back to the blood on his mouth. The way he kissed you like dying was an option.

You touch yourself to that memory more than you’d ever admit. And when you come, you hate how softly you whisper his name.

But none of it shows. Not here. Not between the racks of sample clothes or in the chilled hush of the editors' lounge or when Kara walks by with that same acidic smile she’s been wearing all month. You’ve noted how her eyes linger on you longer than necessary — not in jealousy anymore, but in something more deliberate. It doesn’t matter. You’ve been avoiding her since Italy, and you plan to continue doing so.

You’re in the middle of annotating a Burberry accessory spread when the PA chimes: a department meeting in fifteen minutes. You slide on your blazer — cream Jacquemus — and gather your notes, making your way to the long oval conference room on the east side of the floor.

The glass walls are half-frosted, the room already filled with editors in signature blacks and muted creams. You take your seat. Smooth your skirt. Sip from your water bottle.

You are calm, unshakeable. Until you hear his name.

“I want to thank everyone for the incredible performance on the October cover,” your boss begins, her tone clipped, composed, the sleeves of her Céline coat folded neatly against her chair. “The BTS feature put us back on the map, and the numbers are better than projected. That being said, January needs to go even bigger. Jeon Jungkook will be launching his solo album that month, and we’ve secured him as our January cover.”

Your pen doesn’t fall. Your posture doesn’t shift. But inside? A slow twist, somewhere between the throat and the spine.

“Y/N will lead the campaign again,” she continues, not even looking at you — because of course, it’s a given now. “Photoshoot. Feature article. Backstage access. His team already agreed. You’ll follow his schedule — starting with the Louis Vuitton shoot next week, then trailing him through his album production.”

The table buzzes lightly with murmurs — approving, congratulating. Someone across the table says, “Well deserved,” and another smiles at you and adds, “Iconic pairing.” You offer a diplomatic nod. A perfect smile.

Kara doesn’t smile. And then — sharp as broken crystal — her voice cuts across the table.

“Is she really the best choice for this?”

The room stills, you feel every eye in the room.  You don’t look at her, but you hear everything in her tone — the ice, the bite, the implication. Your boss doesn’t flinch.

“She’s proven herself capable,” she replies evenly. “If you have concerns, Kara, bring them to me privately next time.”

Kara falters. Just a blink. But it’s enough. Her mouth sets into a tight line, and she looks away. You blink once, calmly, and wonder — for just a moment — since when she’s become so reckless, so willing to sabotage in public. But the thought doesn’t linger because your mind has already gone somewhere else.

Two weeks.

Two weeks in and out of shoots, tracking studio sessions, trailing the man you’ve spent every night trying to exorcise from your system. You know how he looks in soft morning light. You know how he sounds when he begs. You know how he tastes when he’s desperate.

And now you’re supposed to trail him with a notebook and call it journalism.

You swallow hard. Your hands don’t tremble. But you think — just for a second — that maybe this is where the real performance begins.

✦✦✦

It’s still early when you arrive at the studio — the kind of early where the lights are too cold, coffee tastes like necessity, and the air smells faintly of fresh paint and concrete dust. The Louis Vuitton team has already begun assembling the set, a curated dreamspace of vintage suitcases, faded wallpaper florals, and a stately brass bed that rests like a memory in the middle of the soundstage. Every element carefully chosen, every texture soft with nostalgia, as if the shoot itself is caught mid-sentence — a story without an ending, paused between what was meant and what became.

You move through the crew like silk — smooth, precise, unfazed — giving notes to lighting techs, nodding approval to stylists, adjusting a rack of garments that had been arranged slightly off-sequence. The shoot, your shoot, is titled “Une Lettre Jamais Envoyée” — A Letter Never Sent — and every frame is meant to ache. Garments are archival but lived-in, all sepia-toned cashmere and sharp tailoring softened by time. The concept is simple: the solitude of a man in a room filled with things he cannot throw away, haunted by someone who never answered.

The irony is not lost on you.

You check the call sheet once more, your voice steady as you walk through the logistics with the producer. Monochrome lighting for Look One. Diffused sun-flare for Look Three. Music low, intimate — you’d asked for Debussy, for that familiar aching piano to fill the air like perfume.

And when he arrives, you don’t need to see him to feel it. The room shifts.

The energy bends around him the way candlelight bends around the mouth of a bottle — quiet, warm, dangerous. Jungkook steps onto the set in full silence, a charcoal overcoat draped over his shoulders, his dark hair slightly tousled as if someone had already run fingers through it. His jaw is set, lips slightly swollen from either sleep or biting them raw, and his gaze scans the crew until it lands — unerringly, unrelentingly — on you.

But you don’t look up. You don’t flinch, don’t pause, don’t show the way your stomach flips once, hard, like a page turning before the story’s ready.

Instead, you speak to the photographer, a veteran French lensman who prefers film over digital and only calls you chérie, no matter the chaos on set. He adjusts the angle slightly, then lifts his hand mid-frame and calls out across the room, “Y/N, can we get him styled a bit looser in the sleeves? It’s too structured for the concept.”

You exhale once, slow. Professional. Composed. You cross the set and you touch him.

Just his wrist, where the cuff sits too stiff against the edge of his hand. You unbutton it slowly, rolling the fabric back with careful fingers, exposing the delicate veins on his forearm, and then you do the same to the other — ignoring the way his eyes never leave you, ignoring the way he breathes like it hurts to stand still.

You smooth down the line of the coat. His skin brushes yours. Your fingers burn. Still, you don’t speak. He does. A whisper, meant for you and no one else.

“I missed your hands.”

You don’t look up. Instead, you step back and signal to the photographer that the frame is ready.

The shoot begins.

Jungkook moves like poetry — like he knows what this campaign is about, like it was written about him. He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes glazed, one hand tangled in the hem of a scarf that doesn’t belong to him, and he looks like someone who’s been left behind but still hopes the door might open. His expressions shift with each shutter click — longing, silence, disbelief, ache — and every single one of them feels too close to what you remember of him beneath your fingers in Italy.

You manage the room like nothing’s wrong.

You direct the crew, review the monitor feed, adjust the tone when someone gets too loud. When Look Three is rolled out — the white cotton button-down, slightly wrinkled, collar open like he just woke up heartbroken — you hand it to wardrobe yourself, knowing full well how it will sit against his skin. You do not speak to him again. Not even when the stylist forgets to tuck the tag and the photographer gestures for you to fix it.

You step forward, one last time. You reach for the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing his throat, and for a second he leans toward you — barely — as if the instinct is still there, like gravity. You ignore it. You tuck the tag. You fix the line. You walk away.

You finish the shoot an hour ahead of schedule.

You thank the team. Compliment the assistant stylist. Sign off on the film canisters and hand them over to the creative director. You do everything you’re meant to do, perfectly, professionally — and only when you sense him start to move behind you, feel the slightest shift in the air as if he’s about to reach for you, do you grab your bag and walk out, heels clicking loud and fast against the polished concrete floor, the sound of your escape echoing louder than his footsteps ever could.

You don’t look back. Because if you do — even once — you know this whole thing will burn.

✦✦✦

The next day of the schedule starts with a shutter click.

You arrive five minutes early, which is late by Vogue standards but early enough to look effortless. The studio is already lit in soft amber tones, flashes tested, light reflectors set in that subtle arch that frames the subject like an exhale. A quiet team of production assistants, stylists, and makeup artists hums around the space like bees in a glass hive. You take a seat near the edge of the shoot — clipboard in hand, pen capped, expression neutral — because today, you are not his past.

You’re just the editor and this is work.

Jungkook sits beneath the lights, draped in minimalist Givenchy, collar just low enough to hint at the ink curling across his collarbone. His skin is impossibly clear, styled to perfection, and you note — clinically, without emotion — that his eyes have dark circles under them that no amount of concealer can blur. Still, he poses like he was born under halogen, relaxed spine, parted lips, chin tilted, like he knows his angles and isn’t afraid to use them.

Across the room, Vogue Korea’s designated campaign photographer adjusts her lens and calls for frame five. You’re not on set — not yet — but you’re close enough to hear his voice when he answers a casual question from the stylist.

You’re also close enough to feel the air ripple when his eyes flick toward you between shots.

You’ve been in this industry too long to show weakness — not under studio lights, not with a photographer framing him like a god and a camera trained on every shadow.

Instead, you glance down at your notes. The interview outline is clean, with your handwriting pressed into the margins beside each question — an efficient, emotionless skeleton of conversation. You’re scheduled to ask about the album’s concept, the title RE:ENTRY, his intentions behind the tone, and any specific themes he’s chosen to highlight.

The theme is obvious. But you’ll ask anyway.

At exactly 11:30 a.m., the shoot breaks for rotation. You’re called over by the PR manager, and then by the Vogue photographer, who wants you on set to check visual tone and continuity.

You cross the studio slowly, adjusting your blouse at the wrist, pen still tucked neatly between two fingers, heels clicking softly against the concrete. When you step into the center of the lights, you feel it again — the way the room bends, the way his gaze wraps around you like silk that’s been soaked in heat.

You ignore it. The photographer points to a slight wrinkle in the shirt Jungkook is wearing. “Y/N, can you smooth that for me? It’s catching glare.”

You nod once. Step forward. Your fingers brush the hem of the shirt, then flatten over the fabric just above his waist. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But his breath shifts — you feel it bloom against your cheek, and your skin prickles with memory. Still, your hands are steady. Your eyes never meet his.

You adjust the fit, step back, nod to the camera.

Then you return to your seat. The rest of the day is efficient. You conduct the first half of the interview in a lounge corner of the studio, Vogue’s photographer snapping lifestyle-style candids in the background. Your questions are clean, practiced — too practiced. You ask about sonic inspiration, the shift from being part of a group to working solo, what scared him most about releasing something under just his name.

He answers well. Articulately. Formally. As if you aren’t the one person in the world who knows exactly what the track titled Notte Bianca is about.

You nod politely. Take notes. The shoot wraps at 5:00 p.m.

You thank the team, nod to the brand rep, shake hands with the makeup artist who complimented your ring. You don’t look at him again. Not until the very end, when you sense — not hear, not see, sense — his movement behind you. A reach. A step too close. Fingers about to graze your wrist.

You turn your head sharply — not enough to meet his eyes, just enough to remind him that you saw.

And then you leave, your car door shuts with the cleanest click you’ve ever heard.

✦✦✦

The car ride to Jungkook’s studio is unnervingly quiet — no music, no notifications, just the rhythmic tap of your nails against the Vogue press badge clipped discreetly inside your tote. Outside the window, Seoul moves like water — all steel and winter glass, a city too fast to hold your nerves.

When the taxi pulls up, you almost miss it.

The recording studio doesn’t flaunt its purpose. It’s hidden behind a row of designer cafés and flower boutiques in Hannam-dong, masked in matte black brick, with only a brushed steel door and keypad hinting at what it guards. There’s no sign. No name. Just silence. Which, you realize the moment you step out into the crisp air, is entirely the point.

You let yourself in with the temporary guest pass his team sent the day before, and the door opens on a different world — warmth, hush, acoustics tuned to velvet. The air is low-lit and humming with equipment, the scent of coffee and ozone hanging above a polished concrete floor. On one side, a glass-walled booth with layered sound panels and a hanging condenser mic; on the other, a leather couch and a wall of analog gear that looks far too expensive to touch.

You recognize it instantly as a space meant for vulnerability — but guarded like a vault.

Jungkook’s voice reaches you before you see him. “Hey.”

You turn, and there he is — already seated near the mixing console, one leg folded beneath him, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fingers idly toying with a capless pen. He looks… quieter here. Not styled. Not sculpted for press. Just him.

You nod, polite. Controlled. “Hi.”

And then — like before — you don’t sit right away. You set your bag down carefully, unfold your notes, pull out the recorder, and begin the slow work of building a wall between the memory of his mouth on your body and the man now waiting to be interviewed.

“Thanks for making time for this,” you add, walking to the velvet chair opposite him.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Thanks for not avoiding me anymore.”

You ignore that. You press record.

“This is for the January cover feature,” you say, your voice even, practiced. “It’s a longform editorial piece to accompany your solo debut. I’d like to begin with the album title. RE:ENTRY. Why that name?”

He shifts in his seat, looking toward the floor before answering.

“I liked the idea of burning through the atmosphere,” he says. “Coming back into something that used to feel like home, but being changed by the fall. Everything’s faster now. Hotter. You survive it… or you don’t.”

You nod. Your pen glides across the paper.

“And the sound?” you ask. “You move between genres — synth, stripped-down ballads, late-night R&B. What ties them together?”

He tilts his head. “They’re all from the same orbit.”

You look up at him.

He adds, “Even when I was making Private Room, I was still haunted by Encore. I wanted sex and silence in the same breath. I wanted the story to feel like it was begging for one more night.”

You don’t blink. “So Encore is the centerpiece track?”

“I guess,” he shrugs, and smiles like it costs him something. “It’s the one that hurts the most.”

You cross your legs. "And Don’t Look Back (You Did)?"

“Regret. Ego. Silence.” He meets your gaze. “You’d know.”

Your pen stills — for just a second — but you move on. “And Her Ghost Wears Chanel?”

He breathes out, voice lower now. “That’s about waking up next to people who still aren’t her.”

You don’t flinch. You just write the line down, word for word, inked sharp and clinical across the page.

There’s a beat of quiet. You can feel the shift — the closeness, the weight of everything unsaid leaning into the pause.

You redirect. “Let’s talk about New Year’s Exit,” you say, voice crisp again. “It opens the album.”

He nods. “It’s about starting the year without something you thought would be permanent.”

“Someone.”

He doesn’t deny it. You lower your pen, pause the recorder gently. “Would you be willing to let me hear a track?”

He’s already moving. He rises from the chair — graceful, relaxed, more fluid than you remember — and walks toward the mixing board. The entire room shifts with him, like gravity, like muscle memory, and when he turns back to you, the lights catch his cheekbones in a way that makes your breath stutter in your chest.

He presses one key. And then Notte Bianca begins.

The track opens with the soft pull of fingers over a guitar string — warm, breathy, deliberate — and you feel it before you register the sound, something low in your spine tightening like recognition. The room doesn’t change, not visibly, but it feels different now, like every shadow is suddenly looking at you, like the light itself has gone still just to listen.

You remain seated, back straight, pen still in hand even though you haven’t written a word since he pressed play. Your eyes flick toward the console screen where the waveform glows and moves, but it’s his voice that finds you first — low, layered, textured with static and restraint, the way he always used to sing when he wanted to break your heart quietly.

"Lake light on your thighs / Moon in your throat / My name under your breath like it burned."

You don’t move.

"You kissed me like the night was rented / Like it wouldn’t last the drive home."

He’s not watching the screen. He’s watching you.

You feel it — not just in the air, but under your skin, like heat rising too fast. The lyrics pour out in waves, brushed with the same decadence that coated the marble floors of that Italian hotel, the same pulse that dragged you toward him under that chandelier, the same unbearable ache of wanting him and hating him in the same breath.

You swallow once. Your pen is trembling now.

"You said nothing when you left / But your lipstick stayed in my lungs."

The last chord hangs for too long. And then silence.

You lift your eyes, slowly, knowing that if you meet his gaze for more than a second, your composure will unravel like thread under fire.

Jungkook doesn’t speak immediately. He lets the quiet linger between you like a question you haven’t earned the right to ask.

When he finally does speak, his voice is soft — not teasing, not smug — just quietly devastating.

“That one came out fast.”

You blink once, slow.

“It sounds…” You reach for a word, but none of them feel professional enough. “It sounds… expensive.”

He smiles faintly, almost sadly. “It was.”

There’s a silence again — not awkward, just heavy.

You flip the page in your notebook with a hand that pretends not to shake. “Is it about someone specific?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He leans back, fingers threading behind his neck, body angled like a challenge, like he’s trying to look relaxed while waiting to see if you’ll flinch first.

“Only one person would recognize it,” he says finally.

You don’t answer.Instead, you click your pen closed and lower your voice, just enough to remind yourself that you're still in control.

“Any other tracks you’d like to walk me through today?”

He tilts his head — a little amused, a little bitter.

“I thought this was just a feature article,” he says. “Not a postmortem.”

You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “They’re the same thing, sometimes.”

He stands and the room bends with him — subtly, but you feel it, like the soundproofing is no longer between the walls but between your ribs.

“I want to show you something,” he says. You don’t respond, but you follow him. 

The glass door to the recording booth is already cracked open, a soft glow pulsing from the mic’s standby light. He gestures you in, lets you step past him first, and when the door clicks shut behind you, the quiet becomes absolute — not silence, but a vacuum, the kind of hush you feel in your teeth.

He doesn’t move to the mic, standing behind you instead. Too close.

You can see your reflection in the glossy black of the sound panel in front of you, and the moment his voice drops — low and velvet — near the shell of your ear, you feel your pulse skitter hard behind your ribs.

“You didn’t ask about Private Room,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes while your voice barely works. “I didn’t think I needed to.”

He leans in from behind, breath warming your neck, his mouth not touching but close enough that your skin knows what he wants.

“Maybe you should’ve.”

You don’t know who moves first.

It could be you shifting your hips, or him closing the distance between his mouth and your neck. But the second he kisses you again, everything unravels. The studio is quiet — dangerously so — the only sound the low hum of the condenser mic and the soft hiss of your breathing when his lips skim your skin again, lower this time, finding that place beneath your ear that always made your knees tilt inward.

You stand there, frozen and burning, arms hanging useless at your sides while his hands move with a kind of hesitant worship — first hovering at your waist, then settling at the slope of your hips. Your skirt is short. You wore it because it was sharp. Professional. Structured. Not so it would make it easier for him to find your skin beneath it. But now, when his thumbs dip under the fabric and he groans softly against your neck, you know you made a mistake thinking you could stay in control of this.

You reach for him behind you, fingers closing around his wrist, guiding it higher — first to your ribs, then up, until his palm cups your breast through the thin fabric of your top. He breathes your name into your hair, barely a sound. You don’t respond.

You push backward, just enough to feel the line of him — hard, warm, pressed against the curve of your ass through too many layers. The contact sends a bolt of heat through your core, sharp and sweet and horrible.

He growls then, low and ragged, and spins you gently, urgently, until your back is against the padded wall. His gaze is molten, his lashes dark with restraint. One hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your lip.

“I don’t have a condom,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours, breath fanning hot across your mouth.

Your eyes stay on his, steady. “I’m clean. On the pill.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m clean too.”

You tilt your head, lips almost touching now. “Then fuck me. Raw.”

He kisses you — not sweetly, not gently — and it knocks the breath out of you. The kiss is wet, open-mouthed, all tongue and memory. His hands yank your top up and over your chest, dragging it to your collarbones while he palms your breasts, rough and aching, mouth breaking from yours only to attach to your neck, your jaw, the space just above your collar.

His fingers tug your skirt higher and he drags your underwear down in one motion, breath catching when he finds you soaked.

“You wanted this,” he mutters, almost angry.

“You left me,” you snap.

And still — your legs part for him. He strokes you once, twice, and you arch into the wall with a gasp. He leans in, teeth grazing your earlobe.

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re hard,” you whisper back.

He groans — deep, feral — and with one hand gripping your hip, he aligns himself and pushes in, slow and thick, stretching you open in a way that makes your jaw go slack.

The first thrust is unbearable. The second nearly makes your knees give.

It’s different — raw — in every sense. Hotter. Messier. You feel every inch of him, no barrier between you, no distance, no excuse. He presses you into the wall and begins to move, hips rolling deep, his breath catching against your neck with each thrust. One hand holds your thigh up, the other slides around your stomach, anchoring you to him as he rocks into you harder, deeper.

“You feel—fuck—you feel like sin,” he breathes, and the sound of it makes your head fall back.

You clench around him and whimper something that sounds like his name. His grip tightens.

“You want me to stop?” he murmurs against your skin.

“No,” you breathe, eyes fluttering. “Don’t.”

He fucks you like a memory he refuses to let fade — slow and deep, then fast and filthy, each thrust wet and loud and obscene in the echo of the booth. You’re both making sounds now, breathless and unfiltered. His hand slips between your legs, fingers rubbing where you’re swollen, and when you cry out, he curses under his breath.

“Don’t be quiet,” he groans. “Let me hear you.”

You come fast — it crashes into you like the snap of a wave, your body going taut, your thighs trembling as your orgasm rips through you, pulsing around him.

He barely holds it together. The rhythm stutters, grows erratic. He grunts something low against your shoulder, and you feel him spill inside you, hot and full, buried as deep as he can go. Your walls flutter around him, milking every drop, and he stays inside for a moment — just breathing, just holding.

Then, wordlessly, he pulls you off the wall. He lowers you into his lap as he sinks into the studio chair, still sheathed inside you, still hard, still not done.

You let your weight settle onto him, and for a moment, you both just breathe — foreheads brushing, skin hot and trembling, his hands skating up the back of your thighs with reverence that feels dangerous. You grind once, slow, a test — and he exhales like he’s been holding it in for years.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs.

You plant your hands on his chest, lift your hips, and begin to ride him — deliberately slow at first, dragging your wetness along every ridge of him, letting the stretch burn again just because you want it to. Your head falls back with a moan that echoes off the soundboard. He watches you like he’s in a trance, jaw slack, hands gripping the curve of your waist to steady you as you find rhythm again.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he groans, voice rough, low. “On me. All mine.”

You don’t answer — you just roll your hips harder, faster, chasing friction and heat.

He growls, leans forward, and his hands cup your ass, fingers digging into the flesh as he guides you faster, helping you ride him with bruising force now. Your moans turn breathless, pitched higher, your thighs shaking from effort and overstimulation, and he leans in to suck a mark beneath your collarbone, murmuring filth against your skin as he does.

“Fuck, baby… You’re gonna make me—”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Do it.”

He thrusts up once, twice — hard — and then holds you still as he comes, buried deep, heat spilling into you, a low growl rasping out of his throat. You shudder once more with him, clenching around every pulse of him, drunk on the stretch, the fullness, the rawness of it.

You collapse onto his chest again, trembling.

He breathes against your hair. “Round two?”

You smile. Slow. Lazy. Still wrapped around him. “Not tonight.”

You pull back, fingertips smoothing the line of his jaw. You press one soft kiss to his lips — all heat and no promise — and when you stand, he groans at the loss of you.

You smooth your skirt down, roll your top back into place, gather your pen from the floor like it matters.

Then you look at him over your shoulder.

“Thanks,” you say, voice satin-sweet, already turning toward the door. “That was a very, very good fuck.”

[you can read the article of OC and Jungkook’s album tracklist here]

✦✦✦

The morning stretches itself across the Vogue Korea editorial floor in long, ivory ribbons of winter light, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows with theatrical precision, as if the sun itself is rehearsing a cue for your moment. The glass table gleams beneath your fingertips. Your laptop screen reflects back your masterpiece — the completed feature article for the January issue, centered around Jungkook’s solo debut, your words threading through each song like the fine gold stitching of a couture hem.

You’ve read it a dozen times this morning alone. Still, it holds. Still, it sings.

Each paragraph cuts clean. Every pull quote lands like a lyric that never needed melody. You’ve captured RE:ENTRY the way it was meant to be seen — not just an album, but a confession dressed in synth and sweat and late-night regret. It is, without a trace of false humility, the best work you’ve ever done. And the issue? Your issue. The layout. The vision. The headline structure. The branded social rollout. All of it — yours.

The room is full — editorial, design, digital, partnerships — everyone seated around the long conference table, coffee cups half-full, coats draped over the backs of chairs, winter breath still lingering in some of their voices. You finish your presentation with a confident click, closing the laptop and lifting your chin slightly as you glance toward your boss.

For a beat, there’s silence. And then it starts — a ripple of soft applause that swells into something louder, more genuine, until even the department heads are nodding to each other in agreement. Compliments bloom across the room like perfume. Someone says the piece reads like a movie. Someone else calls it transcendent. Even Hyerin catches your eye from across the table, mouthing a quiet “you killed it.”

Then, from the head of the table, a slow, deliberate nod.

Seo In-kyung, the Editor-in-Chief herself — rarely warm, never effusive — folds her manicured hands atop her tablet, tilts her head slightly, and lets the words fall in that sharp, measured tone she reserves for verdicts and final cuts.

“I don’t say this lightly,” she begins, her voice cool and commanding, “but your feature has set the tone for this issue in a way I haven’t seen in years. It’s layered. It’s intimate. And most importantly, it’s Vogue. I can already feel the ripple effect.”

You exhale slowly, the praise sliding over your skin like sunlight through silk, warm and grounding and almost enough to distract you from the truth that’s been haunting you since the night at the studio: that no matter how clean your layout, how polished your sentences, how composed your posture — you let him in again. And you’ve been ignoring every message since.

But for now, you’re untouchable. Or at least, you were until Kara stands.

The sound of her palms meeting each other breaks through the air with a peculiar cadence — a slow, sarcastic clap, each strike louder than the one before. The entire room shifts toward her in confusion, and when she smiles, it’s the kind of curve that doesn’t reach her eyes, the kind of expression that warns before it wounds.

In-kyung’s voice tightens like a drawn thread. “Kara. Sit.”

But she doesn’t. Instead, she adjusts the fall of her designer blouse, takes a step forward, and clears her throat delicately — the kind of theatrical gesture that lets everyone know she’s about to make the moment about herself.

“Maybe,” Kara begins, her voice sugar-laced and perfectly pitched, “if the rest of us were fucking with the people we were interviewing, we could all produce work like that.”

For a moment, you don’t breathe. No one does. The room plunges into silence so deep it hums, and you swear you hear the central heating system kick on just to fill the space with something. Across the table, Hyerin’s eyes widen. One of the junior editors drops their pen. Someone mutters what the fuck under their breath, barely audible.

And you? You sit motionless. Perfect. Stunned. Your spine straight, your limbs gone cold.

Your name is not said. But it doesn’t have to be. In-kyung straightens, rising from her seat like the ghost of judgment in ivory cashmere,“Kara. My office. Now.”

Kara offers a slow, graceful blink, like a model turning for her close-up, and walks toward the exit with a posture that suggests not shame, but triumph. You follow, legs heavy and heart racing, still unsure how reality is moving beneath you when the ground feels like it should be giving way.

Inside the office, the door clicks shut with a finality that feels fatal. You don’t sit. Kara does.

She opens the folder in her hands and begins sliding photos across In-kyung’s desk with infuriating precision — one after another, each print more invasive than the last. There’s a shot of Jungkook’s hand on your back outside the gala limo. Another of him stepping into your taxi the following morning. A third from years ago, the two of you on the sidewalk in Mapo, your fingers linked, your faces flushed with the kind of joy only twenty-year-olds and fools believe is permanent.

You stare in disbelief, pulse hammering behind your ribs.

“What the hell is this?” your voice cracks. “Were you following me?”

Kara doesn’t even look up. She keeps arranging the photos like artifacts.

“No need,” she says, light as air. “Your fuckboy is a walking goldmine of sasaeng activity. I just reached out to a few desperate little fan accounts. They practically threw this at me.”

Something in you shatters.

“Are you hearing yourself?” you hiss, turning to In-kyung with disbelief. “She bought photos from stalkers. This isn’t journalism. It’s harassment. Jungkook has no privacy and you’re—”

But In-kyung doesn’t raise her hand. She doesn’t shout and doesn’t look at the photos a second time.

She simply closes the folder in one deliberate motion, turns her eyes to yours — steady, unreadable, perfectly composed — and delivers her verdict with the same calmness she uses to kill stories at the pitch table.

“You’re fired.”

You feel the words before you hear them, the coldness of them landing first in your stomach and then rising like bile to your throat. You blink, stunned, trying to make sense of what you’ve just been told.

“What?”

Her tone doesn’t change. “The article will be reassigned,” she says. “The cover credit will follow. You’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”

You can’t move. “This is—this is insane,” you whisper. “You’re rewarding her for a smear campaign built on sasaeng surveillance—”

You want to speak — to scream, to argue, to defend yourself with everything you’ve built — but your mouth doesn’t open. Kara sits still, smug and silent, as if she’s already lit the match and is simply watching the room burn.

“You made a choice,” In-kyung cuts you off, voice quiet, cold. “To violate our professional code. To sleep with a client. You gambled your credibility. And you lost.”

Kara exhales like a cat stretching in the sun. “Have a nice life, sweetheart.”

You look to In-kyung again, searching for anything — reason, mercy, even disgust.

But she’s already turning back to her computer. You are no longer something she needs to look at.

“Please escort yourself out,” she says without lifting her gaze.

And just like that, you are erased.

✦✦✦

The office is quiet now — too quiet — the way a room sounds after applause ends and everyone forgets to look back. You sit alone in the corner cubicle that used to buzz with purpose, dragging your Vogue-embossed storage box closer with one hand, the other carefully wrapping cords, tucking notebooks, flattening printed drafts that once mattered more than breath itself. Your coffee mug — the one from Paris Fashion Week with the chipped handle and a faint lipstick stain that never came off — goes in last.

You don’t cry. Not because you’re strong. But because there is something so bitter, so insulting about the way it ended that it leaves no room for tears, only a scalding sort of fury that simmers behind your ribs like boiling perfume.

You don’t look at Kara’s desk. You don’t even let your gaze hover near it.

You think about the years it took to get here — from intern to editor, the nights you stayed late under flickering lights, rewriting celebrity copy while Kara slipped out early for rooftop events she didn’t earn. You think about the trust you built, the reputation for polish and precision, the way your boss once said you were the kind of woman who made Vogue feel like Vogue again. And now? One grainy photo from a sasaeng with a zoom lens and a grudge, and it’s over.

Your jaw clenches. When you close the lid on the box, the snap of it feels ceremonial.

Footsteps approach, soft-soled and hesitant. You don’t look up until Hyerin’s voice breaks the hum of your rage.

“They’ll reconsider. I know they will. You just need to wait it out.”

You meet her eyes — kind, worried, sincere — and something in you softens for a breath. But only a breath.

“I don’t want them to,” you say, your tone low, flat, final. “If this is what they stand for — if this is what they protect — then I don’t want to belong to it.”

Hyerin looks stricken. “Y/N…”

But you’re already standing, lifting the box with both arms. It’s heavier than it should be. Or maybe you’re just exhausted.

“I didn’t sleep with him for a cover,” you add, pausing at the edge of your cubicle. “But even if I had — I’d still have more integrity than someone buying evidence from stalkers. And they chose her over me. That’s all I need to know.”

✦✦✦

The taxi ride home is silent. Not a single notification or a single tear.

But when you step inside your apartment, place the box carefully on the floor, and shut the door behind you — it breaks.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a sharp inhale, a trembling lip, and the way your shoulders fold forward like they’re finally allowed to collapse. You don’t scream. You don’t sob. But your hands shake when you reach for your phone, and your heart races the moment his name lights up the screen.

You press call. It rings once, then twice.

“Y/N?” His voice is thick with disbelief, like he never actually expected to hear from you again. “Wait—are you okay?”

You don’t answer him right away.

“Do you know,” you begin, voice steady despite everything, “how many sasaengs follow you?”

There’s a pause. A beat of silence that stretches too long.

“…Yes,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You swallow. “Do you know they’re selling photos of you?”

The panic in his voice is instant, sharp as a blade. “What? What the fuck—why are you asking? Did they follow you? Did they send you something? Y/N, what did they—”

“They didn’t come to me,” you interrupt softly. “They went to someone else. Someone who used it to destroy everything I worked for.”

Another silence. And then, his voice drops — low, furious, gutted. “Tell me who.”

You laugh — not out of humor, but out of something hollow and tired and cruel. “Does it matter? It’s done. I’m fired.”

“What?”

“I lost everything,” you say, softer now, like you’re just realizing it yourself. “The article. The credit. The cover. All of it.”

He curses under his breath. You can hear him pacing, hear the frustration laced into every inhale. “They can’t fucking do that. You worked for years—"

“I don’t care,” you lie.

“Yes, you do.”

You sit on the floor, legs crossed beneath you, staring at the wall like it might offer you something. “I care about writing. I care about fashion. But I don’t care about a company that protects stalkers and punishes women for who they love.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then his voice shifts — softer, more cautious.

“I know you still love Vogue Korea like that.”

You hesitate.

“I don’t love them,” you say finally. “I love the work. I always did.”

There’s a pause. Then a breath.

“You know the October cover? The BTS one?”

You blink. “What about it?”

“It was my idea.”

You frown. “What?”

He exhales, like he’s been waiting to admit this. “I found out you were working there. I pitched the cover, and insisted on Vogue Korea. I told them I wanted it — told the team I’d only do the solo campaign if they agreed. I didn’t know how else to get to you.”

“You…” your voice falters. “You did all that just to see me again?”

“Yes.”

The confession hangs between you, delicate and irreversible.

“And now they’re stealing your work from you — the very thing I pitched because I wanted you back in my world. I’m not letting them get away with that.”

You don’t know what to say. So instead, you whisper, “I hate that you still make me feel things.”

“I hope,” he replies, voice breaking just slightly, “you hate it a little less tomorrow.”

✦✦✦

The glass walls of the Vogue Korea conference room still gleam with that same sterile gloss — the scent of designer leather chairs, faint citrus from someone's perfume, and the cold metallic hum of power thickening the air. You shouldn’t be here. You know that. And yet, you sit at the long oval table, fingers clasped in your lap, spine straight, head high — not for them, not anymore, but for yourself.

You didn’t ask to come back. You wouldn’t have. Not after how they discarded you with such dispassion, like the work you bled for had never stained their brand bright enough to matter. But then the invitation had come. Not from Seo In-kyung. Not from the Vogue board. It came from HYBE, with your name printed in clean, exacting type, and a tone that wasn’t a request — it was a summons.

The door opens behind you.

Seo In-kyung enters first, all sharp angles and polished silk, her expression unreadable except for the faint crease between her brows — as if being made to explain herself is beneath her title. Kara walks in just a step behind, her expression a masterpiece of faux neutrality, lips pressed together so tightly that they’re nearly colorless. She sits without greeting you, without a glance. You return the favor.

And then he enters.

Jungkook was dressed in black head-to-toe — blazer open, shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. His jaw is locked, his posture coiled and still, and there is something in his gaze that makes the whole room stiffen as he steps inside alongside his manager. You don’t flinch. You meet his eyes. And this time, you don’t look away.

Because if they fired you for loving him, then let them see it. He sits directly across from you, and the silence lingers just long enough to curdle. His voice is calm when it finally comes, but barely.

“I’ll make this simple,” Jungkook says, his eyes never leaving In-kyung. “I’m no longer consenting to my January solo cover if the credit for the article is assigned to the wrong person.”

A pause. In-kyung blinks once. “The credit is a formality,” she begins smoothly, tilting her head ever so slightly toward you, “though of course I understand there’s a... personal stake here.”

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift — but the temperature in the room does.

“No,” he says, tone even sharper now. “It’s not personal. It’s ethical. I don’t condone plagiarism. Or fraud.”

His manager clears his throat beside him, carefully composed. “We have emails, timestamps, raw drafts, BTS’s own recording sessions — all traced directly to Y/N’s involvement. Any change to her authorship would not only be inaccurate — it would be actionable.”

Kara shifts in her seat, the first sign of discomfort flashing in her eyes.

But Jungkook isn’t finished. He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, and when he speaks again, the edge in his voice is no longer subtle.

“And even beyond the article,” he says, “I still don’t understand how she was fired. Not reprimanded. Not reassigned. Fired. And replaced with someone who sourced photos from fucking sasaengs.”

Kara’s voice shoots up before anyone else can respond.

“I didn’t take the photos myself,” she snaps, finally cracking through her composure. “I bought them. They were already out there. I didn’t create the scandal—”

“You weaponized it,” Jungkook cuts in, tone now dark and lethal. “You used stalker photos to humiliate a colleague in a professional setting. You endangered my privacy. Her safety. And you dragged a private relationship into a boardroom as ammunition. You think that’s not disgusting?”

His manager steps in before Kara can reply, voice cool, detached, lethal in its corporate precision.

“The fact remains that these images, regardless of origin, were disseminated within an official Vogue Korea meeting — and used to provoke professional consequences. From our legal standpoint, that constitutes a violation of privacy law and creates grounds for a breach-of-contract dispute. Unless remedied.”

In-kyung’s expression tightens. She smooths her skirt, then folds her hands, composed but calculating.

“We’ll reinstate the credit,” she says at last. “The article will be published under Y/N’s name as originally planned. And the cover will remain with Mr. Jeon.”

There’s a flicker of triumph in the air — but it doesn’t reach you.

Because you already know what you’re about to say. You speak before anyone else can.

“I’m not coming back.”

Jungkook turns to you so sharply it’s like someone tugged a thread from the center of the table.

In-kyung blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t return to Vogue Korea,” you repeat, voice steady, gaze pinned to your former boss. “You may put my name on that article — because I wrote it — but I will not work for a publication that values power and optics over people. That protects stalkers. That dismisses women for the crime of loving someone inconvenient.”

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Jungkook shifts again, slowly this time, turning his head toward In-kyung with that same quiet finality that has sold out stadiums.

“I want Kara fired,” he says, voice so calm it almost feels kind. “And I want that request noted in the official record. From the artist. Personally.”

You don’t look at Kara. You don’t need to.

Because this time, when you walk out of that office, the door doesn’t slam behind you.

It closes — soft, final, clean. The hallway feels brighter on the way out.

Jungkook catches up to you at the elevator, a half-step behind, and when he speaks, it’s softer now — less fire, more ache.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. “Not for me.”

You turn to him with a bitter smile. “I didn’t. I did it for me.”

He nods once, and the elevator dings open. You both step inside.

“I owe you,” you say after a moment, voice low. “You didn’t have to show up like that.”

“I’ll always show up for you,” he replies, and for once, it sounds like a vow.

Silence settles again — warm, heavy — until he glances at you and adds, “Do you want a ride?”

You hesitate but nod. And this time, when you get into the car with him, it doesn’t feel like surrender.

It feels like agency.

✦✦✦

The car is silent for a while, the kind of silence that doesn’t ache — not exactly — but hums with something tentative and unspeakable, something that lives between the past and the possibility. Outside the tinted windows, Seoul glows with its usual contradiction — steel and chaos dressed in elegance, neon halos wrapped around glass buildings, traffic humming like a restless symphony beneath them.

You sit with your hands folded neatly in your lap, your body angled toward the window, your thoughts stretched thin between relief and exhaustion. And then you hear him breathe in like he’s been holding it for too long.

“How are you?” he asks.

You glance at him, not expecting the question to land so gently.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice calm and even. “I’ve saved up enough to hold myself through a few months. And I have an idea. A project, maybe.”

He turns slightly, enough for you to see his profile against the soft glow of the passing streetlights.

“What kind of project?”

You pause, then let it slip — not with rehearsed polish, not as a pitch, but as something tender you’ve been nursing in the back of your mind.

“A digital magazine,” you say. “Something fresh. Modern. Built around voices that actually have something to say. Not just trends, but meaning. I want to tell stories again — without being filtered through nepotism and ivory towers.”

His mouth parts like he’s about to interrupt, to offer something, but you continue before he can find the words.

“And I’ll be fine,” you say. “I always am. I’ve got this.”

He nods, slowly, his jaw tightening just slightly.

“I could help,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, not pushy — more like a hand hesitantly extended in the dark. “If you need funding. Or reach. Or anything.”

You smile, soft and kind.

“I know. But it won’t be necessary.”

His brows twitch. “You sure?”

You turn your head toward him then, really look at him. “I got everything I ever had on my own. I want this to be mine, too.”

It’s not rejection, not really — but it’s a boundary. One spoken with grace, but firm enough to bruise. And yet, he doesn’t pull away. He only nods again, his lips parting for a breath that he never quite exhales, eyes now fixed on the blurred city rushing past.

He doesn’t say it, but you feel it anyway — the desperate, quiet ache of a man trying to find any way to stay in your orbit, even if all the lines have been drawn in stone.

By the time the car pulls up to your apartment complex, the tension has shifted. It’s not heavy anymore. It’s just there — coiled in the silence, lingering in the static between your fingers.

Jungkook reaches for the door handle, but stops when you speak again.

“You know,” you murmur, eyes sliding toward him, tone feather-light, “you could come up for a minute.”

He pauses. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, letting the smallest smirk tug at your lips. “Your blazer is still at my place. I figured you might want it back.”

He blinks once, a beat of disbelief, then — a smile. Real. Wide. Bright in a way that makes him look younger, almost like the boy you used to know before the world taught him how to disappear.

“Right,” he says. “The blazer.”

And just like that, he follows you up the stairs.

The door swings open with a soft click, and the warmth of your apartment spills into the hallway — soft lamplight, the faint scent of fresh flowers, and something faintly sweet clinging to the air like vanilla and ink. Jungkook follows you in, quiet behind you, his steps slowing as he takes in the space — small, yes, but so meticulously curated that it feels like stepping into the pages of a life built by hand.

Your bookshelves are stacked not just with titles, but with memories — worn copies of fashion memoirs, old literary paperbacks with creased spines, a row of thick archival issues of Vogue from various countries, and a ceramic pen holder shaped like a Chanel No. 5 bottle. Your desk is minimal, sleek, but lived-in: a half-used candle, a leather-bound planner with sticky notes peeking out, a cup of cooling tea beside your laptop. On the wall just above it, perfectly framed and hung in a gold-trimmed black mount, is the October issue of Vogue Korea.

His cover. Your article.

You watch him approach it, his eyes scanning the glossy finish, the sharp serif headline, the tension frozen forever in that singular photo you both helped bring to life. He doesn’t speak, not right away. His throat works around the words he doesn’t say, and you leave him there, letting him take in the quiet proof that even now, even after everything, he still lives here — in your space, in your timeline, pressed between your fingerprints and your dreams.

“I didn’t know you kept it,” he says finally, voice low.

You smile gently, already walking into the small open kitchen. “Well, I wrote it,” you reply, pulling down two glasses. “It was mine before it was anyone else’s.”

He turns at that, and the look on his face is almost boyish — reverent, maybe. Like he’s seeing you again for the first time, not through a lens of guilt or memory, but through the stillness of now.

You return with the wine and a sly glint in your eye, nudging his elbow as you pass. “Don’t look so serious. We’re not here to mourn.”

He lifts a brow. “No?”

You hand him a glass and settle onto the plush, soft-blanketed couch that dominates your small living room, the cushions already sunken from nights spent editing drafts and reading fashion week recaps. You tuck your legs beneath you and raise your glass in a mock-toast.

“We’re here to celebrate. My freedom. My future. Today was a win.”

He clinks your glass gently, eyes never leaving yours. “To your freedom,” he murmurs.

The first few sips pass easily, the taste rich and deep. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker — something French and sultry, the kind of thing you play when you're pretending not to romanticize solitude. The conversation flows without effort, meandering through memories, playful jabs, late-night ramen disasters from your early twenties, the ridiculous way he used to sneak into your dorm through the laundry exit, how you once nearly got caught at a public library and laughed for fifteen minutes straight after.

He’s different now. Older, yes — carved sharper, his fame molded into his posture — but when he laughs like that, head tilted back, lashes low, he feels like the boy you never really stopped loving. Not completely.

And maybe he never stopped loving you either.

When the wine bottle is nearly empty and your legs are stretched lazily across his lap, the mood shifts. Not jarringly — no crash of thunder, no sudden silence — but something gentler, something that folds over the room like velvet being pulled across bare skin.

He brushes a piece of hair from your cheek, his fingers staying there, calloused and warm against your skin. His thumb drags softly along your jaw, then rests at the corner of your mouth as if memorizing the shape of your silence.

“You deserve the best things in this world,” he says, voice tender, achingly sincere. “And I wish I never disappointed you the way I did.”

You look at him, eyes wide and open, the sting in your chest blooming and soft all at once.

“I don’t want you to carry that forever,” you whisper. “We’ve both made peace with the wreckage. I want us to move forward — not with guilt. With hope.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You really believe we can?”

You nod, slowly, deliberately. “I believe in starting again. And I believe in us, if we choose it.”

That’s when he leans in.

There is no sudden urgency, no hunger to consume — only the slow, careful gravity of two people finding home in each other’s mouths. His lips meet yours like a secret finally spoken aloud. The kiss is slow and reverent, a study in restraint, his hand still on your face, the other slipping to your waist as if asking permission he already knows you’ll grant.

You move together like something rediscovered — nothing desperate, nothing rushed. When he lifts you into his lap, you don’t hesitate. Your fingers tangle in his hair, his hands glide beneath your shirt, and every inch of contact feels like returning to a language your bodies never forgot.

You murmur his name. He breathes yours against your neck.

“I love you,” he says, not as a plea, not as a promise — just truth.

You whisper it back, slow and trembling, as you guide his shirt off, as he lifts you in his arms and carries you toward your bedroom. 

The door to your bedroom creaks open as he carries you inside, the backs of his fingers still stroking your waist beneath your blouse, as though he can’t bear to stop touching you even for a second. The room is small but bathed in warmth — draped in deep tones and the faintest scent of your perfume that lives in the pillows and hangs from the edges of the curtain. He sets you down at the foot of the bed as if you’re something precious, something fragile and sacred, but the look in his eyes tells you he also wants to ruin you.

You pull your top over your head, slow, deliberate, leaving yourself in nothing but a bralette and that little skirt you forgot you were still wearing. He watches you with parted lips, chest rising, gaze molten as he reaches to kiss you again — slower this time, deeper, his tongue licking softly into your mouth while his hands slide over your thighs.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he breathes, voice hoarse, kissing your collarbone, your shoulder, his mouth tracing the line of your bra. “Do you know what it’s been like? Wanting you like this, every night, for years?”

Your fingers are already tugging his shirt out of his pants, unfastening buttons one by one, letting your nails graze the inked skin of his chest.

“I want you,” you murmur, breath catching as he kisses just beneath your breast. “All of you.”

He lowers you onto the bed with maddening control — pressing kisses along your ribs, your stomach, as his hands tug your skirt down your legs. You feel like fire under his touch. You arch into him, gasping when his mouth finds your inner thigh. His breath is warm, heavy, teasing, but he takes his time. He licks you through your panties first, a slow press of his tongue that has you already clenching around nothing, already aching for more.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “So fucking sweet.”

When he finally pulls your panties to the side and buries his face between your thighs, you forget every coherent thought. His tongue is slow and deliberate — soft licks at first, then deeper, firmer, as he moans against your skin like he’s starving for it. One of his arms hooks around your thigh to keep you still while his other hand trails up your body, palming your breast through your bra, rubbing his thumb over the peak.

You whimper, fingers tangled in his hair. “Jungkook…”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, licking up and down your folds. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good again.”

And then his tongue circles your clit — slow at first, then faster, as he sucks you into his mouth and keeps your hips pressed down. You can’t stop the moans, the way your back arches, the way your thighs tremble under his grip.

You fall apart like that, shattering beneath his tongue, crying out his name as your orgasm crashes over you. But he doesn’t stop — not even when you twitch and squirm and plead. He licks you through it, groaning against you like he needs it, until you’re gasping, breathless.

When he finally comes up for air, lips wet and eyes dark, you’re already reaching for him — unbuttoning his pants, tugging them down with a quiet desperation.

“Please,” you breathe. “I need you inside me.”

He curses under his breath, leans over to grab a condom — but you stop him.

“I’m still clean,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “I’m still on the pill. And you?”

His eyes lock with yours — hot and heavy and searching. “Yeah. I’m clean.”

You nod once. “Then fuck me raw.”

That’s when something in him snaps.

He strips down in seconds — shirt, boxers, everything — and when you see him, thick and flushed and already leaking, your mouth waters. You reach for him, running your palm down his length, watching the way his eyes flutter shut.

But he grabs your wrist.

“No teasing,” he growls. “Not this time.”

Then he’s on top of you — dragging your panties down the rest of the way, lifting your leg around his waist as he lines himself up and pushes inside.

You both gasp. The stretch is slow, hot, overwhelming. You cling to him, nails raking down his back, his name spilling from your lips as he rocks into you inch by inch.

“Fuck,” he moans, voice shaking. “You’re so tight. So warm. I missed this. I missed you.”

When he bottoms out, he stays there for a beat, forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling at the sheer intimacy of it. You feel every inch of him, bare and pulsing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

“I love you,” you whisper, your breath stuttering. “I love you so much.”

He kisses you then — slow, open, deep — and begins to move.

The rhythm builds gradually, your hips meeting him halfway, your fingers digging into his arms as he fucks you with long, dragging thrusts that make your entire body sing. The room is filled with your moans, your names falling from each other’s lips like prayers. There’s no distance between you anymore. No layers of pain. Just skin and sweat and love.

When he pulls your leg higher and goes deeper, you sob out a broken cry, eyes squeezed shut from how intense it feels.

“Look at me,” he pleads. “Don’t look away.”

You do. And you see everything.

When you come this time, it’s with him — bodies pressed close, lips locked, everything clenching and shivering as you fall together.

After, you lie in the quiet, tangled in each other, your fingers brushing over his chest, his lips on your forehead, your thigh, your hand.

“I love you,” he whispers again, soft and sure.

You smile against his skin. This time, you believe it.

There is no fight, no push-pull. Only warmth. Only skin. Only the slow, glorious ache of making love to someone who knows where your soul lives — and chooses to return to it.

The night unfolds like a second chance. And when you both fall asleep — tangled, bare, with no lies left between you — it’s not the end.

It’s the encore that mattered most.

.

.

an: you can get access to early chapter and exclusive content to my stories here 🖤

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[d-z20]

From Jealousy, Comes a Flood (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: During a coven gathering, harmless flirtation draws the sharp eyes of Agatha and Rio, their possessive instincts simmering beneath the surface. Later, in the privacy of their bedroom, they remind you exactly who you belong to.

-OR-

Jen is flirting with you, much to the displeasure of Agatha and Rio. They can only take so much so it is not long before you're dragged upstairs and fucked into next week

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, mentions of alcohol consumption, Top Agatha, Top Rio, bottom reader, threesome (duh), kind of mean agathario, light dom/sub themes, magic cocks, possessiveness, ownership, degradation, praise, creampie/breeding, overstimulation, squirting, soft aftercare, cock-warming

Words: 4.9k

A/N: another FuckMarvelEveryoneLives AU and I've decided that Eddie gets roped into the coven as well. I think I'm utterly hilarious with this title and I don't care if you disagree 💀 Fic req

AO3 | Masterlist

The evening hums with warmth, the air thick with candlelight and magic. Agatha’s living room is filled with the easy sounds of conversation, the occasional clink of glasses, and the quiet laughter of a coven that has, against all odds, found peace. Lilia and Billy sit tucked away in one corner, deep in discussion about the ever-shifting paths of the Witches’ Road, their words a steady, familiar rhythm against the backdrop of Alice’s teasing. Eddie groans in mock frustration, waving her off with a smirk, but it’s all background noise to Agatha, barely registering past the scene unfolding across the room.

You’re seated comfortably on the loveseat, a glass in hand, and Jen is next to you—too close, really, though you either don’t notice or don’t mind. The warmth of her body presses against yours, a slow and steady presence, her knee brushing against yours beneath the low table. She’s relaxed, sprawled in a way that lets her arm drape casually over the back of the couch, fingers dangerously close to your shoulder. Every so often, when she leans in to say something, her lips hover just shy of your ear, the words meant for you alone.

Agatha’s grip tightens around the stem of her wine glass.

She watches, sharp blue eyes tracking every languid movement Jen makes, every flicker of her fingers against your arm, every flash of your smile in response. You look at Jen the way you always do—open and warm, entirely unaware of the way Agatha’s gaze darkens, something smouldering beneath the surface. The wine is smooth on her tongue, but there’s something sharper curling in her gut.

From across the room, Rio stands near the fireplace, her stance deceptively relaxed, one arm resting against the mantel as she observes the interaction with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her fingers tap a slow rhythm against her lips, a steady metronome of barely restrained irritation. She doesn’t bother to mask the way her gaze lingers on Jen’s hand—where it rests, where it shouldn’t.

Jen is playing with fire. And she doesn’t even realise it.

Or maybe she does. Maybe she’s testing the waters, seeing just how far she can push before the dam breaks.

It’s not overt—nothing crude, nothing anyone else would comment on—but Agatha knows. She knows the way a witch moves when she’s hunting, the way interest sharpens into something bolder. She can see it in the way Jen leans just a little too close, in the way her fingers graze your wrist under the pretence of emphasising a joke.

You laugh, head tilting back slightly, and the sound is a warm, golden thing that makes something in Agatha snap. Just for a second. Her knuckles go white around the glass, the tension bleeding into her posture, but she reins it in before it can spill over. She’s controlled. Patient. But, oh, she’s scheming.

Rio catches the shift before anyone else—the slight clench of Agatha’s jaw, the way her fingers flex before settling, the sharp inhale she takes before exhaling through her nose. Brown eyes flick back to you and Rio’s smirk deepens. It’s not amusement anymore.

It’s oh, sweetheart, you have no idea what you’re in for.

And when your hand slips over Jen’s for just a moment—fleeting, accidental, barely even a touch—Agatha’s patience wears just a little thinner.

—

The evening winds down in a slow, lazy hum, conversations fading into the comfortable haze of flickering candlelight and half-drunk glasses of wine. What hasn’t wound down is the tension that has been steadily curling around you, threading through every moment since Jen first laid a hand on you. You feel it now—wrapped around your skin like something tangible, like something electric.

And Agatha is done waiting.

She doesn’t announce it, doesn’t make a scene. She simply moves. A shift of energy, a shift of power. One moment, she’s perched on the edge of the couch, glass in hand, her blue eyes unreadable as they flick between you and Jen. The next, she’s there—at your side, close enough that the warmth of her body is a quiet, searing brand against your own.

An arm snakes around your waist, fingers firm but deceptively gentle, nails grazing the fabric of your clothes as she pulls you flush against her side. The contrast is dizzying—the casual way she holds you, like she’s done it a thousand times before—and the quiet steel beneath it, the way her grip brooks no argument. She doesn’t ask. She takes.

“We’re going upstairs,” she tells everyone, her voice a slow, dark thing that settles deep in your belly.

Then a beat of silence. The air crackles with unspoken meaning before Agatha tilts her head, smirking slightly. “No need to leave just yet,” she adds, deceptively pleasant. “Señor Scratchy will make sure you all find the door soon enough.”

The coven collectively shifts their gazes toward the far side of the room, where the very content, very fluffy rabbit sits on an ornate end table, lazily munching on a piece of lettuce. His nose twitches slightly, his ears flicking as if in acknowledgement, but otherwise, he seems completely unbothered.

Lilia is the first to clear her throat. Eddie coughs. Alice shifts uncomfortably. Jen just smirks, taking a slow sip of her drink as if she knows exactly what’s happening—and that she’s not the one who won this little game.

You barely have time to process the shift before another presence joins you—heat at your other side, softer but no less overwhelming. Rio presses in close, her breath a whisper of warmth against the shell of your ear, her lips just shy of touching.

“Say goodnight, sweetheart,” she tells you, voice thick with something that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your breath catches, the sudden intensity making your head spin. It’s not that you don’t know what’s happening; it’s just that it’s happening so fast, so seamlessly, that your body is still struggling to catch up. There’s a pull, an inevitability in the way they move around you, a claim in the way they close in, blocking out the rest of the room until it’s just you and them.

Your mouth parts, but the words stick, caught somewhere between confusion and anticipation, between the slow thrum of excitement winding tight in your stomach and the heat creeping up your neck. You barely manage a stammered, “Uh—g-goodnight,” before Rio’s fingers ghost down your arm in silent praise, a teasing brush that makes your pulse stutter.

Jen, still lounged comfortably on the couch, lifts her glass in an easy, knowing salute, a smirk tugging at her lips. There’s amusement in her gaze, maybe even a bit of satisfaction—like she knew exactly what she was doing, like she knew what this would lead to. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t gloat. She simply watches.

Agatha meets her gaze with a single, sharp brow raise—nothing more, nothing less. A quiet warning wrapped in a glance, a silent you got your fun, now she’s ours.

Then, without another word, Agatha guides you forward, her hold on your waist unrelenting, leading you away from the dim glow of the living room and into the deeper, darker warmth of the house.

Upstairs.

To their room.

—

The door has barely shut before Agatha has you pinned against it. It isn’t rough, but it’s deliberate—controlled. A slow, calculated press of her body against yours, her presence overwhelming in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs. The wood is cool against your back, a sharp contrast to the heat curling low in your stomach and to the way her fingers trace down your sides, nails dragging in a whisper of sensation that makes you shiver.

Her lips are close—so close you can feel the warmth of her breath ghosting over your skin.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” She purrs, voice a knowing thing that winds tight around you. Her fingers tighten on your waist, pulling you in until there’s barely any space left between you. “Letting Jen touch you. Letting her look at you like that.”

The words aren’t a question. They’re a verdict. A confession she already knows you’ll make.

You can’t even form a thought before another touch finds you—this one softer but no less commanding. Rio’s fingers trail along your jaw, tilting your chin until you’re forced to meet her gaze. Her brown eyes gleam in the dim light, dark with something wicked, something hungry.

“Maybe we haven’t been reminding you who you belong to enough,” she ponders aloud, and there’s something almost playful in her tone, but underneath it there’s something far more dangerous.

Magic crackles between the three of you, thick and intoxicating, filling the air with a charge that sets your skin alight. It pulses beneath their fingertips and seeps into your bones.

Agatha’s nails press in just a little harder, a teasing scratch down your ribs. “That’s alright, darling,” she muses, her lips curving into a smirk that sends heat straight between your thighs. “We’ll just have to remind you.”

And you know with the way their bodies cage you in, with the way their magic hums against your skin like a living thing, that you won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

The air vibrates with something electric, something that thrums through your veins like a spell you have no control over. Agatha doesn’t need an incantation; just a flick of her fingers, a lazy curve of her lips, and suddenly, magic coalesces between you.

With a single, effortless motion of her wrist, the world shifts. Clothes dissolve into nothingness, vanishing in wisps of deep violet energy, unravelling at the seams like they were never there at all. Warmth rushes over your now-bare skin, a phantom caress where fabric had been just moments ago. You barely have a second to register the sudden exposure before a new sensation takes its place.

It takes shape in a slow, pulsing shimmer, raw energy forged into something solid, something thick and heavy. The last remnants of magic glowing faintly around the shaft make your breath catch.

Agatha tilts her head, watching you with a knowing smirk. “Since you were so eager for attention today,” she purrs, tapping the tip of her newly conjured cock against your thigh. “Why don’t you show us how desperate you really are?”

Heat floods through you, pooling deep in your core, making your knees weak.

Rio hums from where she lounges on the bed, one leg draped over the other, fingers tapping idly against her thigh as she watches. Amusement flickers in her eyes, but beneath it—beneath it is something darker, something that makes your pulse pound in your throat.

“Go on, sweetheart,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “Show us.”

Agatha’s hands find your waist, steadying you, guiding you onto her lap. Her skin is soft beneath your palms as you brace yourself against her shoulders, heat radiating from her in waves.

Then she pushes you down slowly, deliberately, and her cock slides into you, stretching you inch by inch. A sharp gasp leaves your lips as it fills you perfectly like it was made for you, like she knew exactly how to shape it to hit every aching, sensitive part of you.

Agatha’s nails press into your hips, holding you there, keeping you still even as your body trembles with the need to move.

“So pretty when you’re taking what we give you,” she notes, voice like velvet, dark and dripping with satisfaction. Her lips ghost over your throat, breath warm and teasing, as if she’s considering sinking her teeth in.

A choked whimper escapes you as she rolls your hips, setting a slow, torturous rhythm, dragging you along the thick length of her in a way that has sparks dancing up your spine.

From the bed, Rio’s voice reaches you, smooth as silk. “Look at them, my love,” she muses, her gaze molten as she watches. “So eager.”

Her lips curl, wicked and indulgent, as one hand lifts effortlessly. Magic crackles in the air, a deep, searing green that pulses and solidifies, taking shape in her palm. A thick, glistening length, forged from pure energy, larger than Agatha’s but just as intoxicating.

She wraps her fingers around it, stroking slowly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving you. The motion is unhurried, teasing, as if she’s savouring the anticipation, the way your breath catches, the way your thighs press together unconsciously.

“Let’s see how long you can last,” she purrs, heat and promise dripping from every word.

Agatha’s grip on your hips tightens, keeping you exactly where she wants you—trapped in the slow, torturous grind she’s set. Her cock twitches, responding to every shift of your body, pulsing with a pleasure that borders on overwhelming. Every drag, every deep thrust, sends sparks of sensation curling up your spine, heat coiling tighter in your stomach.

Her mouth never strays far from your throat, her breath a teasing whisper against your skin. “You feel that?” she murmurs, rolling your hips just a little sharper, just enough to have you gasping. “Every inch of you stretched so perfectly, taking what I give you.”

A whimper catches in your throat as your fingers dig into her shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto, something to anchor yourself against the immeasurable pleasure. But Agatha only smirks, amusement flickering in her sharp blue eyes as she watches you struggle between wanting to take more and barely holding on.

From the bed, Rio groans, a sound of both appreciation and impatience. “Mmph, fuck, look at you,” she breathes, her own desire evident in the low rasp of her voice. “So pretty when you’re like this—so needy.”

Your gaze flickers toward her, drawn by the hunger in her tone. She’s sprawled against the sheets, her chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths. But it’s her hands that make your pulse stutter; one is gripping the sheets for control, the other is wrapped around her own summoned length, stroking rapidly. Each slick glide of her palm is deliberate, hungry, her grip tightening as she watches you. She’s panting, barely holding herself back, jaw clenched, muscles taut as if restraining the urge to take you right then and there.

The sight of her like this—wrecked and wanting—sends a bolt of heat through you, your body reacting instinctively, clenching hard around Agatha’s magic cock inside you. Agatha notices immediately. A sharp inhale, a dark chuckle, and then—her fingers dig into your hips, nails biting deliciously into your skin as she drags you down further, rougher this time, forcing you to take every inch.

The sudden stretch, the overwhelming fullness, rips a cry from your lips, your head falling forward onto her shoulder. But Agatha only hums, pleased. “Take what you’re given.”

“Is this what you wanted?” Rio taunts, her voice smooth and dangerous. “To be fucked like this? To let her flirt with you all night while you waited for us to put you back in your place?”

It’s too much and not enough, all at once. The pleasure is searing, magic rolling over your skin in heated waves, and you’re on the edge—so unbelievable close. You arch against her, hands fisting in her hair, eyes fluttering shut as you—

“Not yet,” Agatha tuts, slowing your movements, keeping you just barely from tipping over the edge. “You’ll cum when we say you can.”

A desperate sound slips from your lips, but she only chuckles, dragging you into one last, deep roll of your hips before finally stilling you in her lap. You’re trembling, breath ragged, body thrumming with need.

Agatha strokes a hand up your spine, soothing despite the wicked smirk she wears. “That’s enough—for now.” Then, softer, close enough that her lips brush your ear, she whispers, “Now, be a good thing and let Rio have her turn.”

The words send another shiver through you, but before you can fully process them, strong hands are on your waist, guiding you to your feet.

Agatha’s grip is firm and unyielding as she manoeuvres you effortlessly onto the bed. Rio’s hands replace Agatha’s as they press against your hips, steadying you as they shift your position. Before you realise what’s happening, you’re being bent over the edge of the bed, your knees sinking into the mattress, your palms bracing against the sheets. The cool air against your heated skin sends a shudder through you, anticipation coiling tight in your belly.

Rio moves behind you, her body flush against yours, the solid heat of her presence a stark contrast to the chill of the room. There’s no hesitation as she presses into you, her chest warm against your back, her breath ghosting over your shoulder as her hands map slow, possessive paths over your body. Her fingers trace over the curve of your waist, down your stomach, teasing lower, skimming over sensitive skin still thrumming from Agatha’s touch.

“You’re shaking, sweetheart,” she teases, the amusement laced with dark satisfaction. “Let’s see just how much more you can take.”

Her hand dips lower between your legs. A sharp gasp escapes you as she gently strokes your clit, teasing, spreading you just a little more.

You barely have a second to catch your breath before she’s pressing the tip of her cock against you, not pushing in yet—just waiting, letting you feel the heat radiating from it, the pulsing energy that matches the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Her lips brush your ear, her free hand coming up to rest against your throat, fingers curling just enough to remind you who’s in control. “Gonna make sure you can’t even think about anyone else,” she promises, voice dripping with possession.

Rio doesn’t rush; she never does. She starts to push herself in, stretching you open, inch by inch, the heat of her magic cock thrumming inside you, making you feel every inch of its pulsing weight. Your body shudders against her, muscles trembling from the unrelenting pleasure already coursing through you, but she only chuckles, low and satisfied.

“That’s it,” she murmurs against your skin, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Take it all. Let me feel you, my love.”

Her hands roam—one splayed possessively over your stomach, pressing down just enough to make you feel how deep she is, the other tracing up your chest, over your throat, to grip your chin. She tilts your head back, forcing you to meet Agatha’s gaze.

The older witch watches you with something like reverence, sharp blue eyes heavy-lidded, lips curved in a knowing smirk. Her fingers brush the damp skin of your flushed cheeks. “Still with us?”

You can’t answer—can barely think—because Rio starts moving. A slow, deep pull before she thrusts back in, setting a rhythm that has you gasping, back arching against her. The heat of her magic rolls over your skin, intoxicating and overwhelming, pushing you closer to the edge with every snap of her hips.

Her breath is hot against your ear, her voice dark and possessive. “No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to hear these pretty sounds.”

Agatha leans in, tracing a thumb over your parted lips before slipping it into your mouth. “So perfect when you’re like this,” she hums, watching the way you instinctively suck, tongue swirling over her thumb. “Our pathetic, pretty, little slut.”

They move together, Agatha’s hands guiding your hips, Rio fucking into you deep and steady, drawing out every little noise, every desperate twitch of your body. It’s too much, too good, pleasure curling so tight inside you it’s almost painful.

And then they switch.

You don’t even have time to process it before you’re back in Agatha’s lap, her cock filling you once again, stretching you perfectly as Rio moves in front of you, fisting your hair to tip your head back.

Their hands roam—Agatha’s grip unyielding on your hips, Rio’s fingers tracing your throat and your lips, her gaze dark and hungry as she watches you fall apart between them.

Again and again, they take you, switching, repositioning, and fucking you until your body is trembling, your voice breaking on gasps and whimpers. Until your skin is slick with sweat, muscles twitching from overstimulation, nerves frayed and buzzing with raw pleasure.

Rio is the one to finally allow you to cum.

You're on your knees, straddling Agatha, your thighs trembling as you try to hold yourself up. Beneath you, Agatha leans back against the headboard, watching you with dark, hooded eyes, her hands gripping your waist as if she has no intention of letting you escape. Her nails dig into your skin, keeping you exactly where she wants you.

Behind you, Rio is relentless. She pounds into you, each deep thrust forcing you forward, pressing you harder against Agatha’s body. The room is thick with heat, with the slick sounds of skin meeting skin, with Rio’s panting breaths and the quiet, pleased hums from Agatha as she watches you fall apart between them.

Agatha’s fingers trail up your spine, slow and teasing, before wrapping around your throat, tilting your head down so you’re forced to meet her gaze. “Completely ours.”

Then, Rio cups your face from behind, her fingers warm, her thumb tracing your lower lip in a slow, tantalising glide. She leans in, her breath hot against your ear, her voice thick with command and something sweeter—something indulgent.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” she coaxes. “You can let go for us now.”

Agatha’s mouth ghosts over your skin, her nails digging into your hips as her voice turns sharp, electric with command. “Cum for us, you desperate little thing. Show us who you fucking belong to.”

The command shatters you.

Your body seizes up, pleasure slamming into you so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs, your vision going white. Heat erupts from deep inside you, a gush of wetness spilling over Agatha’s thighs, soaking her completely.

Rio groans, dark and satisfied, watching you unravel.

Agatha hums, pleased, dragging her fingers through the mess between your thighs before bringing them to her lips, tasting you with a satisfied smirk.

“Now that,” she chuckles, her voice dripping with pride, “was beautiful.”

Your body trembles; you can barely hold yourself up as Agatha strokes slow circles into your hips, her touch grounding. Under you, her thighs (and the bedsheets) are soaked with your arousal, her blue eyes hooded with satisfaction as she watches you struggle to catch your breath.

And then Rio thrusts one last time, burying herself to the hilt with a low, guttural grunt. Her arms tighten around you, muscles tensing as she finds her own release. A shudder racks her frame, and you feel it—all of it—spilling deep inside, filling you in a way that makes your body clench around her in aftershocks.

She holds you there, pressed flush against her, breath hot against your neck. “Fuck,” she mutters, voice thick and satisfied, lips ghosting along your damp skin.

Agatha hums, trailing her fingers through the mess between your thighs, bringing it to her lips with a wicked smirk. “Beautiful.” 

Rio’s laughter is low and sinful, a slow drawl of amusement as she watches the way your body still trembles, the way slick drips down your thighs, glistening in the dim light. “Look at you,” she coos, fingers skimming possessively over your lower back. “Absolutely pathetic.”

In a flash, Agatha’s hands are in your hair, firm enough to make her point as she pushes you forward. With a displeased grunt, your cheek is pressed against the soaked sheets, the scent of your own release thick in the air.

“Making such a mess,” Agatha tuts, her voice laced with mock sympathy. Her nails scrape lightly down your spine. “Like a needy little thing who can’t help themselves. Is that what you are, hmm?”

Rio leans down, her breath warm against your ear as she adds, “Did you even realise how much you were dripping? Fucking soaking the bed like a desperate little slut.” Her fingers trace over the damp imprint you’ve left behind, and she chuckles. “And it’s all because of us. Only we can make you lose control like that.”

Agatha’s fingers grip your chin, tilting your face up just enough for her to smirk down at you. “But you like this, don’t you?” she jibes, rubbing a thumb over your kiss-swollen lips. “Being used. Being ruined. Being ours.”

And despite the teasing, despite the way they taunt, there’s something else lingering beneath it—a kind of satisfaction, a wicked pride that it was them who made you break like this.

In a complete switch of character, soft hands start to guide you away from the bed, leading you into the bathroom. Your legs nearly give out as you stand, but Agatha steadies you with a knowing chuckle. “Oh, darling. You’re completely wrecked, aren’t you?”

Rio presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder, her arms wrapping around your waist. “You did so well for us.”

Warm water surrounds you as they pull you into the shower, Agatha sliding in behind you while Rio hovers at the edge, running a washcloth over your body with slow, deliberate care. Every touch is gentle now, a stark contrast to their earlier intensity.

Agatha hums as she combs fingers through your damp hair. “Still with us, love?”

You nod, sinking further against her, completely pliant as Rio finishes cleaning between your legs, her touch featherlight. She grins when you whimper, placing a teasing kiss to your knee. “Sensitive?”

You glare at her, but it lacks any real heat.

When they’re satisfied that you’re clean, they literally carry you back to bed because your legs still aren’t working properly. Agatha tucks you between them, her fingers trailing lazily along your arm as Rio curls herself around your back, her chest warm against you.

For a moment, it’s peace.

Until you feel something hard press against your oversensitive clit.

Your breath catches as you shift, feeling the unmistakable shape of Rio’s length rubbing against you, already slick from the mess between your thighs. She doesn’t move—just lets it rest there, pulsing, waiting.

When you don’t protest, Rio rolls her hips forward, pushing inside you with a smooth, deliberate thrust.

Your body jolts, a whimper escaping as the stretch burns just right, still sensitive from before. Every nerve is raw, overstimulated, yet the moment Rio moves, your body betrays you—clenching around her, desperate despite the exhaustion weighing heavy in your limbs.

She groans, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder, her lips hot against your sweat-damp skin. “Sorry,” she breathes, though there’s no real remorse in her voice. Only hunger. Only possession. Her arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “Couldn’t help myself. You feel too good.”

And then she moves again.

Slow at first, rolling her hips against you, stretching you open all over again, but the drag is too much, too intoxicating, and she quickly loses patience. Her thrusts grow rougher and deeper, pressing you down into the mattress as she chases her pleasure.

One of her hands slides down, pressing against your lower stomach, feeling how deep she is and how your body takes her so perfectly. “Fuck,” she grits out, her voice breaking into something desperate, something raw. “You were made for this, made for my cock.”

She buries herself to the hilt, grinding deep as her breath stutters, her grip on you bruising. A low, guttural groan spills from her lips as she spills inside, heat flooding you, filling you up in a way that makes your body arch, whimpering at the sensation. But she doesn’t pull out.

If anything, she shifts closer, wrapping herself around you, securing you in her grip, arms banding around your waist as if she could sink deeper, as if she could mould you to her, and her cock twitches inside you softening slightly.

Agatha chuckles beside you, lazy satisfaction dripping from her voice as she drags her nails down your stomach, the sensation sending another shiver through your overstimulated body. “Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes, her amusement laced with something dark, something final. She leans in, lips brushing yours as she purrs, “You’re staying like this all night.”

Rio hums in agreement, a deep, satisfied sound as she strokes your hair, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “So when you wake up,” she whispers, her breath warm against your skin, “the first thing you feel is us.”

And just like that, you’re pulled deeper into their warmth, into the comforting weight of them around (and inside) you.

—

When you wake the next morning, every part of you aches—a deep, satisfying soreness that lingers in your muscles, in the tender places where hands had held you down, where teeth had marked you.

You shift slightly, stretching—and then you feel it.

The fullness between your legs, still there, still hot, still hard.

A quiet groan vibrates against your skin, and you realise Rio is awake, her breath warm against your shoulder.

Agatha is watching from her side of the bed, propped up on an elbow, smirking down at you. “Morning, darling,” she purrs, looking far too amused.

Rio presses a slow, lazy kiss to your shoulder, her hips shifting slightly. “Sleep well?” She grumbles, her voice still husky with sleep.

Your breath stutters, your body already reacting despite the oversensitivity, and heat sparking low in your belly.

Agatha hums, brushing a teasing hand down your stomach, nails grazing over your skin. “Oh, sweetheart,” she coos. “We’re not done with you yet.”

And just like that, the morning is off to a very good start.

-----

Ugh, I finally remembered to include the diva that it señor scratchy in my writing, I've been meaning to do it every time because I love that guy 😭😭

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6ange19 @jujuu23 @juls-stark

[ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral]

Hello everyone! I'm back with another Merlin au to celebrate the Merlin tag randomly trending recently! Enjoy! :D

This au starts at the Disir episode, arguably one of the biggest turning points of the entire series: when Arthur refuses the Disir's deal of where returning magic to the kingdom in exchange for Mordred's life. Well, what if Merlin himself was the one injured by the Disir? Merlin would survive, of course, but Arthur did not know that.

And, without Merlin there to advise him, Arthur was left following the only compass he had at the moment: his heart. And, for once, his heart's message was loud and clear: he could not lose Merlin. He took the time that the Disir gave him to think over their offer, but his mind was made up the moment that the three prophets offered him a chance to save Merlin.

As Arthur accepted the Disir's conditions welcoming magic into Camelot again, ignoring the horrified looks on the faces of the knights surrounding him, the three sorceresses grinned, but this time their smiles were far less menacing than before.

"You have chosen well, young king," One of the three began.

"You have passed the test put forth by you by the Goddess, and for that, she shall ensure your kingdom's prosperity," Another one replied, their voices overlapping and bouncing off of the stone walls of the cave.

"And my manservant will be safe? He will recover, right?" Arthur asked, trying desperately to rein in the panic that bleed through his voice.

"Yes," all of the Disir said softly in one voice, "when you return to Camelot, you shall find him there alive and unharmed."

The tension in Arthur's shoulders eased for just a moment before the prophets spoke again.

"To ensure your compliance with your vow, the goddess demands that you establish a connection to the Old Religion: an unbreakable bond that will forever tie you to its power."

Terror and panic shot through Arthur's body again at their words, a familiar dread filling him. The Old Religion always demanded some terrible price, and now Arthur had to pay one himself. He steadied himself before replying.

"What do you mean by that? What type of bond do you speak of?"

The Disir all turned to look directly into his eyes, their gazes so piercing that Arthur felt like he had been pinned in place by their eyes alone. When they spoke, it felt like their words were reverberating around his skull with their intensity.

"To seal your agreement, the Goddess demands your worship, but not towards her own self. It is the will of the goddess that you dedicate your worship and devote yourself to the god you have disrespected most grievously, the god that your father futilely attempted to wipe out entirely. The goddess wishes for you to worship Emrys, the god of all magic and lord of the druids."

Arthur winced as the name echoed inside his mind, almost chanting 'Emrys, Emrys, Emrys'. Arthur was so preoccupied with trying to gather his own thoughts that he almost missed the quiet, shocked gasp that Mordred let out at the name.

"This is your task, your debt to be repaid for the life of your servant. Devote and submit yourself to Emrys, Arthur Pendragon. Embrace magic in Camelot." Disir continued speaking as one, their voices piercing through Arthur's very thoughts so powerfully that he physically winced and stepped back with their force.

Finally, the sorceresses finished their speech, and Arthur took a few second to calm his own mind and reply.

"I... I understand. If my servant truly is unharmed upon my return to Camelot, then I shall do as you ask."

The horrified stares from the knights felt even heavier as Arthur agreed to the Disir's terms, forcing Arthur to stare straight ahead at the three cloaked figures to avoid their gazes.

To his surprise, the three Disir gave a short, but formal, bow to him, and disappeared into the air with a short "Go in peace."

Arthur stood frozen in the cave for a few seconds, as if a part of him was petrified by what he had just agreed to. The cave itself was near-silent, the only noise breaking through the tension-filled air was the quick, panicked breathing of his knights right behind him.

Finally, after Arthur no longer felt like he would break apart into tiny pieces at the slightest movement, he turned around, facing the knights, who all looked just as frightened and shocked as himself.

Well, all of them except for one. Instead of staring at Arthur with absolute horror, Mordred was looking at him with something that bordered on wonder. Arthur opened his mouth to ask Mordred why his reaction was so different, but the clamor of all of the knights suddenly descending upon him and demanding to know what was he thinking taking that offer? drowned Arthur's question out.

The only knight who hadn't descended upon Arthur in a frenzy was a surprisingly somber Sir Gwaine, who took hold of a momentarily overwhelmed Arthur's shoulder and steered everyone towards the cave's exit. Arthur caught the usually jovial knight's eye and saw approval and some sort of grim gratitude.

Ah, Arthur thought as the other knights berated him for his decision, Gwaine understood. These other knights, besides Mordred, were not of his inner circle. These ignorant knights thought that Arthur was giving up his kingdom for just any servant, but of course, Gwaine knew better. Perhaps, if the admiration that he had caught sight of in Gwaine's eyes whenever they looked in Merlin's direction was any indication, Gwaine knew exactly why Arthur had agreed to the Disir's demands so easily.

There's wasn't anything that Arthur wouldn't do for Merlin.

And that included overturning the ban on magic and inviting the Old Religion into his kingdom, into his soul, for Merlin's sake.

Arthur stayed silent on their return journey, and the knights' pestering slowly died down as they realized that Arthur was not listening to them. As they made camp for the night, Arthur was again lost in his thoughts, worried about the state that he would find Merlin in upon his return and anxieties over fulfilling the duty now put on his shoulders.

Arthur was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice Mordred approaching him, walking slowly over to where Arthur sat, perched on a log and staring into the campfire.

Arthur startled slightly as the younger knight sat down next to him, his face oddly peaceful in contrast to the rest of the knights'.

"I know that the others will object, but I think that you made the right choice."

Mordred spoke softly, in a heartfelt voice that Arthur had never heard from the newer knight. Still, while it isn't quite as reassuring as Merlin's approval would be, Arthur appreciated Mordred's support.

"If I may, sire, I..."

Arthur watched, still silent and deep in thought, as Mordred trailed off, searching for the correct words for whatever he was trying to say. Arthur tried to give him a small, reassuring smile, but his internal turmoil and anxieties for the future twisted it into something more akin to a grimace.

"You know that I grew up among the druids, and I spend my childhood worshipping the gods of the Old Religion, even if I feel more distant from them as the years have gone by. Should you need any assistance or advice to fulfill your new duties, I would be happy to assist you."

Arthur's eyes widened at Mordred's words. That's right, he had almost forgotten that Mordred was the very same druid boy that he had rescued so many years ago. And if Mordred grew up as a druid, then he would know...

"Mordred, what do you know about Emrys? What can you tell me about him?"

If Arthur was going to be dedicating the rest of his life to a god of the Old Religion, he should at least know about said god's reputation, right? It seemed unlikely, but perhaps having more information on this Emrys would ease Arthur's dread just a bit.

To Arthur's surprise, Mordred brightened at the question.

"Of course! Emrys is a prominent god of the Old Religion and is of special significance to the druids. He's considered to be something of a divine king to most druid clans, including the one I grew up in. He's not just the ruler of all magic, but rather magic itself."

Arthur nods shakily, trying to take in what Mordred had told him. If Emrys really was some sort of king, perhaps he could be negotiated with? Arthur was far more familiar and comfortable negotiating with foreign kings than he was at appeasing a god.

The night went on like that until dawn, with Arthur asking questions and Mordred answering and telling tales of Emrys: his power, his mercy, his blessings.

Arthur was particularly interested in the story of how Emrys struck down one of his own priestesses with lightning for harming a kind old man who was under his protection. Based on Mordred's stories, Emrys seemed to be protective and to do well by those who followed his commands.

What would he make of Arthur, then? The man who had been a leader in the slaughter of Emrys's followers? Would he damn a man who had cut down those who prayed to Emrys for protection?

Who was Arthur kidding? If someone went around killing everyone who was under Arthur's protection, they would be tried and executed without hesitation. Why would Arthur expect any different from the god who was a king to the druids?

Arthur's dread and anxiety built as they reached Camelot again. Would Merlin truly be healed? What would happen when Arthur had to uphold his end of the deal? Would he be forced to leave Camelot to enact Emrys's will? Would his own agency be taken away, his body being made a puppet for magic itself?

(Even as such horrific scenarios flew through Arthur's head, if Merlin was saved, then he couldn't bring himself to regret what he had agreed to.)

As they rode through town and approached the citadel, Arthur's heart pounded in his chest with twisting dread.

Arthur's joy upon seeing Merlin waiting for him in the courtyard, with color having return to his face and relief shining in his eyes, barely overtook his dread for what was to come.

And that's all for now! I hope you enjoyed this au, and please let me know if you'd like to see a continuation!

And, as always, thank you for reading through my ramblings! :D

[wonderjanga]

Marilyn Gets Revived

In this AU, the time bubble was formed in 62, Billy got his powers in 59, and the twin’s parents died in 58. There was also the fact that her body was found, but C.C.’s never was. So, as for how this works, I don’t particularly know. Maybe, since Fawcett is weird, the magic of the city revived her? You decide.

The point is, Marilyn Batson crawls out of her grave, Jason Todd style, and wanders the streets in the funeral dress she was buried in.

Marvel: *patrolling when he sees a woman, dirtied with bloodied hands* (from both crawling out of the grave and breaking the coffin)

Marilyn: *walking down the street, trying to get to get to Ebenezer’s house to ask what the hell is going on*

Marvel: *flies down* “Miss? Are you alright?”

Marilyn: “Oh uhm… Yes, I’m fine.” *looks up to Marvel and literally freezes when she sees her husband*

Marvel: “Are you sure? I can take you to the hospital. Your hands are bleeding heavily.” *doesn’t recognize her*

Marilyn: “C.C.?”

Marvel: “Huh?” *confused as to if she either said his dad’s name, or if she said ‘see see’*

Marilyn: “C.C. it’s me. What’s going on? Why’re you dressed like that?” *happy to see her husband even though she doesn’t know he’s not her husband*

Marvel: *computing* “Mo-” *looks around before leaning in to whisper* “You’re Marilyn Batson??” *sounds completely baffled* “Are you real?”

Marilyn: “Wha- Clarence Charles Batson, of course I’m real!”

Being called by his dad’s name made Billy’s mind blank. He didn’t really know what to do except take her to the Watchtower’s medbay because he isn’t going to take his mom to just any hospital. His mom deserves the best. And so, the JL were graced with the image of the eight foot five Cap, with a seven foot ten woman who looks like she’s been through hell and back. And yes, Marilyn is 7’10 because if Captain Marvel is a copy of C.C. Batson, he would’ve been 8’5 so he needs an almost equally as tall wife.

Marilyn: *hands bandaged* “So… What happened to archeology?”

Marvel: *awkward* “Oh right, uh… I’m not da-” *slowly looks over to see Flash and GL spying from the doorway*

Marilyn: *also looks over to them*

GL: *clears throat and walks over* “Who’s this lovely lady, hmm?”

Marvel: “This is Marilyn. Marilyn, that’s Green Lantern. The guy over there still lurking and stalking is Flash.”

Marilyn: *bright ahh smile* “It’s lovely to meet you. When did you become friends with my husband?”

Flash: *zooms over* “Husband?” *jaw is on the floor*

Marvel: “Mari-”

GL: *summons a metal clamp to shut Billy’s mouth* “Sooooo how long have you two been married?”

Marilyn: “Since we were nineteen. So twenty years!”

Flash: “Twenty years…?” *looks between Marilyn and Marvel* “Dude. How do you just forget to tell us that?!”

Marvel: “Uh…” *just grabs Marilyn, and dips out, dragging her to the zeta tubes*

Marilyn: “C.C. what’s wrong?”

Marvel: “Nothing at all. We just need to talk. Not here.”

Marilyn: “Okay…?”

So, Billy drags them to one of the buildings Billy and Mary live in. When Marilyn saw Mary she immediately hugged her baby.

Marilyn: “You’re so big, yet so tiny! You haven’t been eating enough have you?!” *hugging the life out of Mary*

Mary: *getting suffocated while crying*

Marilyn: “Has your father not been feeding you enough?” *glares over at Marvel*

Mary: “What? No, dad’s… dead.”

Marilyn: *slowly looks confused* “Then who…?”

Marvel: “Shazam.”

Billy: “Surprise…?”

Yeah, Marilyn spoiled your two with lots and lots and lots of motherly affection after this. The twins were just happy to have their mommy back.

Bonus:

Billy: “Shazam!”

Marilyn: *standing nearby, gets hit by stray lightning* “Huh…?”

Marilyn Batson now has a Marvel form and she gets to fight with her babies.

[kiame-sama]

Humans Are Extinct (Yandere!TWST x Fem!Reader) Monster AU pt 9

(Submitted fan-art of Jade in the monster AU. All credit goes to artist who requested to remain anonymous)

Warnings; yandere, platonic and romantic yanderes, multiple yandere characters, my monster AU, tears, hurt/comfort, blood, injury, furious yanderes, forgiveness, Unicorn, Kelpie, Faun, Selkie, Bakeneko, Dragon, Cervitaur, Vampire Bat, Raiju, Gnoll, Crow,

~~~~~~~~

One of the first things you noticed as you slowly came back to yourself was that it was fairly bright where you lay, shadows occasionally flicking over your vision before the light returned. The next thing that came to your attention was the soft sound of crying. No, soft was not the right word. This was sobbing, heavy and heartbroken.

"Please, don't say she's dead. Please. I'll do anything. Please!"

You recognized the voice somewhat, not overly familiar as to be able to place it upon first waking, but you did know it was a voice you have heard before. Another voice tried to speak, but you couldn't hear it over the sobbing and almost nonsensical apologies mixed with pleads. Somewhere in your mind you recognized that you had to fully wake at some point, but your limbs felt heavy and almost immoveable.

"I'll do anything... Just, please... Please bring her back..."

As your eyes slowly slid opened, you were looking up at a familiar face stained with countless tears. He didn't look the way he usually did, the corners of his mouth still red and raw with the way they had been torn to accommodate the fangs he previously had. His golden crown had been knocked off of his head and his golden horn had a dark black spider-web crack near the tip.

"Riddle, she was already wounded before she got hit with a direct blast of magic. Humans don't have magic and their bodies can't take that kind of strain-"

"I won't be the one to kill the last Human! I can't be... I can't be the one to have killed her..."

Your dominant hand slowly lifted, reaching up to that tear streaked face and resting against his puffy cheeks. The brush of your hand on his face made his eyes fly open with shock as he stared down at you.

"Riddle," your throat felt scratchy and dry, "why are you crying?"

His tears began anew but this time in a mixture of relief and joy as he held your hand to his chest. Your head turned slowly to look around you and you realized you were laying in the Heartslabuyl garden. It looked like very little time had passed since that last magical attack had hit the stunned and overblotted Riddle.

"You're okay! I'm so sorry, (Y/n), I should have been the only one to never hurt you, but instead I overblotted and almost killed you.... Your arm, it... Don't move, okay? Just stay still..."

You vaguely registered what he was talking about as your head slowly turned towards your arm. The axe no longer dug into it but you were very clearly still wounded as Trey kneeled next to you, using magic to staunch the bleeding. It was surprising to you to see the Kelpie, his side equally wounded but somewhat wrapped with what you could only assume was kelp. A faint green tint to the usually white fur was certainly a curious concept as you had honestly assumed he was just a white horse called a Kelpie.

The three of you were on the ground and certainly looked like you had been through Hell and back. While you contemplated what had happened you noticed the sound of footsteps running towards you. You didn't have much time to wonder who was running before a familiar face entered your sight, his blue hair ruffled and light blue eyes wide with stress as he was looking over his shoulder.

"They're over here! Hurry! She's really hurt!"

Deuce was stressed as he waved over those you assumed were there to help you, the sheer worry in the Faun's tone almost made you worry. You were actually feeling quite alright despite the injury and you vaguely wondered if it had anything to do with the magic Trey was using.

"Professor Divus, quickly! I can only use 'Paint the Roses' to keep the pain at bay for a little bit longer before I run out of magic."

The familiar and extremely concerned face of Professor Divus came into view as Deuce moved away to give him space to work. He easily took over with his magic and gave Trey a moment to rest after the battle. Even as Divus kneeled quickly at your side Riddle refused to let go of your hand.

"My poor pup..."

Divus cooed at you gently as he summoned several tinctures and tonics, setting them up quickly by your side. Trey's magic faded away as the Kelpie held his side, now turning his attention to his own wounds and trying to treat them. Without the soothing impact of Trey's magic, you began to feel the full brunt of the pain in your arm. It was agony.

Pain shot up and down your arm as if it had been cleaved in two and you couldn't bring yourself to actually assess the damage given it had been deeply injured by the large Axe. As tears began to form in your eyes, Riddle only seemed to become more distressed. He quickly tried to soothe you, petting your face and arm as if that would stop the pain you felt burning inside of you. More tears formed and Riddle only seemed to become more distressed as he tried to keep you calm despite what had happened.

"Where's Grim? Where's- Where's my boy? Where is My Grim?"

Your voice hitched and whimpered as your emotions began to run wild, trying to look around to find your faithful companion. The longer it took to find him, the more you struggled to move and even tried to stand so you could locate the soft creature.

"He's right here, Human, it's okay. Your Grim is right here."

You almost felt like you had been drugged as you saw your soft companion seemed to be floating over to you. He was clearly wriggling in whatever held him up, reaching out his little paws to you and even trying to flap his little ruined wings to get to your side faster. As Grim was set down next to you, he scampered directly to your side and cuddled against your body. The little critter held your arm with his paws and mewled as he pressed his little body against you as if trying to let you know he was still there and he seemed to be crying.

"Don't die. Please don't die... I have no one else who cares... I- I don't have anywhere else..!"

You tried to move your hand to pet the little creatures, but found yourself unable to pull away from Riddle. The Unicorn in question refused to let go of your hand, still pressing it against his face and muttering apologies.

"You're still terrible at making friends, Riddle."

An almost amused voice spoke now and the space where Grim had been floating seemed to ripple and form as a cat-boy dressed in all white appeared. He had pink hair with faint teal stripes throughout, golden eyes, and two cat ears atop his head. Lazily waving behind him was a tail that split two-thirds of the way down into two separate ends. You had no idea who this was.

"Leave me alone, Che'nya..."

"That's no way to greet an old friend who just saw you turn Feral and who saved your precious 'King of Hearts' from your magical temper-tantrum. You almost singed my uniform."

"What?"

"What, did you honestly think she would have survived a blast like that? That was enough magic to crack your horn."

Divus didn't seem to take note or notice the conversation between the newcomer and Riddle as he moved to try and lift your body to sit up. The newcomer was quick to move behind you, helping the Selkie sit you up and lean you against the stranger's chest. The sound of a bottle being uncorked drew your gaze to Divus as he held the potion to your lips, letting you drink it down at your own pace instead of forcing you to drink it. The moment the first bit of the potion settled in your stomach, you began to feel significantly less pain from your arm.

"Aww, aren't you just adorable? I did want to stop by and meet you when I saw Cater's selfie with you on Magicam, but I didn't think all this would happen when I did. I know we Bakeneko are often considered to be bad luck, but this is just ridiculous."

His smile curved up at the corners making a cheshire grin that reminded you quite a lot of cats from your world and even of Grim who had now moved himself to your stomach. The little cat lay with his chin on your stomach and his torn little ears drooping as he watched you with those big blue eyes. It felt wrong to see him so sad when he had been a fairly positive influence on your life and always seemed to make you smile when you got too deep into thought. Still, between the two cats- the one on your stomach and the one behind you- you began to feel a little more at peace despite the situation.

"The name's Che'nya. I'm a Bakeneko, and you are a Human~ didn't think I would be saving your life today, but I will happily take a plate of Trey's strawberry tarts as a thank you gift."

"You're welcome to them, Che'nya. You know, you don't have to show up to our unbirthday parties just to get some of the tarts, right?"

"Yeah, well, you Night Raven boys don't really like us Sword Academy types. Wow, Riddle really almost chopped you in half, Trey."

"It isn't that bad or that deep..."

As Trey talked to Che'nya, Divus had gotten started on your arm, which you could now see thanks to being propped up against the grinning cat-man. The axe had done serious damage and you vaguely worried what would happen to the limb, but to your surprise it almost looked like it was slowly stitching itself back together with every tonic added to it. Part of you was morbidly fascinated by the injury, but another part of you didn't really want to look given the grisly appearance.

It was while you were observing your arm that dark clouds began to form overhead, rolling and growling with the low sound of thunder. The sound made everyone look up and Divus cast a nervous glance towards Riddle. Riddle just continued to mumble and hold your hand, almost as if here were in some kind of trance.

"Th-thunder? Why here? Why now?"

Grim mewled, curling up tighter on your stomach and even moving to try and slide under your uniform jacket to shield from the approaching storm. In your desire to comfort him, you actually managed to remove your hand from Riddle's grasp. In response, the Unicorn let out a stressed noise and tried to catch your hand once more so he could keep holding it for his own comfort.

"Who dares harm my hoard?"

The voice was a low rumble of menace and rage and it seemed to carry over the entire dorm as students- who had been trying to clean up the now destroyed garden- all began to cower. Some even fled to the interior of the dorm.

"I think that's my cue to leave. Sorry, Human, I'm not keen to be toasted by a Dragon today. Remember you owe me tarts for saving you."

The cat-man behind you quickly faded out of view, the support of his chest also leaving from behind you. Divus was quick to take the place of the Che'nya, letting you lean on his broad chest as he subconsciously moved part of his fur over you, shielding your wound from the wind which had begun to pick up. Shadows blotted out the sun and green lightning began to arch from cloud to cloud.

"The perpetrator will pay dearly for this sleight."

You somewhat recognized the voice, though it was dipped in more venom and rage than you had heard before. From the entrance to the garden walked a furious Malleus Draconia, flanked on either side by his faithful guards. Lilia was perched on Silver's back and seemed to be searching for something as he glanced around the ruined garden. His wings spread, taking one mighty gust to lift him up into the air as he coasted on leathery wings to where you lay.

"(Y/n)," the Bat called as he landed, moving past Riddle and almost shoving the distraught Unicorn to the side as he took his place next to your uninjured arm, "we were just about to come look for you when your collar sent out a distress call."

You hummed, vaguely thinking about the loose collar- affixed to you by that damned Crow- that sat around your neck, wondering who else it contacted. Lilia glanced over your body and frowned deeply when he noticed your mangled arm, Divus still attempting to shield it from the debris being thrown around from the wind.

"Malleus, calm. You can be as angry as you wish, but your temper is causing more harm to (Y/n). We can't treat her wounds if you insist on creating a storm."

Malleus, Sebek, and Silver were quick to join you, almost completely disregarding the equally injured Kelpie and the upset Unicorn that caused all this fuss. The wind calmed significantly, but the thunder overhead was just as loud and almost seemed to be happening more frequently. Malleus' eyes smouldered with rage, but softened to concern as he took in your current state and your wounded arm.

"Crewel, what is your assessment?"

"It's badly damaged. I do think we can fix it with consistent care, but it will have to be wrapped and carefully monitored. We should consider ourselves lucky he did not sever the limb."

"Tell me who did this and I will see that his punishment is swift."

You spoke now, still resting a hand over Grim who had successfully made it under your uniform jacket.

"Not now... Malleus... please?"

"No. Even if you ask, I cannot forgive such an act so easily. The blot levels in the air are nothing short of someone going Feral and they need to be dealt with accordingly."

Even as you tried to argue, Malleus was not keen to listen. Lilia moved you so Divus could return to his work on your arm, letting you instead lay against the smaller Bat who wrapped a wing around your uninjured side in a kind of hug. Were it not for the odd headspace you were in thanks to Divus' potion, you would have laughed at the way you were moved from person to person in such a short time.

It was odd to you to not feel any pain seeing as your arm was still quite injured, but that must have been the whole purpose of the potion. Leave it to the Selkie to master a pain-relieving potion he would only use on the Human he considered to be his pup. The Selkie in question finished wrapping your arm, taking a moment to check over you one more time before moving onto Trey.

"I'm the one who hurt her."

The almost sorrowful voice of Riddle spoke now. His eyes were red from crying and he looked near despondent as he hung his head in shame, refusing to move from where Lilia had shoved him. It vaguely interested you to know the little Bat was much stronger than he looked, but you vaguely recalled shoving the Unicorn to the ground as well though those memories were more than a little hazy as to the how and why of the matter.

"I'm the one who hurt Trey. I'm the one who overblotted and went Feral. All of this is my fault... and I accept whatever punishment you deem fit, Malleus."

"You- the Unicorn that was so enamored with my Human he demanded she be taken from my care- did all of this?"

Malleus made a wide gesture to the ruined garden, his eyes glinting poisonously at the clearly grief stricken Unicorn. Riddle just let his head fall lower, the tears resuming their path down his flushed cheeks. He felt like he deserved whatever painful retribution Malleus decided on and he would accept it one hundred times over to repent for his abominable actions.

"Malleus, please-"

You tried again, cutting off with a slight wince as the vague sensation of pain stopped you from sitting up. Though that potion did away with much of the agony you felt, there was still a lingering pain in your body any time you tried to move it.

"No, (Y/n), I deserve this and worse for what I've done to you, to Trey, and even to Grim. I cannot be forgiven for such a crime. I deserve to be beheaded."

"Well I don't want you to be beheaded."

"Please-"

"No. You're damn right you fucked up. You thought you were the best choice and that you knew what was best for me even though I am the only one who could possibly know what is best for me. You messed up. But no one is dead, right?"

The Unicorn refused to meet your gaze, the potion doing more than just removing your pain as it also seemed to remove your filter.

"... No one died, but I almost killed everyone and even Grim. If you hadn't stopped me, I would have-"

"Wait," Sebek spoke now, his voice thick with confusion, "(Y/n) stopped you? How did she possibly do that?"

"I don't know how she did it," Riddle shook his head, "but she threw me back onto the ground and blocked my axe with her own arm. I didn't even see it was her until I was getting back up and saw what I had done."

During this, Malleus was carefully inspecting your injured arm. He turned it gently and you even saw his forked tongue flash out from time to time past his lips, gathering the scent of the bandages and wound. The storm somewhat quieted as he explored your injury, humming a soft lilt that was oddly soothing despite coming from the large reptilian man.

"I warned all of you that first day just what Humans in extreme distress are capable of. You threatened the life of someone she considers to be her family, she retaliated. You're actually lucky she was injured and didn't turn that axe on you. I have seen the kind of strength a distressed Human posseses when defending family. I have seen a dead woman walking who refused to go down because her family needed her. I have seen Human men missing limbs still slaughter their betters to give their family a chance at living. Humans are weak, but never underestimate the sheer strength of will a Human has to defend their family."

Lilia hummed, resting his chin on your shoulder as he spoke. As Malleus placed your arm over your stomach, Lilia's other wing wrapped around you to fully embrace you in the warmth. Grim crawled out of your jacket, purring as he gently bumped his head against your chin.

"My Hooman is my family too. I don't want anyone hurting her again."

"Nor do we. It is not a good thing she had to use such strength, it can be harmful to exert that much force on muscles not made to perform such acts."

You were much more comfortable in the warm wings of the Bat but you were still worried for Riddle because of Malleus' threatening aura. The Dragon was actually much calmer now though he was still furious someone dare to harm a member of his hoard. As a Dragon, it is his instinctual duty to protect his hoard from danger and he would not allow such acts to go unpunished.

"Rosehearts," the low growl sent shivers down your spine, "after further consideration of your own remorse and the pleas of my child of man, I have decided your penance. You shall not be permitted to any time alone with her and whatever time you do spend in her presence must be monitored by another Housewarden until it is clear you will not overblot again."

"But I deserve so much worse for-"

"I don't recall telling you that you had any say in what I deem as appropriate punishment."

Riddle quieted himself with a nod of submission, looking away from the intense eyes of the Dragon. You had genuinely expected Malleus to be angrier, but apparently he held your opinion in rather high regard as he decided to not slay the Unicorn for his actions. Maybe the Dragon did see you as more than a pet.

"Furthermore, the next time it is Heartslabuyl's turn to guard her, you will be forfeiting that honor to Diasomnia until you have proven to be in control of yourself."

"But I- okay. I understand..."

It was then you decided to speak up, still feeling more than a little loopy and cozy thanks to the tandem potion and wing-hug.

"For what it's worth, Riddle, I don't forgive you, but I don't think I hate you either. Try to hurt Grim again and I will hate you, but I don't hate you right now."

~•§•~

"I hate him so much right now..."

You frowned deeply as you whined, holding your arm and staring at the kitchen. You could try to make something with one arm, but it was going to be difficult. There was little chance you were going to let Lilia cook as Silver had near begged to be spared such a fate, so you had to figure something out. Part of you deeply resented the many ruined pastries as you had been so excited to try them when you saw them sitting with such organized disorder on the table.

"What a waste of good food."

You continued muttering angrily as you moved around the kitchen trying to gather ingredients. The general plan was to make something simple and quick so you could rest your arm- per Professor Divus' strict instructions- but feeding seven was a lot of work. Four portions for your four guards, one for you, one for Grim, and one for the inevitable return of the Gnoll Ruggie. He was likely camped out somewhere near your dorm at the moment, just waiting for that good smell to bring him in.

Lilia sat nearby, petting a now content and very relaxed Grim who was curled up next to the Bat. He had offered to cook only once and now let you continue the process as you insisted and he decided not to interfere further. Sebek was trying to be helpful and wound up doing far too much, grabbing the pots and pans from you any time you tried to lift one and you were starting to become irate. A dull throbbing ache in your arm only took even more from your quickly thinning patience.

It was then a gentle knock came at that side kitchen door and you nearly screamed in rage from yet another uninvited guest. Lilia was quick to answer and you were caught off guard by the voices you heard.

"It is only fair the remaining tarts left in the kitchen come here. Besides, she needs to cook her meals but can only use one arm, I'm not great beyond the bakery, but I can still help in the kitchen."

"It is my duty as the one who caused the harm to rectify my mistake or at least help where I can. I understand if I should be turned away."

You walked over to the doorway behind Lilia, surprised to see Riddle and Trey standing there. Now that you were lucid and not in a magic induced stupor, you were actually able to take in the full brevity of their injuries.

Trey's side was wrapped up in a bandage but he seemed to be in good spirits despite it all. That green you thought you saw in his coat was gone and he was back to that immaculate white. He seemed to be gingering a leg but still stood holding a covered tray.

Riddle was back in his dorm clothes, crown and all, despite looking much worse for wear. His horn was now shorter than before, the cracked point having been filed down to the non-cracked section and the cuts along the corners of his mouth were bandaged. There were still sections of his hair and tail that looked like they had been leeched of color, an almost black tinted gray from his time overblotted. The gold of his hooves and horn had lost some of their shine.

"Riddle, you need to rest. Being up and about won't help."

"But I need-"

"You need to lay down somewhere."

"I can't. Not when you and Trey are up and working."

"Come in, the both of you."

You sighed as the two trotted their way into the dorm, Trey having to duck to get through the door. He set the tray down and turned to smile at you as he rolled up his sleeves, ready to get to work helping you in the kitchen. Honestly, you could have kissed him in that moment for the absolute relief you felt at having another pair of hands in the kitchen. Taking a quick look at what you already gathered, a quick idea came to you that involved much less work for you and a good way to utilize Trey's bakery skills in the process.

"Ever had a meat pie? Kind of like making a fruit pie but savory. I can get the filling together if you can make the crusts and tops for the individual meat pies, just make sure to use less sugar. I'm sure there are tins around here somewhere."

"I can absolutely do that. How many am I making?"

"Well, there's going to be ten of us if the evening plays out the way I think it will."

"How do you figure?"

"There's usually one or two extra visitors during meals here so may as well make extra. If not, I can always have more later."

"Fair enough."

You already had mostly gathered up what you would need to make a decent filling for these pies, so only a few things extra needed to be grabbed. Clearly, you were now in a much better mood thanks to having someone to help who wouldn't burn down the kitchen. It was as you were contemplating cutting the vegetables that Silver quietly stepped in, dicing the vegetables and meat into fine cubes that would go well in the dish. There was very little you actually had to do other than get the rest put together and soon the delicious aroma of the baking pies could be smelled through the entire dorm.

Riddle had tried several times to help, but you made Sebek bring in one of the oversized couches from the main dorm common-area. You had recalled seeing the furniture and wondering just what would need a couch so large. Now that answer was quite obvious as Riddle lay on the couch, almost immediately passing out once he got comfortable. Silver picked up the blanket that he kept across his back, laying it over the exhausted Sophomore and let him sleep.

As the aroma of the pies got stronger, the inevitable whining and scratching came from that side door. Ruggie was back and he was seeking more food to feast upon, ever hungry and yapping in excitement at the prospect of another meal. You vaguely considered just trying to cook a bunch of things and having the Gnoll be your taste tester. He certainly wouldn't mind the free food.

"Got it~"

Lilia sang as he hopped down from the counter he claimed as a perch, opening the door for the eager Gnoll. Ruggie followed his nose right to the large oven and his tail began wagging incredibly fast as he snorted against the side of the oven.

"Careful, Ruggie, it's hot. When they're done cooking we have to let them sit for a bit or they could burn you."

"Okay! When? Is it soon? They smell so good, I want one now."

"You can't have one now, but you can lick the bowl if you really want to."

He didn't need any invitation beyond that to begin lazily licking the bowl the filling had been in, eager to get all the food he could. You would have laughed at the way he so happily feasted on the scraps if you weren't so tired. Even as you leaned against the counter, you somewhat considered laying on top of the Unicorn and taking a nap as well.

Somewhere in your thinking another presence made itself known in that you were suddenly grabbed and pulled into a tighter than comfortable hug.

"My little chick, are you okay? How is your arm? Have you been taking care of it? I flew over the second I got back. I was meeting the Royal Sword Academy Headmage when your collar pinged. Divus told me what happened. Where is that damned Unicorn-?"

"Quiet. He's sleeping. I'm not fine- but it could be worse. You will let Riddle sleep- he is exhausted- or you don't get a pie."

"... Pie?"

You frowned as the Headmage thankfully released you, still staying rather close as he examined your injured arm. His feathers were ruffled and it almost looked like he had flown to where you were as soon as he received news of your condition. Somewhere in the back of your mind you wondered how he got in the dorm, but he was the Headmage and odds are had access to all the buildings on campus.

It was then he actually seemed to take a deep breath, humming out curiously and noticing Ruggie who still had his nose close to the door of the oven. Ruggie was not keen to move from his spot but he begrudgingly allowed the Headmage to approach the oven. He took a quick peek inside and seemed to like what he saw as his smile returned and he forgot all about the sleeping Riddle.

"Oh? It has been a while since I last had a good Human-cooked meal... Very well. Since I'm just the vision of kindness, and your forgiveness is nothing short of inspiring, I can forgive Mr. Rosehearts for now. He is clearly still feeling the lasting effects of overblotting but hopefully he will learn from this and avoid such extremes in the future."

You rolled your eyes at the way the Headmage praised himself but you were happy to know Riddle was at least able to keep sleeping. When the pies were ready, you would wake him, but he needed the rest right now. Trey constantly checked on the pies and once they had a good golden crisp, he got them out of the oven. It made you glad Trey was present as he kept the hungry Gnoll at bay until the pies were cool enough to eat without scalding anyone.

"Riddle?"

You were gentle as you woke the Unicorn, he had been sleeping deeply and seemed almost confused when you woke him. The slight snort that came from him made you chuckle somewhat as you offered him the warm meat pie.

"But, I don't deserve-"

"You will eat that pie and shut up about being deserving or I will force feed the entire thing to you."

There was a look in his eyes as if he felt he didn't deserve the nice meal, but his hunger won him over rather quickly as he took several slow bites and savored the meal you and Trey had made.

Ruggie scarfed the food down in seconds and now lay on the tile of the kitchen, his somewhat distended stomach spoke volumes to how content he was as he basked next to the residual warmth of the oven. Grim was quick to join the Gnoll and the two you felt most responsible for in the dorm clearly enjoyed their meal. Even Crowley was making happy cawing noises as he ate the pie.

"I must say, I was curious how these pies would taste, but you were right, (Y/n). They're delicious."

"See, Trey? Even if you're used to making sweets, you can make something savory with those same bakery skills and just a little less sugar."

"I would love to learn to make more, if you would allow my curiosity."

Crowley's wings fluffed out, making both you and the Kelpie pause the conversation to look over at the odd bird-man. He had cleaned his plate and was licking his fork for whatever bit was left on the splines.

"(Y/n), my precious little chick, how would you feel about teaching some culinary classes once your arm heals up?"

[starry-bi-sky]

i've mentioned in a few past posts about an au where Danny is a variant of Jason Todd. I haven't made a post about it yet because I need a good rhythm flowing however i've been listening to Gladiator by Jann and I have been having thoughts.

but first, let me set the au:

Danny Fenton is Jason Todd, or at least, a variant of him. A him from a universe separate to the major Batman timeline - but still Jason Todd, down to the structure of his face and his name itself. The only thing that changes, is who picks him up - and, that he follows old Batman canon, and was an orphan. Jason Todd steals the tires off the batmobile and wallops Batman with his tirejack, and then runs off. Shortly after, he gets picked up by the Fentons.

(Customary line break,,,, word count check: 5k)

And his name changes from Jason Todd to Danny Fenton. He doesn't care much for the new name change, it stems from his mute refusal to share his name to the people that picked him up; an attempt to make him untraceable should he get away from them, and to keep something of his to himself. So they name him something new. He grows to like it enough as he acclimates to his new family.

(He hangs onto the name Jason Todd like a secret - he may be 'Danny Fenton' now, but he'll never forget his time on Gotham's streets. He'll always be Jason Todd.)

(Jazz is the only one who he tells his name to in the family - she affectionately calls him Jay whenever she wants.)

He becomes friends with Sam and Tucker and deals with Dash and his bullying. And when Danny steps in during a fight between Dash and another student, Dash gives him a bleeding nose and mockingly says, "Do you think you're Robin just because you're from Gotham, Fenton?"

Jason looks him in the eyes and he bares his teeth, "Why not?" he asks, spitting blood, "being Robin gives me magic."

The nickname sticks. It's supposed to be an insult; Daniel Fenton is not Robin, he'll never be Robin. Not now, not in a million years. Jason Todd has always wanted to be Robin, so he takes the insult and wears it proudly. He buys a school varsity jacket and painstakingly undos the stitching of all the school's motif on it. On the breast of it, he embroiders in a black circle with the Boy Wonder "R" on it instead. It's not good stitching, but the next day Danny wears it down to breakfast and into school.

In normal au canon, Daniel Jason Todd-Fenton (its a mouthful, just call him Danny) only meets the Waynes after he becomes Phantom - an event that leans more towards Daniel Fenton's accident than Jason Todd's death, but traumatizes him all the same. (Is it too much to want to be mourned? His best friends like to deny that he died - and Danny - Jason? - wishes they wouldn't, even if he did come back.)

(The accident embitters him, even more when his parents don't seem to pick up on it. He stops calling himself Danny Fenton - he's always been Jason Todd. It shows itself in his ghostly form. He doesn't want to wear the thing he died in, not in something that belongs to the Fentons, and his suit reflects that.)

In this timeline, Daniel Jason Todd-Fenton, aged 13, meets Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne after a mishap with magic on the other end of the reality sends the three of them careening through time and space, and spat back out on the other end, in a world not their own. And together.

Danny is paired with a very confused Bruce Wayne and Richard Grayson. Luckily, there's a few heroes there to help them. Danny can hardly comprehend the idea that he's in another universe - he doesn't know why Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne are seemingly handling it well.

On their way to a secondary base with the heroes, Danny turns to Bruce Wayne and asks, "So, is it part of rich-person training that you're just totally chill with being sent into another universe, or are you just weird?"

Bruce Wayne huffs at him, rather than get offended, and he smiles that dumb lopsided billionaire smile that Danny's seen on every vogue magazine he's been in. "I'm not so worried with these skilled heroes here to help us get home."

Danny silently concludes that he's just weird. At least Dick Grayson is biting back a smile behind him. "Riiiight..." He says, dragging the vowel out dryly.

When they get to that secondary location -- a safehouse that one of the heroes had set up -- the three of them are sat in a living room-like room while one hero, Zatanna, goes and calls someone from the Justice League. The other two heroes stay with the three of them.

Within a few hours, Danny is face to face with Batman - someone who he hasn't seen since he whacked him in the stomach with a tire iron - and Nightwing. For a moment, Danny swears that the both of them look almost spooked by him.

Batman stares at him for a moment when he enters, and then he goes to speak with Bruce Wayne. Danny doesn't care enough to hear what they're talking about, he pulls out his phone as Nightwing goes to speak with Dick Grayson.

"Are you a fan of Robin, little man?" Someone says, and when Danny looks up he locks eyes with Dick Grayson -- who is leaning around Nightwing to talk to him, the both of them are smiling. And considering who Nightwing was, Danny finds himself turning pink to the ears.

But he will not hide his jacket. He forces a grin through his embarrassment, "Hell yeah, man, Robin's cool." He says, and pushes his arms down to pull out the hem of his letterman, showing off the emblem. "I made it m'self out of a school varsity after the A-Listers started callin' me Robin."

"A-Listers?"

"Popular kids," Danny corrects, loosing his hold on the hem and brushing invisible wrinkles out of the embroidery. "They didn't like that I kept stepping in when they were bullying. Dash asked me if i thought I was Robin because I was from Gotham."

Dick Grayson looks intrigued -- and concerned, and he leans forward onto his knees and raises an eyebrow. "What did you say?"

And Danny grins a shark-like thing, straightening back his shoulders with a burning sort of smug pride and all the sharpness of broken glass left in Crime Alley. "I told him being Robin gave me magic, and then I punched him."

Dick Grayson's smile widens, splitting into showing teeth as he leans back into his seat. Danny isn't sure why he's so delighted - but Nightwing looks incredibly amused, and he suddenly remembers that the Robin himself was there in front of him.

Danny's face burns anew and his arms fold themselves in front of him once again.

"I don't think I ever caught your name, Robin." Dick Grayson goes, his voice thick with laughter, and Nightwing steps off to the side as Batman and Bruce Wayne walk over to join them both. They're just close enough that Danny can see Bruce Wayne raise an eyebrow at them both.

"It's Jason." Danny says before he can think about it, and barely stops himself from frowning at himself for the slip. He amends himself, glancing over at Batman and Bruce as they get closer. "But everyone calls me Danny."

Dick Grayson's head recoils slightly, and he looks a little surprised. "Why Danny?" He asks.

"Why Dick?" He shoots back, and Bruce and Dick both smile at him, with Dick Grayson shrugging with an expression that looks like 'you've got a point.'

In the end, the three of them - yes, three - get sent to this world's Wayne Manor, and Danny is bewildered by that decision to include himself -- he's not a Wayne. Why not just send him to the Fentons?

Batman tells him that the Fentons don't exist in this world, and Danny falls silent. "Oh." He says quietly, a pit growing in his stomach with an ill-kind of dread. He can't keep Batman's gaze, looking away with unease.

No Fentons in this world. No Fentons. Where was he then, in the grand scheme of things? Where was he in this world? What happened to Jason Todd? Was he even alive? He can't keep the worry off his face, and he jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder. When he looks up, Dick Grayson squeezes him gently.

Dick Grayson is steadily beginning to remind him of his sister.

-

They end up driving back in the Batmobile. It's such a shock to Danny that he momentarily forgets the lack of Fentons. He makes a laugh sound, actually, and immediately he covers his hand with his mouth and stares at the car -- tank? with his teeth sunk into his lower lip.

"Jason?" Dick says, and hearing his name being spoken feels like someone touched him with a livewire. It's weird, it's foreign - he hates, in some way, that it's foreign - and it's so nice. Yes, that's me.

He drops his hand immediately. "Sorry." He says, realizing he'd stopped in his tracks, "I -uh, was just surprised."

"It's not every day someone sees the Batmobile." Dick agrees. Nightwing has his back to them but Danny swears he sees his shoulders shaking a little.

"Yeah," Danny nods slowly, dragging his eyes over the batmobile as Batman opens the driver's side and gets in. He thinks for a moment, of what he should say next - whether to admit that he's seen it before, or to pretend that he's seeing it for the first time. Snd as Nightwing opens the door for him, Bruce, and Dick, he chooses the funnier option; "The last time I saw it, I was stealing its tires."

To his surprise and unsurprise, Danny only gets two pairs of eyes on him. Nightwing gets into the passenger seat as both Bruce and Dick turn their gaze onto him; Dick's eyes big like they were going to bulge out of his head.

"You what!?"

So Danny tells an amazed Dick Grayson that he hit Batman with a tire iron after he stole his tires - something he is very proud about and also incredibly embarrassed about when he retells what happened in the backseat of the batmobile, with Batman and Nightwing listening in from the front seat.

(Bruce Wayne doesn't ever tell Dick shit, he's going to lord this over Bruce's head the moment they are alone.)

"Please tell me this didn't happen in this world." Danny groans behind his palms as he sinks into his seat. Dick Grayson is killing himself laughing on his left, and he saw Bruce Wayne stifling a smile before he obscured his vision with his hands.

Much to his luck, its Batman himself who speaks next, (Danny was being mostly rhetorical). "It did." He says, and his voice sounds like the rumble of the earth before a stampede. It will never not throw Danny off every time he hears it. "It takes quite a lot of spunk to steal the tires off the batmobile."

He can't believe it. Batman is making fun of him. Fucking, Batman.

He wants to die with embarrassment. He groans even louder as Dick Grayson's laughter crescendoes. Danny risks a peak through his fingers, he doesn't know whether to regret it or not because he can just barely see Batman smirk very faintly from his position in the middle.

(His world axis tilts five degree leftways seeing it; like someone dunked a bucket of ice water on him.)

"He ended up being adopted by the Bruce Wayne of this world."

Danny's hands drop with his jaw into his lap. Dick Grayson on his left chokes on his laughter and careens into a coughing fit. Bruce Wayne on his right chokes on air, and quickly recovers himself with a cough behind a closed fist.

"What?" Danny croaks.

-

Apparently, Bruce Wayne's family is much larger in this world than it is in his. Danny can barely wrap his head around the idea that he ends up adopted by the man, but now he has to learn that Wayne had several children in this world?

He's still not wrapped his head around it when the three of them wind up at Wayne Manor, finally, or even when he's standing in front of him himself. For his effort, Bruce Wayne does a good job at looking unruffled by it.

God, he's weird. Danny's starting to quite like it, actually. How human of him.

He still can't wrap his head around it when he meets the rest of Bruce Wayne's children, all of whom are already aware of the three of them. Danny thinks that someone from the Justice League might've alerted them before they got here.

It makes sense, he supposes.

It helps that they are just as weirded out as he is. A boy named Tim Drake sees him for the first time and blurts out; "Oh wow, you're tiny." In a tone like he's just seen a two-headed snake burst out of the ground.

Danny is still offended. He's still growing. It's not his fault he spent twelve years of his life malnourished. "I'm gonna be taller than you," he tells him seriously, "and when I do I'm gonna kick your ass."

Tim snorts at him.

The other Bruce Wayne -- Mr. Wayne's -- youngest looks at him up and down with a face of carefully controlled judgement. His name is Damian, he's Bruce Wayne's only biological son. Danny can't believe that there's only one.

If anything, Bruce Wayne himself looks surprised too.

"Todd, yes?" Damian says, his green eyes narrowed at him.

Danny feels like the specimen under his parents' microscope, he feels like he's standing on a platform that's being slowly spun by scientists. He looks over at Bruce Wayne in confusion, and then back at Damian. "I- yes?"

Damian Wayne nods, and then leaves.

Danny does not once see himself. That is unsettling in and of itself - surely Jason Todd would have been told about another version of himself in this world, wouldn't he? How old is he here? An adult, probably. Danny doesn't know if he wants to see him. What does he look like when he's grown up? He pulls his Robin jacket around him a little tighter, like a cocoon, like a shield.

"It's weird to hear them call me Jason Todd." He says aloud to himself, and it leaves a weight behind in his chest that shouldn't hurt the way it does. It shouldn't be weird to be called your name. It shouldn't cobweb up your throat to hear your name being said. It was his name. It was his.

-

Danny acclimates to the manor slowly. The house is big, massive. He's never been in a house so large before, he feels like a stray cat being taken in for the first time, again. He and Bruce and Dick Grayson are all given their own separate rooms - one of many inside this mansion - and the sheer size of his bedroom is bigger than his living room and kitchen combined.

it's daunting. Danny sits outside on the balcony and stares at the stars he can see - Wayne Manor is far enough away from Gotham that its light pollution doesn't obscure the sky here like it did in the heart of it.

Danny finds the constellations he can find and wishes he had his books with him. He finds the library the next day and buries himself in the back, curling up into a comfy armchair next and inhaling each book he can get his hands on.

Tim Drake wanders past him at some point, Danny would have missed him if it weren't for the fact that Drake stared at him strangely when he saw him. He walks away when he realizes Danny was staring back.

It's a rinse and repeat for the next few days. Danny doesn't go to meals, he sneaks food from the kitchen afterwards, and then buries himself in hundreds of books in the library.

Dick Grayson, the one from his world, goes and finds him three days later. Danny's eyes hurt with strain by then, but he is furiously halfway through a Jane Austen novel when Dick sits down across from him.

"Have you been here all day?" Dick asks, he drapes himself across the side of his chair, contorting himself into a position that Danny doesn't think is comfortable when he looks up at him.

Not that he looks up at him long - he hums absently and goes back to reading. Frowning when he realizes he lost his place on the page.

Dick Grayson raises an eyebrow, "Have you at least eaten anything?"

Danny hums. No, he hasn't, and he hadn't thought about eating all day. Until now that is, his frown ever deepening as his stomach pangs with a deep hunger.

"That's not healthy."

"Mhm."

"Are you going to eat something?"

"Mhhh."

And this gets Dick to frown. He straightens himself up, propping onto his elbows to stare at Danny. "Jason." He says strongly. And it's that that gets Danny to finally look up from his page, jumping like he'd again been poked with a live wire as he stares at Dick with wide eyes.

"Yes?"

"Put the book down." Dick orders, gesturing towards the side table next to Danny with a nod. "And come eat something." There's very little room for argument in his voice, he sounds like Jazz when she's trying to parent him, but instead he actually sounds authoritative. Not bossy.

Danny still frowns at him. "You're not the boss of me." He says, sinking back into his chair with a thumb bookmarking his page.

Dick gives him a look and makes a decisive noise, swaggling his head side to side while he does. "I'm pretty sure that for as long as we're here, me and B actually are the boss of you."

He's never really liked authority figures, not ones that tried to boss him around, that is. Danny doubles down, his lips curling into a shadow of a scowl. "Just because you're my brother in another world doesn't mean you can act like it."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

"I don't want to go eat."

"It's not good for you to skip meals."

"Quit talking like Jazz."

"Danny."

Danny sinks his teeth into his lip and scowls darkly at him, shrinking into the back of his armchair in hopes that it'll swallow him whole. The idea of going into that large fucking dining room fills him with a dread that makes him completely forget his appetite.

"Your fucking- dining room is- it's too big." He grits out, finally closing his book and hugging it tightly to his chest.

Dick blinks at him. "What?"

"You heard me! It's too big. This whole place is too big. It's- what do you even do with this much space? I don't know how this- other me ever lived here."

Dick Grayson surprises him, and his expression softens. "Oh," he says, "I get it."

"You do?" The tension bleeds slowly out of Danny's shoulders

"Yeah, I felt the same way when I first moved in with Bruce. I lived with the circus for most of my life, but I slept in a trailer." He says. And he talks more.

The end result of their conversation ends with Dick Grayson offering to let Danny sit across or next to him during mealtimes, and that he can talk to him if he starts getting uneasy. But he can't keep skipping meals - it was making them all worried.

Danny agrees, and Dick takes him down to the kitchens for food.

"They look at me weirdly too." He grumbles as they leave the library, Danny's book returned to the shelf where it belonged. When Dick looks at him curiously, he scrunches his nose up. "The - your other siblings. They look at me like I'm- I'm someone else. S'weird."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Dick asks, "You are someone else."

Dany shrugs, staring at the ground with a heavy frown. "I don't know."

-

Danny seeks out Dick more after that. And vice versa. Dick reminds Danny of Jazz, and he latches onto the familiarity like a leech. If Dick is bothered by it, he doesn't show it, whether he's talking to his other world's self, to the Bruce's, or to one of the other Wayne kids.

Damian Wayne seems particularly keen to seek him out, Danny finds. He thinks it means that they're close in this world, and that Damian wants to see more of what a young Dick is like. That's what he would do, at least.

He takes up on Dick's offer of seating near him during dinner, and finds an open spot across from him. Unless he has something to show him, then he sits next to him.

("You can call me Jason." He tells him one day when they're in the Wayne's massive, fuck-off gym and they're both climbing over the jungle gym. Dick's showing him how to be more flexible. It's the most Danny's worked out ever, he likes the burn it gives him.

Dick looks at him in surprise, "Really?" he's doing a handstand on the bars and Danny's more than a little jealous at his balance.

"Yeah, dipshit," he says, rolling his eyes, "I'll even let you call me Jay, it's my nickname."

Dick happily takes him up on that offer, and much to Danny's embarrassment, starts calling him Jaybird. All because of his stupid Robin jacket.)

Danny has yet to meet his other self still, it's scaring him a little. Where was he? And matter of fact, how long until he could go back to his home dimension? The three of them hadn't gotten any updates since they arrived.

Speaking of, he was starting to talk to Bruce more, it was just... strange. Even stranger than talking to Dick. Bruce Wayne in another life would have been his adoptive father, Danny can't wrap his head around it for the life of him.

Whatever did Bruce Wayne see in Jason Todd that made him worth adopting? He's too afraid of the answer to ask. They start talking more after they run into each other late at night. Danny had been hit with a bout of insomnia and was going to the library.

He ran into Bruce on the way. He was just.. staring, out the window, with a faraway look in his eye. He didn't even look startled to see Danny standing there.

Danny asks him if he wants to go to the library with him. It was out of panic. He isn't expecting Bruce Wayne to agree, and they walk there in suffocating silence. Danny keeps looking at him from the corner of his eye.

("You're staring?" Bruce doesn't sound upset, Danny jumps anyway.

"Yeah, sorry." his voice sounds stilted, "it's just..." his jaw wires itself shut for a spell, "...you looked like you were about to disappear."

"Ah.")

When they reach the library, Danny leads Bruce Wayne into the science section and takes out books upon books about stars. He leads him over to the armchair and fire and they both sit down on the ground.

"When I lived in Gotham I would stargaze." Danny says, it's the first thing he can think of. Bruce Wayne looks at him quizzically. "Well, I would try to. The sky's too polluted for that. Mostly I would just watch the skyline and try and spot Batman and Robin, was the same thing."

That cracks a smile out of Bruce. It's a small one, barely there. "I hardly think the two are comparable."

Danny is still serious. "Not to me."

He goes on, talking about how after he was adopted he got his hands on every star book he could find. He loves english and he loves to read, but something about the stars drew him in like a song. He rambles about every star fact he knows with Bruce Wayne.

Bruce Wayne surprises him by telling him facts he didn't know. Danny soaks it up like a sponge, listening intently to him speak. And when they run out of star books to talk about, Danny tells Bruce that it was his turn to find something for them to talk about.

Bruce Wayne smiles again at him, a sly little thing like Danny's challenged him, and gets up. He comes back with a stack of film books, and they spend the next few hours going through them. Bruce Wayne rattles off every single movie fun fact he knows, and there is so much that he knows.

Danny is in awe, and moves to press against Bruce's side to see the stuff he points at in his books.

"You're smarter than people give you credit for." He says at some point, when his eyes hurt from being open for too long and his head leans against Bruce's arm for support. It follows with a jaw-cracking yawn that he tries and fails to stifle.

"Thank you, Danny." Bruce says, his voice soft and soothing and not helping with Danny's weighing exhaustion. His eyes drift, and then jerk open. "Do you want to go back to your room? You look tired, chum."

He bites back a smile at the nickname, and fails to keep it bitten. "No, no, I'm awake." He mumbles, shaking his head slowly. "I wanna hear-" he yawns again, "-hear you talking."

Danny swears he can hear the smile in Bruce's voice as he speaks; "Alright. Now, where was I?"

In the end, Danny falls asleep on the floor of the library next to Bruce Wayne. He doesn't even realize it until he wakes up the next morning. But it's not to worry, Bruce Wayne fell asleep too, an arm thrown around Danny protectively like he was his own kid.

This becomes a thing for them soon enough. When neither of them can sleep, they go to the library and talk and talk about whatever comes to mind.

There comes the dreaded night after they've finished whatever book they were looking at when Bruce, the little shit, turns to Danny and goes; "You never mentioned what happened after you hit Batman with a tire iron."

Danny groans, big and dramatic, burying his head in his arms, and ignores the low chuckle. "I thought he was gonna chase me down for sure." He complains, his voice muffled by his arms.

"Why did you hit him with a tire iron?"

The look Bruce gets is one of pure disbelief. "If Mothman suddenly showed up behind you while you were taking the wheels off his ride, you'd hit him too!"

"Last time I checked, Mothman isn't real." Bruce told him amusedly, and Danny flops over onto his back to stare him down. His arms sprawl out like a starfish, intentionally hitting Bruce in the shoulder.

"You don't know that, Batman's a cryptid and he's real."

Bruce roars with laughter, and Danny preens like a bird.

That next morning when Bruce passes by him for breakfast, he reaches over and ruffles his hair. It's the same thing he does for Dick every morning. It's the first of many, and it gets many stares from the surrounding family.

Bruce has a newspaper tucked under his arm, and when he sits down Danny stands up and skedaddles over to him, leaning over the side of his chair to peer at the paper.

"Any cryptids spotted, Buzz?" He asks, getting a startled laugh out of Bruce, who looks up at him.

"Buzz?"

"Well, yeah," and Danny states it as matter-of-fact. He gestures his head at Dick Grayson. "Dick calls you 'B', and B is for bees, and I can't just call you Bees, that's dumb. So; Buzz."

He grins triumphantly when Bruce laughs quietly, his shoulders shaking imperceptibly. "I know," he tilts his head up proudly, "I'm a genius."

Now he's actually laughing, dropping his head into one of his hands and trying to quiet himself as much as possible. Danny is positively beaming, ignoring the stares of the other Waynes as he flounces back to his seat just as the other Mister Wayne enters the room.

-

When Jason Daniel Fenton Todd meets Jason Todd for the first time, they both just stare at each other.

Danny recognizes himself immediately in the library, and he freezes up. His tongue ties to the roof of his mouth, and he's unsure of what to say.

He doesn't need to say anything at all, because when Jason Todd looks up and they lock eyes, they both just stare. And stare. Jason Todd is a large, hulk of a man, built like a brick shithouse, with a tired, traumatized look in his eyes and a white streak in his black curls. The same black curls that Danny himself has.

He has no idea what to say. Or if he should turn back around and leave.

Jason Todd sighs at him, "I know they told me you and another world's Bruce and Dickie were here," he says, but it sounds like he's talking to himself. Even moreso when he mutters half-heartedly, "-but I was hoping I wouldn't run into you."

Danny feels small next to him. He doesn't know why. "Sorry." He says lamely, his one foot skips back, "I can leave if you want." It's unlike him to be meek, he thinks. Not after years of Gotham living and dealing with the likes of Dash and his Jerk Jocks.

But this also isn't the streets, and this isn't other kids being dicks. Jason Todd shakes his head, and gestures with one large arm for Danny to come over. "You don't need to do that, you were coming to read, right?"

He nods, and tentatively makes his way over. When Jason looks at him, he sees him cast his eyes over his Robin jacket - he wears it everyday. Danny sees him narrow his eyes, just slightly. But he says nothing.

It's... a strange conversation. Interaction. Jason Todd doesn't talk to him much, and if he does it's stilted and awkward, like he doesn't know how to treat him. Like he's holding him at arm's length.

Jason's getting tired of being treated like a ghost.

They talk about their books. They compare lives. Jason Todd was picked up a few days after he stole the wheels of the batmobile. He wasn't an orphan, he lived with his mom and his stepdad before he lived with Bruce. They both like to read, only Danny has an interest in the stars.

("What do your adoptive parents do?" Jason Todd asks him, one arm slung over the back of the armchair, he looks relaxed. He looks tense. Danny feels like he's back in Crime Alley again.

"They're 'ectologists'." He says, making air quotes over the word. He rolls his eyes, "Ghost hunters. They study the dead and all things afterlife."

Jason Todd makes a dry laugh huff, a sarcastic half-smile on his face. He doesn't explain why he does, Danny doesn't ask why. It doesn't seem like his business.)

Danny wants to ask him where he got that white streak in his hair. It doesn't feel right. It feels like his parents' lab, and that isn't right. Nothing ever feels like his parents' lab.

Jason Todd leaves first after giving him a few book recommendations. Danny isn't sure how to rate the experience. Being in Jason Todd's presence was like standing in a liminal space. An empty parking lot at night. When he leaves it feels like much the same thing.

He struggles to read his books afterwards, unable to shake the feeling of being haunted.

[askoverkill]

In Stars and Time - Hardmode AU - Askblog CONTENT WARNING: HEAVY DARK THEMES. canon-typical warnings with more blood. (but nothing overly graphic) Read HERE chronologically (on website ONLY, not the Tumblr app) Read HERE for Trigger Warnings in detail

No spoilers. For you or the characters.

read the FAQ before sending asks!

No misgendering. That's an auto-rejection.

SFW only / but swears are okay

One statement/question at a time.

Keep silliness limited and keep to the current tone

OOC: send with ooc mentioned at the start of the ask

Asks for Siffrin are spoken as thoughts or to control them

Deities can be talked to normally, but only at select moments (NOTE: this is not strict. its ok if you forget to do these)

FAQ below + references:

Q: What is this AU?

A: Hard mode AU, everything is upped to extremes to the point of "overkill." Party Members fit their given roles; Theater themed villain.

Q: What is the tone?

A: A more intense, grim story. Siffrin's misery is turned up to an eleven. But it still retains the original's comedy and found family themes. There's hope.

Q: What's new?

A: There are two new curses that plague Vaugarde. 1) The Theater Curse, where people become puppets 2) The Blood Curse, where people rot when alive. A: The King has been replaced with the Director, a minor deity who is actively ending the world.

Q: What Curse does Siffrin have?

A: Blood Curse. He's at stage 3 and his eye became unfunctional due to the Curse. He'll periodically bleed. His Curse worsens from magic waves or from specific intense emotions. These are more frequent within the Theater Labyrinth (House-equivalent)

Q: Who are the other Siffrins?

A: There's the one we follow the story of: - Dawn (Our playable character Siffrin) - Dusk (The "goth" loner Siffrin) - Lupus (The child Siffrin) - Loop (The unhelpful guide Siffrin) - Boulder (The dead one under the bolder) - The Director ([redacted])

Q: Do you ship anyone?

A: Not really. I've warmed up to Isafrin but that's going to be a subplot, same as canon. Siffrin self shipping is not a thing here, past canon-typical teasing

Q: Will Bonnie or Lupus ever get harmed in the story?

A: Absolutely not. Only adult Siffrins were harmed in the making of this story.

Q: Can I make fanart? Theories? Analysis etc.?

A: Yes!!! please @/ me!!!!!! tag me! i want to see!!!!

Q: Can I use your art for my PFP?

A: Yep, long as it's credited.

Art References

The Director (Any pronouns)

The Siffrins (Loop: they/them Dawn: he/they ; Lupus: they/them ; Dusk he/they)

The Cast