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ktownshizzle · 5 months ago

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Love & Lullabies | Part 4

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life—afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re just fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternatively: It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility. (Thank god you’re there to help him.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Yoongi is a DILF (!!!) That’s it.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter warnings: slow ass burn because the series will be extended indefinitelyyyy yall wanted this 😅, so much kissing, sexting, star wars reference, THIS YOONGI, cliffhanger hehe

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 6.7k

✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: December 14, 2024

✎ ˎˊ˗ A/N: This is inspired by an ask/prompt sent by @yoongznme. Enjoy, my lovelies~ 💕

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Masterlist

You glance at the clock again and chew your bottom lip, heart ricocheting against your ribcage. When you sent Yoongi the text, you knew it was overdue. You were finally in a good place—and he was part of what was good.

You’ve known Yoongi for years, but it’s only in the past few months that you’ve really gotten to know him. At this point, you’ve spent hours with him in every context imaginable, from tantruming Haneul to Miss Rachel dance sessions, from boring afternoons to big milestones. But this feels… different.

He’s coming to your place. You haven’t seen him in weeks, not since you kissed in the rain, and he showed up in the hallway, not since everything fell apart and started to piece itself back together again.

You’d started in your pajamas—just a soft cotton set with peaches on them—but after one glance in the mirror, you decided against it. Too casual. Now you’re in a cream-colored cardigan with a camisole underneath and matching joggers. You dabbed on a little lip tint, brushed out your hair, spritzed on a tiny bit of perfume. Now, you honestly look like you tried and while you don’t want to be too obvious, you remember he has been the one trying for months. It wouldn’t hurt if you showed him a little effort. And at least now you know you look cute.

The doorbell startles you, and you jolt forward causing a dull pain in your neck, which has been bothering you for days. You roll your shoulders back, in hopes to shake some of the tension away. You wipe your palms on your joggers and rush to the door, catching a quick glance at your reflection in the hallway mirror. You look… fine. You hope.

When you pull the door open, there he is.

Yoongi.

Yoongi stands in your doorway, wearing a gray hoodie, jeans that sit just right on his hips, and New Balance slides—slides—despite the winter chill. His hair, slightly longer now, still looks as soft as when you ran your fingers throu—

“Hey,” he says, stalling your thoughts. His dark eyes meet yours, something in his expression making you a bit self-conscious. But boy did you miss him.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice smaller than you intended. You clear your throat and gesture at his feet. “Slides? In this weather?”

Yoongi glances down, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “I was in a rush.”

“Come in,” you say, motioning for him to enter. “When I texted you, I didn’t say it had to be tonight.”

“It had to be,” he says quietly. “For me.”

Your cheeks flush, and you quickly change the subject. “Do you want something to drink? Water? Tea? Iced americano?”

He smiles, seemingly glad that you recall his favorite. “Iced americano sounds good,” he says, settling onto the couch.

You head to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with ice and coffee. When you return, you hand it to him, watching as he fumbles with the straw a bit. You forgot just how cute he is.

You sip your drink, glancing at him over the rim before deciding to fill the quiet. “So… first day at the daycare,” you start casually. “It went well.”

Yoongi leans back, his shoulders loosening just a little. “Yeah? Tell me about it.”

“It was… honestly, it was so great,” you say, the words tumbling out as you set your drink on the table. “The kids are adorable, and the space is beautiful. Everything’s so well set up.” You pause, the memory of the morning making your chest feel warm. “I forgot how much I missed doing that, you know? Like, preparing activities, seeing their little faces light up when they learn something new… it just—it feels good.”

Yoongi’s lips tug into the faintest smile, his gaze steady on you. “You look happy talking about it.”

You nod, almost to yourself. “I am. I feel… lucky, I guess. That I get to do this again.”

His eyes soften in that way that makes your stomach flutter. “I’m proud of you,” he says simply, his tone steady and sincere.

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, all you can do is blink at him. “Really?”

“Of course,” he says simply, leaning back against the couch. “It’s not easy starting over. But you did it.”

“Thanks, Yoongi. I really appreciate that.” You pause, then add, “I’m proud of me too.”

He smiles at that, the kind that’s so subtle you’d miss it if you weren’t looking.

You grin back, the memory of the morning still fresh. “Well, we also had a capybara mascot.”

Yoongi coughs. “Oh? A mascot? That’s… interesting.”

“Yeah,” you nod, narrowing your eyes at him. “It seemed really into me. Kept shaking its ass in front of the kids, though, which… you know, questionable.”

“Shaking its ass?” Yoongi repeats, lips twitching.

“Weird, right?” you protest, though you can’t help but grin. “The thing was strangely enthusiastic.”

Yoongi shrugs, taking another sip of his drink. “Sounds like a fun mascot.”

But then, he’s not done, like he’s empathizing with the man in the suit. “And of course he would be enthusiastic, it’s your opening day. I mean they probably briefed him to be supportive of you and whatnot. And to be that energetic despite the tormenting heat of that costume, he’s seriously doing the lord’s work…”

Huh.

You blink at him, before you decide to test the theory out.

“Haneul kept calling it Appa,” you say with a straight face. “I told him there’s no way his appa is in a capybara suit.”

Yoongi chokes on his drink, coughing again.

“Are you okay?” you ask, patting his back.

“Fine,” he croaks, his voice raspier than usual. “Just… went down wrong.”

You eye him suspiciously but let it slide, suppressing a smile that’s threatening to slant your lips.

He’s definitely the man in the suit. You’ll get him to admit it one day.

But for now, you brace yourself for the talk you wanted to have.

You set your phone down carefully, the action feeling weighted, like it’s tethered to the words you’re about to say. Your fingers twist nervously in the hem of your cardigan, and you glance at Yoongi, hesitating for a moment before speaking. “Yoongi… umm, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

He looks up at you sharply, his brows furrowed in confusion. “For what?”

“For shutting you out,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You swallow hard, the vulnerability in your chest blooming uncomfortably. “I was in such a bad place mentally. I hated myself, I was dealing with so much unresolved shit that I hadn’t even begun to work through.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond right away. Quiet eyes, just watching you, letting you process your emotions. So you continue.

“Just as you depended on me to care for Han, I started depending on you too. I wasn’t happy with my life, but when I was in your place, I felt detached from my misery. Felt wanted and needed which made me feel good. But then… when Sung Kyung showed up, it was like everything I was already struggling with just got amplified. I thought I was protecting myself, but instead, I just… pushed you away.”

He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, and the way he looks at you—tender and unguarded—makes your heart ache. His eyes are dark and steady, the kind that seem to see straight through you, but not in a way that feels invasive or harsh.

“I felt very insecure and abandoned from so many things in my past. I have been working on it though, and I feel like I’m in a better place now.”

The faintest trace of a smile ghosts across his lips as he finally speaks. “I get it,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’m glad you’re better. I’ve been there too. Feeling like you have to be strong for others when inside you’re struggling.” He gnaws at his lip. “If I’m gonna be real, I thought you pushed me away because you wanted out. Honestly, if I were you, I’d dip too.”

“Oh Yoongi…” you start, but he shakes his head, so you let him carry on.

“It’s okay, I know my life is… complicated. Everything that happened in the last two months, hell, in the last year, threw me off, too. Like I just lost control of my life. Shit kept piling on and I didn’t know how to deal. But at the end of the day, all I wanted was to do right by Haneul, to make sure he was loved and safe. That was my focus.”

“You’re an amazing dad,” you say with sincerity. “And you’ve been an amazing friend to me, too. Even when I didn’t deserve it. You didn’t give up on me.”

His eyes soften further, and he shakes his head, brushing your gratitude away like it’s unnecessary. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says, his voice almost gentle.

“At first, I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me,” you admit quietly, glancing down at your hands. “I thought maybe you moved on. Or… that you’d rather I wasn’t in your life anymore.”

Yoongi leans back slightly, his posture relaxing as he tilts his head to study you. “Peep the countless messages on Kakao that’s left hanging…”

“I know, and I’m sorry for that. I read every single one. And there were many times that I thought about replying, but I needed to sort myself out. I’m a mess and I didn’t want to drag you down, or add into whatever’s on your plate. You did say your life is complicated.”

“Yeah, but I was just worried about you, because…” his eyes drop to his drink, pauses, then he shakes his head with a chuckle. His gaze meets yours again, his expression firm. “Just promise me something.”

You blink, your hands stilling in your lap. “What?”

“Promise me you won’t do that again,” he says, his voice carrying just the faintest edge of vulnerability. “Don’t shut me out, no matter what’s going on.”

You nod before you can even think. “I promise.”

His lips curve into a faint smile, and the sight of it tugs at something deep inside you. It’s such a small thing—a slight upturn of his mouth, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes—but it feels monumental. Like the bridge you’ve both been too scared to cross is finally, tentatively, being rebuilt.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You think about the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, the way his voice wraps around your name like it’s something precious. And so you think, maybe, just maybe, this could still be something.

Yoongi’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Hey–what happened to your shoulder?” he asks suddenly, breaking the moment.

You blink, caught off guard by the shift. “What?”

“Your shoulder,” he repeats, nodding toward it. “You’ve been rolling it a little since I got here. Is it bothering you?”

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” you say, feeling a little self-conscious. “It’s nothing, really. Just a strain from running, I think. I’ve been pushing myself a bit harder lately, trying to, you know, get my life together and shit.”

Yoongi frowns, his brows knitting together. “Running’s good, but you can’t overdo it. A shoulder strain’s no joke. If you don’t take care of it, it’ll just get worse.”

You smile faintly, appreciating the concern in his voice. “Okay, Dr. Min,” you tease lightly. “Any recommendations?”

He huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t let it go. “I mean it. You have to be careful. My shoulder was busted for years, you know. I have a few tricks,” He pauses, glancing at your cardigan. “Can I…? I can take a look if you want. Only if you’re okay with it.”

You gulp. Loud. The neighbors probably heard it. And for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. His expression is earnest, his hand already halfway lifted in a gesture of permission.

“Uh, sure,” you say, your voice quieter than intended. “That’d be… yeah, okay.” You shift in your seat, angling your shoulder for better access.

He waits for your nod before gently tugging at the edge of your cardigan. “May I?”

Your pulse quickens as you shrug it off your shoulder, leaving the strap of your camisole exposed. The cool air brushes your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of Yoongi’s hands as they settle lightly on your shoulder.

His fingers press gently at first, testing the tension in your muscles before applying more pressure. You inhale sharply as he works through a particularly tight knot, your body instinctively leaning into his touch.

“Here,” he murmurs, his tone soft but focused. “This is where it’s worst, right?”

You nod, unable to form coherent words as his hands move with ease, kneading the aches away. Each press of his fingers sends a mixture of relief and something else coursing through you, straight down towards your core.

“You’re really… good at this,” you manage to say, your voice a little breathless. Brain starting to turn into mush.

He chuckles lightly, the sound vibrating against your back. “Years of experience. Needed surgery to get my shoulder sorted out. That’s why I’m serious about this stuff. You need to be careful with it.”

His words linger in the air, and you find yourself focusing not just on the pleasure of his touch but on the deep timbre of his voice, and the way he’s always looking out for you even in the smallest ways.

“Thank you,” you whisper, glancing over your shoulder to meet his gaze. His hands still for a moment.

“Of course,” he says softly, licking his lips as you find his eyes going to yours.

Oh my god. You want to kiss him. Shit, you really do. You wonder if you should turn fully to face him.

But then his hands slip away, leaving your skin feeling colder.

You adjust your cardigan, clearing your throat as you sit back, your mind spinning. The intimacy of the moment—of his hands on you, the quiet concern in his voice—has left your heart like it’s going into cardiac arrest. If he fancies himself as Dr. Min he better fix this.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling faintly. “Better. Thanks, Yoongi.”

“Anytime,” he replies, with a small, almost shy smile.

He leans forward slightly, eyes searching yours, and you find yourself doing the same, your heart pounding in your chest.

For a second, you think he might kiss you—or maybe you’re the one who wants to close the distance.

But then he stands.

“It’s pretty late, I should go,” he says softly, though his voice carries a hint of reluctance.

“Yeah,” you say, standing with him. Your legs feel unsteady as you walk him to the door.

As he steps out, you hesitate for a moment. “Thanks for coming over, at short notice.”

“Nah, I wanted to,” he says, pink dusting his cheeks before he admits. “Is it weird if I say I’ve been waiting for it?”

Before you chicken out, you lean up and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for waiting, Yoongi.”

He blinks, startled, then he’s rubbing his wrinkled nose with his index finger. “Goodnight.”

“Drive safe…”

You close the door and lean your back against it, pressing your hands to your cheeks as if that’ll somehow contain the giddy energy bubbling up inside you. It’s stupid, really, how much a simple night with Yoongi—his laugh, his voice, that damn massage—has you grinning like an idiot.

But you can’t help it.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like your heart is beating again, a rhythm that feels almost foreign after the weeks of emptiness you’d carried around.

So, it’s been a week since Yoongi came over.

Each morning at the daycare, Haneul’s nanny walks through the door with her usual warm smile, holding Haneul’s tiny hand as he toddles in. It’s what you’ve grown used to, so you’re not expecting anything different. But sometimes, when the door swings open, you hope that maybe this time, it’ll be Yoongi instead.

It never is.

You shake off the feeling quickly each time. He’s busy, of course. He has his music, his idol schedules. It makes sense that he’d leave the daycare routine to someone else.

But still.

The thought lingers, one you don’t want to examine too closely. Instead, you focus on the small joys: Haneul’s excited “Sarang!” when he sees you, his delighted giggles during circle time, the way he clutches Bora 2.0 during nap time.

And at night, when you’re settling into bed, your phone buzzes. That’s when Yoongi comes to you—not in person, but through his name on your screen.

Yoongi: How’s your shoulder? Dr. Min is still monitoring your progress. You: Much better, thanks. Might even survive the crossfit sesh Joon’s dragging me into. Yoongi: I just texted Namjoon. You’re off the hook. You: What? Yoongi: Can’t do crossfit with a bad shoulder. Doctor’s orders. You: Fine You: You know you’re not a real doctor right? Yoongi: 😑

Then another night:

Yoongi: Haneul wouldn’t stop saying sarang this, sarang that today. Like a little broken record. You: 🥺 My heart can’t handle this. Yoongi: I know.

And then the casual starts to shift:

Yoongi: Did I tell you Haneul fell asleep on my lap during my zoom meeting today? I couldnt move for like an hour and my arm died. You: No, but that sounds adorable. He probably misses u. Yoongi: Yeah. Shld probably cherish this while he’s still not embarrassed by me You: Definitely cherish but why would he be embarrassed by you? You’re such a good dad. Yoongi: I’m trying. But honestly? Sometimes it’s hard. I think about how much I’m giving him and I wonder if it’s enough

You pause at that text, staring at the screen for a long time.

Yoongi doesn’t open up often. When he does, it feels like he’s peeling back a layer, letting you see something raw, something vulnerable.

You: I think every parent feels like that sometimes. But from what I see, Han is such a happy kid. You’re raising him well and he’s so lucky to have you. Yoongi: I needed that. Thank you.

And then, late one night, the tone shifts entirely.

Yoongi: What are you doing right now? You: Bed. About to sleep. U? Yoongi: Same. Thinking about that night. You: Which night? Yoongi: When I came over. And you almost kissed me. 🙂

Oh, shit. Is he drunk?! You sit up, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. Mind thinking nonsense, like if this is about to be a booty call, what panties are you changing into?

You: 💀Be for real. You were definitely leaning in more. Yoongi: Maybe. Yoongi: Would it have been so bad tho?

Your cheeks burn as you stare at the screen, unsure if your heart is racing because of his words or because of the way they make you feel. You start laughing in disbelief, and soon you're screaming into your pillow. What the hell?!

When you finally compose yourself, you decide you want to ask him if he’s being serious. But before you can even start to type, another message comes through.

Yoongi: Stop overthinking it, beautiful. Good night. 😉

It’s late afternoon, and the daycare is winding down. Kids are being picked up by the HYBE employee parents or the designated guardians. There’s only one kid left, and he just happens to be your favorite.

“Sarang!” Haneul’s little voice calls, his gummy smile wide as he wraps his tiny arms around your legs.

“Hi, baby!” you say warmly, scooping him up into your arms. His chubby cheeks press against yours as he nuzzles into your neck, and your heart melts a little. “Wonder where Nanny Mel is…”

Before you can fully bask in the moment, you hear another familiar voice.

“Ready to go, Haneul?”

Yoongi steps into the daycare, looking effortlessly casual (and annoyingly sexy) in his usual hoodie and slides. His hair is swept back today, and you have to mentally shake yourself out of staring, not just of how he looked, but because this is the first time he has ever picked up Haneul from your daycare.

The tiny tot, however, has other plans.

“No!” he says firmly, clutching onto you tighter.

Yoongi arches a brow, amused. “No? It’s time to go home, buddy.”

Haneul shakes his head, burying his face in your shoulder. “Play more!”

You stifle a laugh, patting Haneul’s back gently. “He’s been having a good day,” you explain, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest at Yoongi’s soft expression as he watches the two of you.

“Well, I can see that,” Yoongi says, his lips twitching in a small smile. He steps closer, holding out his hands. “Come on, Han. Let’s not bother Teacher Y/N anymore, okay?”

But Haneul just whines and clings to you like a little koala, refusing to budge.

Yoongi sighs, running a hand through his soft hair. And you would probably have swooned if you didn’t have other pressing matters. “Aish, this kid…” Yoongi sighs.

You shift Haneul in your arms, trying to coax him down. “Sarang, your appa’s here to take you home. You’ll see me tomorrow, okay?”

But Haneul just shakes his head again, this time tightening his little fists around your sweater. “Noooo!”

Yoongi crosses his arms. “You know, I thought I’d gained a bit more brownie points in the past months, but clearly, you’re still his favorite person.”

“Aw, don’t say that,” you tease, bouncing Haneul gently in your arms. “He loves you.”

“Yeah, but he adores you,” Yoongi counters, his eyes crinkling in a soft smile that makes your heart do a little somersault.

Finally, after a few more minutes of coaxing and promises that you’ll play together tomorrow, Haneul reluctantly lets go, sliding into Yoongi’s waiting arms.

As Yoongi adjusts Haneul on his hip, he glances at you, his expression softer than usual. “Thanks for putting up with him.”

“It’s not putting up with him,” you reply easily, ruffling Haneul’s hair. “He’s a sweetheart. You’re doing a good job, Yoongi.”

Yoongi pauses, his eyes meeting yours for a long moment. “Thanks,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with something you can’t quite place. “That… means a lot.”

Before you can respond, Haneul suddenly tugs on Yoongi’s hoodie, his little face scrunching up as he says in broken, hopeful words, “Sarang… come… home?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and your heart feels like it might burst.

Yoongi blinks at his son, his expression softening, before a mischievous glint sparks in his eyes. He looks up at you, lips curling into that smirk. “I know, buddy. I’d take her home too if I could.”

Stfu?

The comment leaves you completely shook. Is he joking? Is he serious?

As you try to process his words, Yoongi just winks at you, adjusting Haneul on his hip as he heads out the door.

You’re left standing there, stunned, as he calls back over his shoulder, voice smooth like butter, “See you tomorrow, sarang.” And with a bite of his lip, he’s gone. Taking the rest of your sanity with him.

The lights are dimmed, the daycare is quiet, and the faint smell of crayons and hand sanitizer lingers in the air as you finish locking up for the night. It’s been a long day, but instead of feeling tired, you’re restless. Yoongi’s words plague your mind. From the time he brought up the almost kiss over Kakao and that quip he dropped when he picked up Han the other day.

Now you’re sitting in a bus stop near HYBE, gripping your phone tightly, staring at Namjoon’s contact. You’ve already typed and deleted three texts. Why is this so hard? Finally, you force yourself to type something and hit send before you can overthink it again.

You: Are you with Yoongi right now?

A reply pings back almost immediately.

Namjoon: Nope, but why? 👀

You groan. Of course, Namjoon would latch onto that. You can practically hear his teasing tone in your head.

Before you can second-guess yourself again, you press the call button. He picks up after two rings, and before he can get a word in, you rush to say, “Don’t. Just—don’t say anything stupid, Joon.”

“Yo?? Me? Stupid? Never,” Namjoon says, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “But fine, what’s up?”

You hesitate, fiddling with the strap of your bag. “I need your help.”

There’s a beat of silence before Namjoon responds, his voice laced with amusement. “Okay, what kind?”

“Not the kind where you get to tease me endlessly,” you say, narrowing your eyes even though he can’t see you. “Just… can you get me to Yoongi’s studio?”

Namjoon is silent for a moment, and you almost think the call has dropped, but then he laughs. Hard. The kind of laugh that makes you want to hang up and never speak to him again.

“Joon!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he wheezes, barely catching his breath. “My baby's all grown up. I’m so proud of you.”

“Stoppp,” you mutter, your face heating up. “I just… there's something I need to say to him.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawls, clearly unconvinced. “And this ‘something’ couldn’t wait until, I don’t know, Monday?”

“Namjoon!”

“Alright, alright,” he says, the teasing note in his voice softening. “I’ll text you the access code to his floor. Yoongi’s probably in there working himself into the ground anyway. He’ll be happy to see you.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Okay…Thanks..”

“Use protection,” he says, his grin practically audible. “His kid’s still a baby.”

“GOODBYE, Joon.” You hang up to the sound of his laughter. Such an ass.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in front of Genius Lab, Yoongi’s private sanctuary. The dimly lit hallway is eerily quiet, the only sound coming from the hum of a vending machine down the hall. Your eyes fall on the cat flipping you off on the doormat, bold letters reading: GO AWAY.

Yeah, okay. Maybe you should.

So you stand there, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. What are you doing? What’s the plan here?

You didn’t think this through. Not really. It feels reckless—like the day you went to his apartment and found Sung Kyung there with Haneul. You swallow hard, trying to push the memory away. You can’t think about that now.

Taking a deep breath, you raise your hand and knock. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

You start to think maybe you should leave. Maybe this was a shitty idea. Maybe you should turn around and—

The door swings open.

Yoongi stands there, his expression caught somewhere between surprised and exhausted. His hair is slightly mussed, probably from running his hands through it, and he’s wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves of one arm pushed up to his elbows. His eyes widen when he sees you.

“Teacher Sarang,” he says slowly, like he can’t quite believe you’re standing in front of him.

“Hi,” you manage, gnawing on your bottom lip.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Yoongi glances past you, his brows furrowing slightly. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

“I know,” you say quickly, gripping the strap of your bag tighter. “I– I just… I wanted to talk. If you’re not busy.”

He blinks, his eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for something. Then he steps aside, holding the door open wider. “No, yeah, come in.”

You take a tentative step inside, the familiar scent of coffee and faint traces of cologne washing over you. The studio is dimly lit, the soft glow of monitors reflecting off sleek black walls. It’s minimalist but warm, the kind of space you’d expect from someone like him. There’s a quiet energy to it, one that feels a little intimidating.

Yoongi closes the door behind you, leaning against it. “So,” he says, his tone careful but not unkind. “What’s on your mind?”

“Honestly,” you take a deep breath, staring at your socks before you lift your eyes to meet his gaze. “You.”

“Oh…” His brows shoot up in surprise, but the smirk that tugs at his lips betrays him. He straightens, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh?” you parrot as realization dawns on you. The look on his face? Like he has planned this all along. Like all the things he’s been saying and doing is part of an elaborate Jedi mind trick he played on you. And now you’re here—right where he wants you.

A quiet laugh escapes his lips as he lets you stew in your own nerves. He doesn’t move—just stands there, waiting, like he knows exactly what you’ll do next.

You take a step forward, then another, closing the distance until you’re toe-to-toe with him. The smirk growing on his face is both sexy and infuriating as shit. But okay, you remind yourself, he’s been the one waiting on you, chasing you… It’s time to put your big girl pants on.

“I wasn’t planning this,” you admit, letting your bag drop to the floor. “Your doormat’s rude by the way. But… Been thinking about what you texted. If it would have been so bad… if we…”

“You’ve been thinking about that?” He tilts his head to the side like he’s trying to follow your train of thought. He licks his lips, maybe subconsciously, but your eyes are drawn to it like a magnet.

“Not just that. Don’t act all innocent. You’ve been planting all these little seeds in my head lowkey for weeks, Min Yoongi.”

His gummy grin widens. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Suspicious as fuck…” You huff, your fingers reaching for the drawstrings of his hoodie. You tug on them playfully, your gaze flicking up to meet his. “And saying that shit in front of your own kid?”

“Damn,” He full-on chuckles, shoulders bobbing as he looks up to avoid your accusatory gaze.

After a while, he looks down. “And you came all the way here just to call me out?” He challenges, voice dropping dangerously lower. “Or are you finally gonna do something about it?”

Your pulse quickens as the distance between you shrinks, his presence so close it feels like it’s wrapping around you. You swallow hard. The thread holding your resolve together snaps.

And then it happens.

You close the space between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that’s every bit as desperate as you’ve imagined it would be. There’s no hesitation with him, like he knows you are going to pounce and he is ready to be devoured. This mf–

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as his arms wrap around your waist, steadying you against him. The way your lips move is fierce, breathless, like neither of you has the patience to take it slow. His tongue swipes against yours, curling in just the perfect way to turn your legs into jelly. Then, his grip tightens to spin you around and–shit–your back hits the door.

Hot and heavy, he breathes your name against the crook of your neck sending electric currents down to your fingertips. You’re easily coming undone with every graze of his soft lips, his wet tongue as it licks a stripe of skin from your neck towards the shell of your ear and the haze of lust is pulling you under slowly but surely.

But you’re not content to stay there. You push him forward, your lips locked again with his as you guide him toward the couch.

He follows easily. When the back of his knees hit the couch, he sits heavily, pulling you down with him so you’re straddling his lap.

You open your eyes and you find him locked on you, dark and all-consuming. But then something else catches your eye from your periphery, like there’s another pair of orbs vying for your attention.

“GAHH! The fuck is that?!” you push yourself to a standing position, pointing towards…

The head of the capybara mascot.

Yoongi immediately turns crimson, his ears burning as he runs a hand through his hair.

“Knew it,” you say, staring at him in amusement.

“Fuck.” He groans, slumping back against the couch as he covers his face with his hands. “This is literally the worst way you could have found out.”

“Why the hell didn’t you just tell me?!”

“Because I didn’t know if you wanted me there,” he mutters, peeking at you through his fingers. “I just… I wanted to support you. And obviously I wanted to see Han off on his first day so the costume was—” He pauses, clearly regretting his life choices. “Seemed like a good idea.”

Then it hits you—the exaggerated enthusiasm, the ass-shaking, the way Haneul kept calling the mascot Appa. You burst out laughing, unable to hold it in.

Yoongi groans again. “This is so embarrassing.”

You climb onto his lap, straddling him without thinking, and gently cup his puffy cheeks between your palms. “No, no, it’s cute.”

“You’re never going to let this shit go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

The laughter fizzles out, replaced by a quieter kind of warmth as you shift closer. His fingers tighten slightly on your hips, grounding you in a way that feels steady and sure.

“I wanted to be there for you,” he says softly, his voice low and sincere. “I didn’t know how to do it without… pushing too much.”

Your heart swells at his words, and you turn to face him, your gaze meeting his. “You didn’t have to do all that, Yoongi,” you say, your voice just as soft. “But it means a lot that you did.”

His lips quirk into a small, almost shy smile.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. When he lets out a quiet sigh, you get bolder, letting your lips trail down to the corner of his jaw and then just barely grazing his neck.

Yoongi’s breath hitches, hands twitching slightly where they rest on your back. “Y/N…”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. “I like this look on you,” you tease, your thumb brushing over the faint pink blooming on his cheeks. “My shy little baby boy…”

He narrows his eyes on you, hands settling more firmly on your waist. “Don’t push it,” he warns, but there’s no heat to his words, only fondness.

Suddenly, a knock sounds on his door.

“Yoongi-hyung…” the voice calls out. “You still alive in there?”

“Fuck off, Hobi. I’m busy.”

“There’s an extra pair of shoes out here. And I thiiiink I’ve seen it at the daycare.”

You meet Yoongi’s eyes and he’s barely suppressing a grin. He shrugs, as if to say, it’s up to you if you wanna soft launch this thing.

Eh, why not?

“Hello, Jeonghyeon’s appa,” you call out, confirming his suspicion.

You hear giggles and then a rap on the door. “Wow y’all really not gonna let me in, huh?”

“GOODBYE Hobi.” You and Yoongi say in unison, and then you burst out laughing.

“Bye, lovebirds.”

“Did he need you for anything?”

“Yeah, actually,” Yoongi sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “Been working on a track that’s due tonight. Actually it’s been due and this is my last extension.”

“Oh,” you pout.

“Don’t pout, pretty girl.”

“I guess you’re gonna have to kick me out now.”

“Not because I want to. You're welcome to stay, but you might have better things to do.”

“S fine. I’ll go…” you stand up, planning to collect your bag where you dropped it when Yoongi pulls you back down by your belt loops, your full weight settling on him. He doesn’t seem to mind as he cages your body against his strong arms, leaning you both back so his chin can rest on your shoulder, the one without the strain.

“I am so happy you came,” he mumbles against the fabric of your top.

“I haven’t. But you better make me. Soon.”

His chest shakes against your back, “You’re horrible.”

You stay wrapped in his arms for a while, neither of you saying much, the silence warm and comfortable. But eventually, the moment comes when you know it’s time to leave. With a reluctant sigh, you sling your bag over your shoulder and turn to go—only to find Yoongi already on you, his lips capturing yours once more.

“Yoongi—mmmph…” you giggle, pushing him away lightly. “You're never gonna get work done.”

“Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He catches your wrist, pulling you back for one last kiss—this one softer, slower—before pushing the door open for you.

“Text me when you get home,” he says and you nod.

You leave the studio with your heart in overdrive, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin. By the time you’re in the elevator, you’re grinning like crazy, excitement bubbling in your chest.

Saturday can’t come fast enough.

That night—

You: Are u still in the studio? Yoongi: Yeah :( You: Good luck with your track. I’m going to bed. Gnyt. Yoongi: But i miss you.……….. You: lol You: What do you want? Yoongi: What can you offer? 😇

You sit up on your bed, pulse kicking up again, the way it usually does when Yoongi is involved. Is he really asking for…?

Fuck okay you’ll bite.

You let the strap of your thin cami fall on your shoulders, angle your phone camera so it’s aimed at your cleavage.

You compose the money shot: one hand softly grasps one of your breasts making it almost spill out of your top. Your other nipple, taut and perky, its outline faintly visible against the fabric. Just the perfect visual to tease and still leave a bit of mystery.

You get a few shots and send what you think is the best one.

You: [image attached] Yoongi: fuck Yoongi: baby you’re so sexy You: I’m baby now? What happened to Teacher Sarang Yoongi: idk she definitely not the one sending nudes You: stfu Yoongi: Go away im busy now You: GOODBYE yoongi Yoongi: pick you up at 7? You: If you make it worth my while Yoongi: [image attached]

Oh you’re dead. It’s a shot of his very pink knuckles, his very veiny hands grasping his very hard cock against his dark grey sweats.

You: shit You: yes you may pick me up at 7

Your head is spinning when you cozy up under your blanket and bury your head in your pillows.

Not knowing that come morning your head will be spinning for an entirely different reason.

Dispatch Breaking News: SUGA of BTS and Actress Lee Sung Kyung In A Relationship Congratulations to the couple.

Part 4.5 >

A/N: Ahhhhhhh 🥲 I was initially gonna end it in the part where Yoongi opens the door to his studio and you say Hi.

But decided last minute to throw y’all a bone(r) and extend the scene a bit, in the spirit of Christmas. But that also meant getting to that awful last bit… another dun dun dun

Hope you all liked it still! See you at the comments. As per usual, tell me what you liked, hated, etc etc. Shout at me or whatever!

I always appreciate your feedback. And if you are able to, reblogs are also amazing. :)

Thanks for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo

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covenofagatha · 6 months ago

Text

But you're my stepmom! (Part 5)

Word count: 2700

Warnings: super brief mention of smut

Taglist:@stayevildarling @i-just-cannot @hazey-g @buttercandy16 @320viada @evilangels-stuff @rmaximoff @morganismspam23 @aboutcustardcreams @sasheemo @rigglemethat @walkethisway @mommywandas

A/N: I apologize in advance for this one hehe. Next chapter will be more satisying ;)

When you wake up, you are alone with a pounding headache. You roll over with a grunt and reach a hand out to touch the pillow next to you, see if it still has Agatha’s warmth, but doesn’t. You can’t help but feel stung even though you know you’re being irrational. Of course she wasn’t going to spend the night with you. She probably untangled herself from you the second you’d fallen asleep.

But you remember the way her body felt curled around yours and you sigh. You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart. Her words from the pool last night echo in your head. Last night, they were daring almost, but in the cold light of morning, they are a warning. She is married to your father and twice your age. You can’t be doing this with her, whatever it is.

You check the time and realize you’ve slept in later than you usually do. You begrudgingly get out of bed and brush your teeth, staring at your pale face in the mirror. Agatha doesn’t want you, you tell yourself. You’re just reading into things.

More than just a small part of you is disappointed.

You dig around your closet and are able to find a pair of shorts and a sweater in your closet to throw on. You’re spending the day with Agatha and your dad, still unsure of the plans.

You check your phone and see five missed calls and 27 texts from Wanda, checking to make sure you were alright. You hadn’t been able to find her before you left the party last night but according to her texts, Rio had seen you get into a car and told Wanda.

You shoot her a quick text letting her know you’re alive and that you made it home safely. You want to open up to your friend about your night with Agatha but you don’t think Wanda would understand.

When you go downstairs, the smell of bacon and eggs reaches your nose and you see your step-mother at the stove cooking.

“Good morning,” you say groggily, taking a seat on a stool at the island. The bacon sizzles and you wince at the noise. She turns around and smiles, always the picture of perfection.

“How are you feeling?”

You moan in response, dropping your head onto the cool countertop. It feels good and dulls the pain in your head just a little.

“I remember those days,” she says fondly with a chuckle. And then she places a plate down next to you just a bit too loudly for it to be an accident.

“Heyyy,” you whine, lifting your head slightly to glare at her.

“Eat up. You’ll feel better.” You grumble and do as you’re told. While you’re eating, she continues talking. “Your father will be home soon. Have you thought about what you want to do today?”

“Is laying on the couch for the next seven hours an option?”

Agatha smirks. “Unfortunately for you, no. But we could watch a movie or something.” She regards the miserable state you’re in. “Do you want me to get you some advil?” You nod pathetically.

She leaves the kitchen and you hear her footsteps on the stairs. You’re a little hurt that she hasn’t even mentioned last night. Should you bring it up? You scoff at yourself. What would you even say? Why didn’t you stay with me? or Hey, wanna get back in the pool?

She is obviously trying to set boundaries and you can do that. You can be good. Better for everyone that way.

And then she comes back in, places two pills in front of you, and casually says, “You talk in your sleep.”

Your cheeks heat up immediately. “Um, what did I say?”

She smirks. “Sounded like you were having a good dream.”

“I don’t even remember what I was–” And fuck, your dream comes back to you in flashes. Agatha pushing you against the side of her pool, grinding her thigh up between your legs. Her telling you to hump it like the desperate little girl that you are. Your eyes widen, horrified. Was that the reason she left? You must’ve been moaning, or even worse, did you say her name? You vaguely remember her leg between yours last night before drifting off, were you moving on it? You drop your head into your hands, the flush from your face spreading all down your neck.“I’m so sorry,” you say through your fingers, determined to never look at Agatha ever again.

She laughs. “Don’t be, it’s not like you could control it. So, who were you thinking about?” You peek up to see her leaning on her elbows over the counter, eyes wide. You definitely don’t notice how her position pushes her breasts up and closer together, giving you a much better look at her cleavage.

At least you didn’t moan her name in your sleep.

“Uh-” you say, mind racing to think of literally anyone besides her. Thankfully, that’s the moment you hear the garage open. You’ve never been so excited for your dad to be home. Agatha winks knowingly and takes your empty plate, rinsing it off in the sink.

“My favorite ladies!” Your dad exclaims as he walks into the kitchen. You offer him a tight-lipped smile and Agatha pats his arm when he leans in to kiss her cheek. You tune out when Agatha asks him about his meetings and he starts recounting his trip. You’ve listened to your fair share of boring work stories from him.

“So, sweet pea, what’s on the agenda today?” He asks, bringing you back to focus.

“Maybe we can watch some Desperate Housewives?” Before the divorce, you and your dad had spent quite a lot of time together watching TV shows, Desperate Housewives being one of your favorites.

He smiles. “Sounds perfect. Let me go take a shower and then we can start.”

Agatha busies herself by cleaning up the kitchen while you flop onto the couch. Your headache is starting to subside but you still feel gross from the hangover. You close your eyes and float somewhere between consciousness and sleep until your dad finally comes back downstairs.

“Alright, what season are we watching?” He asks, handing you the remote. Agatha sits down next to you, pulling a blanket over the two of you and he sits on the other side of her. You flick through the episodes, picking one from season 6 at random.

You had to admit, it is actually nice to sit here with Agatha and your dad. You feel a sense of peace that you usually don’t when you’re at this house.

And then you remember what episode this is. The one where Katherine realizes that she might have feelings for Robin and has a fantasy about her. A hot fantasy. You swallow and squirm, your leg starting to bounce anxiously. Normally, you wouldn’t be so affected by the scene on the TV, but you’re suddenly hyper aware of the woman sitting next to you.

Agatha, seemingly having enough of your leg tapping, reaches her hand out underneath the blanket and places it squarely on your thigh.

You stifle a gasp and freeze. You forget how to breathe when she starts to slowly drag her nails up and down your leg, pausing every time when they reach the juncture between your leg and hip. You can literally feel the wetness pooling in your underwear.

She continues doing that for the rest of the episode and you just grow needier and needier with every passing second. So you slowly let your legs fall more open. She glances at you out of the corner of her eye so your dad doesn’t notice, the hint of a smirk pulling at her lips.

Her hand slides to the inside of your thigh and this time you can’t hold back your sharp intake of air.

“You okay?” Your dad asks, looking over Agatha to check on you. She squeezes your leg playfully, sending jolts of electricity right to your cunt.

You nod, not trusting that your voice won’t waver and give your state of arousal away.

Agatha slowly leans into you, mouth pressing against your ear, hand moving closer to the center of your legs, and whispers, “Good girl.”

An honest-to-god whimper slips out of your mouth and you cover it up with a cough. “I’m gonna go get some water,” you choke out and practically jump off the couch like you’ve been burned.

Agatha just smirks.

In the kitchen, you take deep breaths, trying to calm your nerves. You can’t be imagining it now. Whatever Agatha is doing, it is completely on purpose. You can still feel her heated touch on your thigh and your stomach is still in flames.

You grab a glass of water and head back to the living room, mentally preparing for more of Agatha’s touches.

You walk back in the living room and stop dead in your tracks. On the couch, illuminated by the glow of the TV, is Agatha and your dad kissing.

You drop the glass. It’s the fourth thing you’ve broken in their house in the past two days, if anyone is keeping track. But that’s not what you’re focused on.

They break apart and whirl toward the sound of the noise. Your dad stands up, apologizing, but you don’t even see him. You’re too busy staring at Agatha, who is chewing on her lip, looking back at you. Her gaze is filled with concern and – fuck, is that pity?

You scoff. Of course it is. You inwardly curse at letting yourself be so stupid, feelings of betrayal and anger coursing through your veins replacing the desire you had just been feeling.

You turn on your heel and rush upstairs, throwing your clothes from last night that are folded on your bed into a bag. You pick up your phone and scroll through your contact list, hitting the call button.

“Please pick up,” you mutter to yourself, pacing back and forth.

Finally on the third ring, she does. “Hello?” Rio Vidal asks, sounding surprised.

“Hey, Rio. Do you want to go do something right now?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, I’d love to. What do you want to do?”

“Let’s go to a bar and get older people to buy us drinks,” you say, your stomach already protesting at the thought of consuming more alcohol after last night.

You can tell she feels the same way by her long groan.

“Okay, fine. We don’t have to drink. But we can still go dance and have fun. Please?”

“Okay. What time?”

You check your watch. It’s early in the afternoon but you can’t stand to spend another minute in this house. “How about in an hour? I’ll pick you up?”

She agrees and you hang up. And now for getting out of here.

Both your dad and Agatha watch you as you walk back down the stairs. “Everything okay?” Your dad asks tentatively.

“Wanda’s kind of having an emergency right now. Would you be able to take me back to Mom’s house so I can go be with her? My car’s there.” You don’t even look at Agatha but you can feel her eyes locked on you.

Your dad frowns. “How did you get here then?”

You can’t help but glance at the older woman, your brain trying to think of something quick.

“I picked her up this morning,” Agatha quickly jumps in. “I just figured it would be easier that way if we went somewhere.” You fight the urge to give her a grateful look, rage still curling around your insides.

“Okay, yeah, sure,” your dad sighs. “I was kind of hoping we could spend the day together.”

“Me, too,” you say half-heartedly. “Maybe next weekend though? I’m sorry, Wanda really needs me.”

“Let me grab my keys,” he says, leaving the room. You walk straight to the front door, ignoring Agatha saying your name.

The car ride home is filled with awkward conversation about school and work. Nothing out of the usual there, though. He pulls into the driveway and parks the car, turning towards you. You can hardly wait for whatever he’s going to say next.

“How’s your mother doing?” He used to ask you that all the time when the divorce first happened, but not so much anymore. Not since Agatha.

“She’s good,” you say softly. He nods like he’s glad to hear it. And then you step out of the car and go into your mom’s house to get ready.

***

Rio swings open the door almost immediately after your first knock. She’s wearing a cute green dress that pairs nicely with your purple dress.

“You ready?” You ask and she shuts the door behind her, following you to your car. “How was the rest of the party last night?

She shrugs. “It was fine. I threw up a few times. Nat and Marie won like three more games of beer pong.”

“Of course they did.” The rest of the ride is silent. Rio’s not a big talker and you don’t feel like saying much.

The Hex is the only 18+ bar in Westview and you’ve been a couple times before. You find it slightly disgusting, but you need to take your mind off Agatha. You were being stupid, you realize that now.

The line is short, on account of it still being pretty early, and not many people are in the bar. You and Rio find a secluded table to sit at and you order some chips and queso and drinks. The two of you fall into easy conversation now, pointing out things about the other people there. You’re both in the middle of giggling when all of a sudden the music turns on and people start to make their way to the middle of the floor that’s clear.

“Come on!” You jump up and grab Rio, leading her to the center. She rolls her eyes amusedly but comes willingly. You lose yourself in the music, spinning around with Rio until you see someone with long dark hair. You suddenly stop. The woman turns around and it’s someone you don’t recognize.

You scowl.

There’s another brunette dancing with a man, arms around his shoulders. They’re kissing and all you can think about is your dad and Agatha.

“Hey, are you okay?” Rio shouts over the music. She’s stopped dancing now too and is gently touching your shoulder. Before you can even think, you grasp her cheeks with your hands and pull her into a kiss.

She kisses you back, her hands flying to your shoulders but you can’t get the thought of Agatha out of your head. Rio’s mouth feels good against yours but you just keep picturing that you’re kissing the older woman.

“Fuck,” you say in frustration, pulling away, realizing that your eyes are welling up. “I’m sorry.” And then you’re storming off to the bathroom, Rio hot on your heels.

You’re breathing hard, fists clenching the sink, when the door opens.

“Hey,” Rio says with uncharacteristic gentleness. She strokes her fingers through your hair, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. You turn around, blinking back tears. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, sniffling. “There’s this woman that I like but she’s with someone else and I thought that she might like me but I’m just an idiot.” Venting about it feels good, even if you can’t tell her the exact details.

Her face softens. “Well, she’s a fool.” You choke out a laugh, wiping the snot from your nose with the back of your hand.

“Thank you. For saying that, for coming with me tonight.”

She smiles. “Of course.”

“Could you, um, could you give me a minute?” You ask and she nods with understanding and slips out the door. You take a shaky breath and look back at yourself in the mirror. You have a cute girl out there who likes you. Stop acting pathetic over a middle-aged woman and get your act together, you tell yourself.

You straighten yourself up and leave the bathroom. You spot Rio across the bar and you’re making your way over to her when someone grabs your wrist tightly.

“Hey, ouch!” You exclaim, turning to see who it is.

Now, this time, it’s a brunette you do know.

And she looks pissed.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Agatha hisses.

#agatha harkness smut #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha smut #kathryn hahn x reader #agatha all along #covsfics

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javierpena-inatacvest · 6 months ago

Text

Chapter 21- Paradise

Summary: Now that you and Javi are married, it's time for you to enjoy two weeks of nothing but your three favorite "S's"- Sun, sand, and sex. Lots of Sex.

Word Count: 13.9K

Warnings: SMUT (18+) unprotected p in v sex, oral (f and m receiving) vaginal fingering, praise kink, marriage kink, big, fat, nasty, unspeakable breeding kink (WHOOPS), stopping birth control/starting a family, kind of semi-public sex (sex on the beach hehe), alcohol/drinking (y'all are getting wasted at the pool), I'm convinced these two can't have sex without getting caught (sorry, Chucho), Javi in a bathing suit, these two are so stupidly in love

A/N: ..... Hey.... Y'all remember when I actually wrote for this story.... 😭 I'm genuinely SO sorry that this chapter took me literal months to finish, but she is finally here!!! Thank you so much for all of your patience and the love you've shown these two even in this story's absence 🥺 I hope you enjoy these two horndogs on their honeymoon!!!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter Previous Chapter

“We have all of our bags?”

“Yup.”

“Passports?”

“Mhmmmm.”

“Plane tickets?”

“Yes.”

“We’re positive that we have-”

“Baby, I promise, I triple checked everything this morning, it’s all waiting by the front door, all we have to do now is just wait for my dad to pick us up and take us to the airport, and all my wife needs to do is take a deep breath and relax.”

My wife.

Even though you had been married for less than 24 hours, you knew the sentiment of finally getting to be Javi’s wife wasn’t wearing off on you any time soon.

Javi smiled, playfully crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at you as you ran through your honeymoon inventory again, knowing damn well you looked like a fool in your frantic pre-traveling state. You more than trusted that Javi had everything the two of you needed before you left for the airport, but you just couldn’t shake the fact that you felt like you were forgetting something, despite all your checks and re-checks.

“Well, your wife will be much more relaxed once we land after being trapped in a flying tin can and have two feet on the ground again.” You sighed, trying not to let your fear of flying override your excitement to finally arrive in the Bahamas later that day. “God, I feel like I forgot to pack something important but I can’t figure out what.”

As you stared in frustration at your pile of suitcases, you could feel Javi sneaking behind you, flushing his chest to your back as his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he rested his chin on your shoulder, planting a soft kiss on your temple.

“I think I know what it is.” Javi smirked, his kisses traveling down your jaw as he nipped at your ear, making you turn your head back toward him in confusion.

“Oh, so now you’re a husband and a mind reader. That honestly will come in very handy.” You teased, giggling while you shifted around to face him, draping his arms around his neck as his hands traveled down your waist, reaching down to grab a handful of your ass. “Jesus Javi, what in the world am I forgetting, because you seem pretty darn happy I can’t remember it.”

“You really don’t know?” Javi asked, almost mockingly, tightening his grip around your hips, peppering kisses along your jaw and neck, the hot words of his breath dancing across your skin.

“No, Mr. Mind Reader, I don’t, and you’re making it very hard to concentrate and figure out what it is.”

You were trying your best to genuinely let your brain run out its train of thought, but as Javi’s kisses across your collarbone became wetter and sloppier, trying to form any sort of coherent idea was practically impossible.

Javi paused for a moment, reaching both hands up to cusp your face, his broad hands cradling your jaw as his thumbs swiped across your cheeks, looking up at him to see the boyish grin spread from cheek to cheek.

“You’re forgetting something because you’re forgetting to bring it on purpose. Something we threw away this morning, remember?”

Oh shit.

You were forgetting something. Only, now that you finally remembered what it was, you couldn’t be happier that you had forgotten it.

Your birth control.

As Javi watched your face quickly fade from confusion to delight, your grin was just about as wide as his, biting down on your lip to try and contain your excitement while your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest.

The two of you could actually start trying for a baby.

“You remember now?” Javi teased, laughing to himself at how wide your eyes had gone, practically beaming from the inside out at your husband, feeling butterflies swirl in your stomach and heat building in your core.

Leaning up, your mouth met Javi’s in a sloppy dance of tongues and teeth, lips crashing together in electric excitement, grabbing a fistfull of the fitted green t-shirt covering his chest and tugging him closer towards you.

“How much longer until your dad is supposed to be here?” You rasped, already breathing heavily from your frantic kisses and anticipation.

Quickly, Javi looked down at his watch wrapped around his wrist, the gears turn in his brain, calculating if the two of you had enough time to do what he knew you were proposing.

“Fuck- Like, 40 minutes?”

Without saying a word, both of you agreed in silent, rushed nods that 40 minutes was enough time to give yourself enough of a buffer, and the risk definitely didn’t outweigh the reward, knowing there was no way in hell that you could wait an entire plane ride and arriving at your hotel room to fuck.

In an instant, your mouths were crashing together again, Javi grabbing the underside of your thighs to hoist you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you back towards the couch in the living room, the back of his knees hitting the sofa as he collapsed into his seat, you still straddling his lap without ever parting your lips.

Javi’s hands crept below the hem of your shirt, shuffling it over your head and tossing it on the floor before shuffling your shorts and underwear off to join your top in a crumpled pile on the floor. Your hands worked rapidly at the waistband of Javi’s shorts, lifting up off his lap to push them down his thighs, revealing the hard and weeping mess his cock had already become since carrying you over to the couch, your cunt aching at the sight of his length and how desperately you wanted to be filled by it.

“God, I wanna fuck you so bad.” You whimpered between your wet kisses, shifting yourself closer to hover over his dick, so turned on that you were convinced that your arousal was already dripping down your thighs at an embarrassing rate.

“Baby, you have no fucking idea.” Javi groaned, dragging his fingers through your folds, your body jolting at the sensation at the pads of his fingers rubbing over your clit, throbbing and aching under his touch. “Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking wet.”

Reaching down to wrap your hand around the base of his cock, stroking it a few times, you slowly lowered yourself down onto his tip, knowing that with your limited time and how turned on you were, you didn’t want to feel anything besides the sweet sting of Javi’s stretch filling you to the brim.

The two of you moaned in unison as you sank down on his length, bottoming out until you had taken every inch of him, taking a second to adjust to his size before rolling your hips over his lap in figure eights.

“F-fuck, you feel so good, Javi.” You whined, circling your bottom half faster, the friction of the hairs at the base of Javi’s cock rubbing deliciously against your clit combined with Javi groping at your breasts, sucking at one of your pebbled nipples while he rolled the other between his fingers, making your breath hitch in the back of your throat.

Javi began to let his hips rut up into yours, thrusting his length deeper into your cunt as you rode him, his hands sliding down the sides of your body and wrapping around your ass, massaging the plump flesh between his fingers while his lips crashed into yours again, catching each other’s muffled moans.

“F-fuck…” Javi whined, tightening his grip to try and maintain his composure as his thoughts began to flow straight from his brain through his mouth. “I’m gonna fuck you so full of me, Osita. Fuck a baby into you, get you pregnant, watch you grow our our kid and give us our perfect family.”

“Oh my god- fuck- yes. Please, Javi. Fuck, I want you to knock me up. I wanna- fuck- I wanna make you a daddy.” You moaned, running your hands through the dark curls of Javi’s hair as he began to pound into you even harder, his fingertips gripping your hips with bruising intensity as he guided you up and down his cock, the two of you both so lost in your own pleasure that you hadn’t heard a faintly familiar voice echoing from the front door.

“Javi, Mija, I know I’m a little early but I figured you’d rather get to the airport earlier than later!”

Little did poor Chucho know that today was one of the few times in his life that he would regret showing up anywhere earlier than expected.

Surprised by the lack of response, despite the packed and stacked bags waiting by the front door, an unsuspecting Chucho kicked off his boots and began meandering down the entryway towards your living room, where and even more unsuspecting you and Javi were half dressed and sprawled across your couch trying to make a baby.

“Javier? Mija? Are you two ready to leave soon? I was hoping that- Oh Dios Mio!”

“AHHHHHHH!”

With Javi’s back to his dad as you sat in his lap, you were the first to lock eyes with your now father-in-law, your jaw practically falling to the floor as you let out a panicked shriek, causing Javi to whip his own head around, terror running through his veins as he frantically threw you off his lap and tried to cover the both of you with the nearest blanket he could find.

“Jesus Christ, Pops!” Javi shouted, hands covering his face that had turned bright red in quite possibly the world's worst kind of embarrassment. “Why are you here so early?! Please just, I- I don’t know, for Christ’s sake, please go wait outside!” He sighed, pointing towards the front door where Chucho had just regrettably entered from.

“How was I supposed to know!? I figured I would be safe! Say no more, I will just go wait on the front porch. Aye, aye, aye…” Chucho replied, quickly scampering away towards the door, eyes peeled to the ground and arms up in self-defense, waiting until you heard the soft slam and clicking lock behind him before peering out from underneath your blanket shield.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Javi groaned, hands still covering his face as you looked up at him, cheeks glowing beet red in embarrassment.

“Please don’t tell me your dad just walked in on us having sex…” You winced, absolutely knowing the answer to your question, but still somehow praying that maybe, just maybe, you were imaging things.

“... My dad definitely just walked in on us having sex.” Javi sighed, his face as almost as red as yours, scrambling to find your clothes scattered between the cushions, tossing them over to you, frantically trying to cover yourself up to save any ounce of dignity you had left.

“Well, looks like I am going to start walking to the airport because I don’t think I can ever make eye contact with your dad again…” You muttered, making you and Javi laugh just enough to try and ease the uncomfortable tension, wondering how in the world you were supposed to spend an entire ride to the airport with Chucho without wanting to crawl out of your skin. “I thought you said he was supposed to get here later!”

“Well that’s what I thought too, but apparently not!” Javi grumbled, shuffling his shirt over his head, combing his hand through his hair to try and fix the mess you had made raking your fingers through it.

“Guess we won’t have any worries about getting to the airport on time…”

“Guess you’re right about that. Fuck me…”

“Sure you don’t wanna start walking?”

While Chucho, you and Javi had seemingly made a silent pact to not say a peep to each other the entire car ride for the duration of your drive, every passing second seemed more awkward and uncomfortable than the last, truly regretting your decision to not grab your bags and walk along the highway to try and catch your flight.

It wasn’t until Chucho began pulling up to drop the two of you off that he decided it was time to break your truce, his eyes meeting yours in the rear view mirror as the two of you sat awkwardly in the backseat, bracing yourself the moment you could feel his mouth begin to open.

“You know, the night of our wedding, Lucia and I just couldn’t keep our hands off each other either, it was so-”

“Dad!” Javi interjected, his face physically scrunching in pain at the thought of how his father planned to complete the rest of that thought, trying to cut him off before he could get any further.

“Lo siento (Sorry)! God forbid I try to do something to ease the tension!” Chucho chuckled, throwing his hands up in defense at his statement.

“I don’t think where you were headed was the way to do that, Pops.” Javi muttered, letting out another deep sigh of embarrassment.

“Well lucky for you, it looks like we’re here.” Chucho smiled, pulling into one of the parking spots outside of your gate and turning off the ignition. “Here, let me help you with the bags in the trunk and-”

“Nope, already got it, Pops, please do not get out of the car.” Javi begged, practically sprinting out of the backseat to the trunk, you quickly following behind him, beginning to sheepishly unload your luggage from the car.

Of course, Chucho being Chucho was not about to take no for an answer, slowly fumbling his way out of the car to greet the two of you at the trunk with a mischievous grin stretched ear to ear.

“Pops, please, I told you I’ve got it, I-”

“Oh hush, Javier, I am just coming out to say goodbye, yo promento (I promise).” Chucho laughed, grabbing Javi by the shoulder, giving him a little shake.

“Bye Chucho.” You grimaced, leaning in reluctantly for a hug. “Thanks for dropping us off. S-sorry about earlier.” You couldn’t help but wince again, eyes darting to the ground at your last sentence.

“Oh mija, don’t apologize. Could be worse.”

“I’m not really sure how it could be…” You whispered under your breath, just loud enough for Javi to hear, making him hold back a snort.

“Besides, I think this bodes well for my bet I have placed.” Chucho smirked, crossing his arms over his chest as the two of you looked at him in confusion,

“Your bet?” Javi asked, raising an eyebrow at his dad.

“Mhmmm. The bet between me, your family, Mija, and the Murphy’s.”

“As much as I love a vague and cryptic guessing game, any chance you’re gonna tell us what that bet is?” You laughed uncomfortably, looking back between Javi and Chucho.

“Oh, don’t you worry, Mija. I think the two of you will know soon enough. Okay, enough of that! I will let the two of you go. Have a safe flight and a wonderful trip. I couldn’t be happier for the two of you. Enjoy your first of your many amazing adventures as a married couple.”

While you couldn’t deny you still weren’t far off from wanting to find the nearest hole and disappear in, you couldn’t help but feel your cheeks warm at the sentiment of Chucho’s well-wishes, placing your hand in Javi’s and squeezing it tight, beaming up at your husband with love and excitement.

“Thanks, Pops.”

“Claro (of course). Alright, mijos, adios. Have fun. But not too much fun, if you know what I-”

“Yup, we know exactly what you mean, bye, Dad!” Javi grunted, gently turning his father around and pushing him back towards the car making him laugh, giving the both of you one last wave goodbye before disappearing down the road.

“Jesus Christ, I’m glad that’s over…” Javi sighed, wrapping his arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“You can say that again. What bet do you think he was talking about?”

“Honestly, no fucking clue. And truth be told, right now, I couldn’t care less. Because right now,” He paused, leaning down to hold your cheek in his palm, forcing your gaze up at him, “all I care about,” he paused once again, planting a playful kiss on your lips, “is getting my beautiful wife onto this plane so we can start our honeymoon.”

“Say it again.” You smiled, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him back.

“My wife. My beautiful, amazing, drop dead gorgeous wife, who has single-handedly made me the luckiest man in the entire world.” Javi smirked, biting down on his lip as his grip tightened around you, making you giggle.

“Easy there, Romeo, we still have a whole flight to get through, ya know.”

Fortunately, your flight and arrival to the Bahamas was much less eventful than anything that had happened this morning, the embarrassment of your father-in-law’s unfortunate timing quickly fading away as you strolled up to the front desk to check into your room for the next ten days of nothing but what you had deemed your three favorite “S’s”-

Sun, sand, and sex.

Lots of sex.

“Hi there! Welcome! My name is Cassandra, how can I help the two of you today?” A woman smiled politely from behind the check-in desk, quickly clacking away at her keyboard.

“Hi. We’re checking in for Peña.” Javi beamed, grabbing your hand in his, gently rubbing his thumb over both sets of rings wrapped around your finger, knowing there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d ever get used to the fact he was lucky enough to get to call you his wife for the rest of his life.

“Perfect! Let me get right on that.” She nodded, fingers tapping across the keys as she looked up your information. “Any special reason for your stay here?”

“Honeymoon.” The two of you answered in sync, laughing to yourselves at your well timed response.

“Well why didn’t you say that to begin with?! Let me see if I have anything I can upgrade you to for your stay!” Cassandra scoffed, almost comedically offended that your opening line hadn’t been “It’s our honeymoon, upgrade our room please!”

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“Oh, honey, please. This is my favorite part of my job. Absolutely the least I can do for the two of you. Congratulations. Just give me one second here and…. Ah! Yes! I thought this one was available. Let’s upgrade you to the Ocean View King Suite. This one is one of my favorite rooms. You get the most beautiful view of the sunrise right from your balcony!”

You and Javi looked at each other beaming, grins plastered across your faces in surprise. “Thank you so much, this is so nice of you to do for us.” You smiled.

“Of course. Least that I can do. Like I said, it’s one of the highlights of doing this job. Alright, well, here are your room keys!” Cassandra grinned, passing the key cards and room information over the concierge desk and handing them to you and Javi. “If you head over to your right, there’s a bay of elevators that will take you to your room. I hope that you two have a wonderful stay, and enjoy your honeymoon!”

“Thank you again, we really appreciate it.” Javi nodded, stuffing things into his pocket before leaning down to give you a kiss and reaching back to grab his suitcase and your hand in his.

As Javi turned, leading the two of you towards the elevator, you couldn’t help but laugh at Cassandra’s face, her eyebrow playfully raised and head nodding in approval, pointing at Javi and giving you a thumbs up, as if you needed more confirmation that you had made a top-tier choice on the man you were going to spend the rest of your life with.

“What’s so funny?” Javi smirked, tilting his head in confusion at your giggles as the two of you stepped into the elevator with the small crowd of people on their way back to their hotel rooms.

“Nothing. Just some reassurance that I cleaned up pretty damn well in the husband department, which I can’t say I disagree with.” You snickered, reaching up to wrap your hand around his jaw, squeezing his cheeks in your grasp.

“You’re such a dork, you know that?”

“A dork who is now your wife, thank you very much.” You sassed, crossing your arms over your chest, making the two of you laugh quietly to yourselves until the ding of the elevator caught your attention. “Oh! I think this is us!” Quickly scrambling to grab your suitcase, you dashed out of the elevator as the doors parted, followed by Javi, trying to keep up with your excited pace.

“Alright, Mrs. Dork, we’re room 2331.” Javi grinned, pulling the information from the front desk out of his pocket, scanning the hallway for rooms approaching your number, watching you search in front of him with detective-like accuracy.

“Okay, let’s see, 2329… 2330… Here! Here it is! 2331!” You beamed, showing off the number of your room Vanna White style to Javi as he began to slip the room key into the card reader, pausing for a moment to stare at you with his sweet brown eyes in the midst of your goofiness. “What’s that look for?” You teased, smiling back at him.

“Just reminding myself of how lucky I am. I love you, Mrs. Peña.”

Mrs. Peña.

You couldn’t help but let your heart skip a beat at the sound of him saying it, still not quite sure that the incredible reality of your new last name had completely sunk in with you yet.

“I love you too, Mr. Peña. Now, you gonna open this door so we can put this room to use or what?” You smirked, raising your eyebrow at him playfully, gesturing towards your hotel room door.

With a quick swipe of your room key the two of you unlocked your door to get a first glimpse of your hotel room. At first, the both of you were convinced you must have been in the wrong place, because this was the most beautiful, luxurious hotel room that you had ever laid eyes on. Complete with a giant king bed covered in fresh white sheets, free standing tub, huge couch and living room area, newly renovated, and most impressively, a huge set of sliding glass doors that lead to your balcony overlooking a breath-taking view of the beach and ocean below you.

Mental note to self- you owed Cassandra at the big desk the biggest thank you ever.

“Holy shit, Javi. This is gorgeous.” You muttered to yourself, dropping your bags off at one of the closets at the front of the room as you began to wander and explore, gently poking and prodding around as if you were a tourist in a museum, rather than a hotel guest in your own room.

“It’s got no lack of options, that’s for sure.” Javi laughed quietly to himself, following behind you as he set down his own bags before doing an investigation of his own, the majority of which was spent watching you excitedly explore the in’s and outs of your new home for the next 10 days.

“No lack of options?” You asked, tilting your head in confusion, as you turned towards Javi, hands resting on his hips with a smug grin spread from ear to ear.

“Mmmhmmm.” He replied, making his way towards you until his hands were wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his chest to force your gaze up at his brown eyes, pooling with an equal combination of excitement and mischief. “No lack of options in this room for places I get to fuck my beautiful wife.”

“You’re so bad!” You teased, giving him a little slap to his chest as the two of you laughed, knowing that you had the exact same thought, he was just the first to say it.

“Oh c’mon, like you didn’t think the same thing.”

“Okay listen… you’re not wrong. I would be a liar if I didn’t walk in here and think about how many different furniture choices we could fuck on before we had to leave.” You sighed in a playful defeat, your breaths slowly transforming to light and giggly to low and needy as Javi slid his hands resting on your hips down to your ass, palming it in his grasp.

Craning his head down to rest in the crook of your neck, you couldn’t help but moan as he sucked at your pulse point, wet kisses consuming your neck and jawline as a damp patch began to pool in your underwear, falling apart under Javi’s touch.

“Well if that’s the case, what should we break in first, Osita? What does mi esposa (my wife) want? ” Javi hummed, slipping his hands under the waistband of your shorts and underwear, pushing them over your hips and down your legs until they pooled around your ankles, leaving your bottom half bare.

Snaking his hand between your bodies, you whimpered as his fingers ghosted over your core, grazing over your clit with just enough pressure to make you shutter in anticipation, feeling the slick of your arousal beginning to coat your thighs with want and need.

“F-fuck-” You stammered, trying to string together anything that resembled a coherent thought, “The b-bed. Fuck me on the bed, baby, please.”

Without another word, Javi had scooped you up under your thighs, forcing your legs to lock around his waist as he carried you toward the bed, mouths crashing together in a hungry mess of tongues and teeth.

Javi set you down, gently laying your back on the bed just enough to let your lower half hang off the edge so he could make a home between your legs, draping each one over his shoulders and pushing them open further to reveal the wet, puffy mess in between your thighs.

You should have been embarrassed with how worked up you already were from a few kisses and some ass grabbing, but with how excited you were to be here with your husband, without a worry in the world besides how many times you could disrespect your hotel room before you had to leave, you had no shame in how you were already dripping with anticipation as Javi’s eyes locked on your core.

“Fuck, she’s so pretty.” Javi cooed, admiring the glistening sheen of your slick covering your folds, planting gentle kisses along the soft skin of your thighs, creeping closer and closer to your center. You sat up on your elbows to watch as Javi’s fingers lazily traced your cunt, collecting your arousal, rubbing with just enough pressure to make your clit throb even harder than it already had been. “Always so wet for me, Hermosa. My perfect wife. Fuck, I still can’t believe you’re all mine forever.”

“Forever.” You whimpered, breath hitching in the back of your throat as Javi’s tongue dragged across your core with a broad, flat stroke, looking up at you with those devastatingly sweet, chocolate brown eyes, pulling off you with the look you knew all too well meant you were absolutely a goner.

“Tastes so fucking sweet, baby.” Javi hummed, carefully bringing two fingers to your core, sinking them inside your weeping hole to prod steadily against your g-spot

“Oh my god, fuck-” You whimpered, Javi working at a painstakingly slow pace that still had you writhing under his touch, his mouth and fingers moving in the perfect combination of pressure to already have a tingle beginning to build at the base of your spine despite the fact he had just started eating you out.

Your jaw went slack as his digits prodded faster, his tongue swirling and flicking against your sensitive bundle of nerves, ragged moans and whimpers escaping from your lips, growing louder and more wonton by the second.

“That’s my girl.” Javi cooed, pulling off you just enough to catch your attention, his fingers never faltering in pace, “Fuck, I could listen to you like this all day, Osita. All the pretty noises my wife makes just for me. C’mon, baby. You want everyone here to know who makes you feel this good, huh? Tell them, sweet girl, who makes you feel this good?”

“Y-you, Javi, fuck- You do, baby.” You moaned, feeling your pussy begin to flutter around Javi’s fingers as his smug smirk pressed back against your cunt, now sucking at your clit with a ferocious switch intensity he knew would send you over the edge in an instant.

Squeezing Javi’s head between your thighs, you cried out louder, chanting his name like a prayer with each second you grew closer and closer to your end, feeling arousal creeping through your body at a rapid rate.

“Javi, Javi, fuck- Oh, baby, Javi, I’m gonna- gonnaahhhhhhh-”

In an instant, your orgasm crashed through you, filling you with all consuming pleasure that had you seeing stars, sobbing out as your cunt clamped down around Javi’s fingers that were pulsing inside you through your high.

At this point, you were probably close to suffocating your poor husband, but it was his own damn fault for knowing how to make you cum so hard, your soul just about left your body.

Finally regaining enough inhibition, you let your legs fall open, freeing Javi from the thigh prison he had trapped himself in, still smirking with delight despite his red face and shortness of breath.

“Jesus Christ, Osita.” He laughed, standing up as he began to shed his clothes, tossing his shirt and shorts in a crumpled pile on the floor, followed by his already tented and stained boxers, revealing his painfully hard cock, slapping against his stomach and bobbing between his legs as it was freed. “You tryin’ to kill me, baby?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” You huffed, chest still rising and falling with heavy breaths as you came down from your high. “Sorry, not my fault you make me cum so hard I put you in a headlock between my legs.”

You and Javi both couldn’t help but laugh as he helped you slide further up the bed, crawling over you and caging you under his broad body, peppering every inch of your body with kisses and intentionally tickling you with his mustache in all the places he knew made you giggle the most.

“If I die between my wife’s thighs buried face deep in her pussy, I’d die a happy man.”

“Well I have no plans on intentionally murdering you on this trip, so count yourself safe this time, Peña.”

“Baby, I’m convinced you’re just trying to kill me slowly this entire trip, considering you have nothing packed in your suitcase besides bikinis and sundresses.” Javi sighed, arms planted around your head as he laid overtop of you, kissing up your collarbone and neck, all the way up your jawline.

“Javier Peña, we are literally on a tropical vacation to the Bahamas. Would you have liked me to pack, a parka and snow pants?” You teased, breath hitching in the back of your throat between giggles, trying to maintain your composure between the wet, hot kisses, Javi was planting across your skin.

“No,” He grumbled, “You’re the hottest woman I’ve ever fucking met, baby, you don’t think people aren’t staring at you everywhere you go? I can’t fucking blame ‘em, but they better notice that ring on your finger and know you’re off limits.”

Heat crept through your cheeks, butterflies swirling in your stomach from what he had said, picking up on the notion behind his thoughts. Javi wasn’t a jealous man, but fuck, was he a protective one, and God help any man who tried to knowingly make a move on you while he was around.

He wanted everyone to know you were his, and you just as badly wanted everyone to know he was yours.

“Maybe just the ring isn’t enough, baby.” He smirked, nipping and tugging at your skin with his teeth as he snaked his hand between your bodies to stroke himself and line his cock up with your entrance. “‘Cause you know what else isn’t in your suitcase?”

Your birth control.

You didn’t have to say a word to know exactly what Javi meant, your face swelling with a mixture of excitement and want.

“Javi, oh fuck-” You moaned, cut off by the sweet sting of Javi pushing into you, filling you up with every inch of himself until he had bottomed out, stalling for a moment to let you adjust to his fullness before slowly dragging his cock in and out of your cunt.

“Maybe,” he groaned, biting down on his lip at just how good you felt around him, warmth and wetness coating his length with each stroke, “Maybe that ring on your finger isn’t enough, Ostia. Maybe once they see you pregnant with our baby growing inside you, they’ll know you’re mine.”

It never failed to amaze you just how Javi knew how to make you short circuit with words alone, hoping the entire resort didn’t hear the absolutely pathetic whimper you let out at the idea of finally carrying his baby, showing off your family to the world, and the man who had given it to you.

“Fuck, knock me up Javi. Wanna- wanna make you a daddy.” You whined, wrapping your arm up around his neck, running your fingers through his dark and sweaty curls, tugging him closer to you until your mouths were molded in a messy clash of tongues and teeth.

“Christ- Yeah, baby girl? Fuck, I’ll give you whatever you want. I’ll fuck myself so deep inside you, it’s got no choice but to fuckin’ take. Keep you stuffed with my cum every day until it sticks.” Javi groaned, gritting his teeth as he grabbed the backs of your thighs, pushing them to your chest and pulling you closer to him so your back began to arch, giving himself the perfect angle to split you open and keep every last drop inside of you.

You could feel every inch of Javi filling you, perfectly punching against that soft, spongy spot inside your cunt with each thrust, keeping your thighs still pressed against your chest as the lower half of your legs wrapped around the small of Javi’s back, ankles locking together to keep him as close and deep inside you as you could.

“Dámelo, papi.” You cooed, wicked smile stretched from ear to ear watching Javi physically having to stop himself to let out a strangled groan, clenching his jaw and scrunching his face to keep from busting right then and there.

“Jesus, fuck-” Javi grunted, finally gaining enough composure to open his eyes and look back down at you beneath him, smugly smirking, “That’s how this is gonna go, huh?"

The chocolate brown of Javi’s eyes began to darken with lust, dragging his cock out and ramming into you so deeply, a pathetic whimper fell from your lips, nearly knocking the wind out of your chest feeling him practically in your stomach. Your whimpers quickly turned to sobs as he did it again, slowly dragging his length out of your wet, warm walls before pounding back in to you with a blinding intensity.

Leaning down, Javi grabbed your arms, pushing them outstretched above your head until your wrists were crossed over each other and Javi had them both in his firm grasp, pinning you to the bed with the weight of his body and grip. It was like something feral had ignited inside him, brow furrowed and teeth gritted with a laser focus, snapping his hips to thrust himself deeper and harder, melting you to a helpless puddle beneath him, your cries of pleasure and desperation only egging him on more.

“You want me to fill you up, baby? Then you’re gonna be a good girl and take every last fucking drop. Every. Last. One.” He huffed, syncing his words to each thrust, keeping a bruising grip over your wrists with one hand, and digging his fingertips into the meat of your hips with his other. “Tell me what you’re gonna do for me, baby girl. Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“It’s yours, Javi. Fuck, fuck, fuck- it’s yours, baby! I- oh shit- I promise I’ll be a good girl and take it all. Want you to fill me up, Papi.” You sobbed, arousal seeping through your veins as Javi’s cock punched against your g-spot over and over, each stroke faster and more intense, blinding your body with pleasure.

Your hotel room was drenched in the borderline pornographic sounds of skin slapping against skin, wet squelching of your pussy squeezing Javi’s cock tighter and tighter as you could feel the coil beginning to tighten in your stomach, crying out without any inhibition for your volume, Javi grunting and panting with equal intensity.

“That’s my girl. You gonna let everyone hear who this pussy belongs to? Let everyone know that I’m gonna fill you up and get you pregnant?” Javi mewled, watching the way your eyes were nearly rolling in the back of your head, snaking his hand gripping your hip down between your bodies to rub firm and frantic circles around your clit to help push you over the edge knowing how close you were.

As soon as the calloused pads of Javi’s fingers were pressed against your sensitive nub, you were seconds away from the brink of collapse, cunt clamping tighter and tighter around Javi’s cock, choking it with your velvety walls.

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck, fuck, I’m so close baby. Don’t stop, don’t stop, please, fuckfuckfuckfuck!”

Instantly, your orgasm crashed through your body, blinding white heat flooding your vision, pleasure shooting through every inch of you to the point you felt like you had left your own body. You could feel your body going limp beneath Javi, knowing he wasn’t far behind you given all his tell tale signs as you soaked his length with your arousal.

Javi’s thrusts had forgone any type of rhythm, now sloppy and erratic, his balls tightening and tensing in his stomach, babbling and moaning in your ear, whispering sweet nothings before he found himself in the same state of you.

“That’s it, hermosa. Cum all over my cock. Cum all over me before I fill up this tight little pussy so full it’s got no choice but to take. Oh fuck- Fuck, can’t wait to get you pregnant. See you carrying our baby. Gonna make you the prettiest fucking Momma-ahhhhhhh, fuck!”

With one final stutter of his hips, Javi was painting the inside of your cunt with thick, warm ropes of his spend, keeping himself flushed as tight as he could to your pelvis, making sure a single drop didn’t escape as he plugged you with his cock, cumming so hard he couldn’t help but whimper. The weight of his body slumped on top of you, syncing your heavy breaths, the sticky and sweaty sheen of your chests pressed together as Javi planted a slow and sensual kiss on your lips, swallowing your moans in his mouth.

“Holy fuck.” You half whispered to yourself, letting out a bliss-filled giggle.

“Jesus Fucking Christ.” Javi panted, quietly laughing along with you, gently brushing the damp and wild strands of your hair out of your face, “Fuck- You gotta be careful with that “Papi” shit, Osita.”

“Oh yeah? And why would that be?” You teased, smirking as you raised an eyebrow at him and bit down on your lip, knowing damn well why.

“Because if you keep that up, I don’t think we’re ever leaving this room.”

After dinner and giving a few more pieces of furniture in your hotel room a good test run, the two of you had happily called it a night on day one of your honeymoon, eager to explore the rest of the resort as the two of you rose with the golden rays of the sun beaming over the horizon of your ocean view window, flooding your room with warm and welcoming sunlight.

As much as the both of you were convinced you could have easily spent the next 10 days without leaving your hotel room, you made a pact that you would spend some time going to explore the rest of the resort after spending some much deserved post-wedding de-stressing in the sun by the pool, drinking as many mojitos and frozen daiquiris as you could stomach.

And as amazing as non-stop sex with Javi would have been, soaking up in the sun poolside with a drink on one side of you and a shirtless husband on the other, you’d say that this was a pretty close second.

“Another one?” Javi smirked, eyebrows raised at you as his brown eyes peeked over the edge of his aviators, gesturing at your nearly empty glass.

“I mean… if you’re offering.” You giggled, tipsy after a few drinks and hours baking in the sun, happily holding out the remainder of your mojito for Javi to exchange for a new one.

“I think the bartender and I are about to be on a first name basis pretty soon.” Javi laughed, shuffling out of his beach chair, grabbing his empty cup along with yours to bring back with him to the poolside bar that had been visited a questionable amount of times by the two of you since you had gotten to the pool this morning.

“Yeah? Are you gonna tell the bartender the frozen strawberry margaritas you’ve been getting from him all day are for you and not for your wife?” You teased, pulling your sunglasses down to look at Javi, playfully rolling his eyes back at you.

“Shut up. They’re fucking addicting. You had one, can you blame me?”

“I’m just giving you a hard time, Mr. I Won’t Drink Anything But Beer and Whiskey. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Although, I’m sure Steve would get a kick out of knowing you’ve downed like, 7 of these since we’ve gotten here.”

Setting down both of the drinks, you found yourself in a fit of squeals and giggles as Javi reached down to scoop you up out of your chair, carrying you bridal style to the edge of the pool before jumping in with the both of you, the refreshing cool of the pool water crashing over you as your bodies bobbed under the surface.

“Pendejo!” You laughed, splashing Javi as your heads peered above the edge of the water, Javi shaking his hair, damp and clinging to his forehead from your added assault, grabbing you by the waist before you could go any further, shifting you to wrap your legs around him as he held you, childishly swaying you through the water.

“Te amo, esposa.” (I love you, wife) Javi teased in a mocking tone, responding to your name calling.

“Joke’s on you, because I wanted to get into the pool anyways. You’re lucky you’re handsome. Mojito me, Peña.” You splashed again, rolling your eyes at his over exaggerated kiss before he swam away, shooting you a wink while he waded his way to the poolside bar.

It wasn’t long before Javi was making his way back, a drink in each hand, happily handing you your mojito as he got to the edge of the pool where you were sitting, lifting himself up to sit beside you and take a swig of his margarita.

“Miss me?” He smirked, raising his eyebrows at you.

“Terribly. Most agonizing 6 minutes of my entire life.” You teased, playing into the dramatics as Javi picked up your left hand, admiring the diamond ring and wedding band adorned on your finger before gently kissing it.

“Sorry to keep my wife waiting. I hope that you’ll accept this mojito as a token of my apology.”

“I think that’s a fair enough compromise.”

After a few more hours and several drinks later, it was safe to say that you and Javi had definitely both been in better states than you currently were, too far gone to care about the potential consequences of tomorrow’s hangover to stop yourselves.

“What time do you think it is?” You asked, sunkissed body sprawled out across the pool chair.

“Wife O’Clock.” Javi answered, snickering to himself at his answer.

“Javier Peña, that’s not a real time, you dork.”

“Half past mojito. A quarter ‘til my next margarita.”

“Jesus Christ….” You paused, one of the life guards crossing behind you catching your attention, “Hey, excuse me! Do you know what time it is?”

“Uhhhhh, looks like it’s almost 6!” The lifeguard replied, looking down at his watch before continuing on his path.

“6?! Oh shit!” You gasped, sitting up straight in your chair.

“What? What’s happening at 6?!” Javi inquired, seemingly less concerned with whatever was supposed to be happening then that had you so riled up.

“Javi, we're supposed to be at dinner right now! We made reservations at that italian place, remember?!” You grimaced, frantically starting to grab the towels and clothes you had scattered around the pool deck.

“Oh fuck! Shit, uh- okay, here, lemme help you!” Javi joined in on the gathering of any item that belonged to you that he could find, tossing it into the bag you had brought down with you, hoping that you didn’t forget anything that had come with you to the pool.

While the haphazard gathering of items was a good enough sign to any onlooker that you and Javi were more than likely intoxicated, the both of you didn’t realized just how drunk you were until you both tried to stand up out of your beach chairs, grabbing on to each other in a wobbly dance of giggles.

“Woah, I think I drank a little lotta margaritas.” Javi stammered, laughing to himself.

“Fuck, I did too. Jesus, how many do you think we had?” You giggled, face scrunching in anticipation of the number that was definitely going to be higher than you had intended when you came to the pool this morning.

You could see Javi trying to drunkenly calculate his trips to the pool bar in his head, counting across his fingers in a serious concentration, tongue sticking out of his mouth, as if it was going to help him focus better.

“Let’s see, I think after adding them all up… We drank a lot.”

“If we can’t even come up with a number, that’s not good. Fuck, I didn’t even bring real clothes! Our room is so far from the restaurant, there’s no way we’re even gonna be close to making it!” You pouted, shrugging your shoulders in defeat.

“Just put on the cute little dressy thingy over your bathing suit. Or just go in your bikini. You’re so hot they have to let you in.” Javi smirked, biting down on his lip as he looked you up and down, giving you his best drunken attempt at his bedroom eyes.

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t think the other patrons of this resort want to watch me eat pasta half naked, ya sicko.” You teased, giving him a nudge to his stomach a little harder than you had intended. “Okay, cover up will have to do, I guess. Do you have your shirt?”

“You don’t wanna watch me eat pasta half naked?”

“As much as I’d love to, maybe another time, weirdo. Okay, we have to go! Or else we’re not getting any pasta, naked or not! Focus, Peña, focus!” You commanded in your best pretend stern voice, grabbing the rest of your things in your hands while Javi stood there, admiring you like the drunken, lovesick fool he was.

“You’re so fucking sexy when you’re bossy.” Javi smirked, raising his eyebrows at you, “Okay, fine, fine fine, let’s go. Lead the way, Mrs. Peña.”

If you didn’t feel drunk enough after simply trying just to stand up out of your pool chairs and collect all your belongings within a 5 foot radius of you, you sure as hell did trying to drunkenly navigate the resort to find the restaurant you were looking for. After asking several employees, you somehow managed to stumble your way through the hotel to find your intended location, “Ciao!” , one of the higher-end dining experiences the two of you had planned for your vacation.

“Hi. We are married, and we are here to eat pasta.” Javi proclaimed to the hostess at the front of the restaurant, who was looking back and forth between you and Javi, riddled with confusion not only by Javi’s opening statement, but from the fact the two of you were nearly out of breath from running around every inch of the resort, clearly drunk, and still dressed in your swimsuits.

“Ummmm, okay? What’s the name on the reservation?” The hostess asked hesitantly, flipping through the pages of names and times written down for seating tonight.

“Peña. We were supposed to be here at 6 but we had a lil too much fun at the pool, but not enough fun that we completely forgot about dinner! We’re really sorry!” You explained, trying your best to keep your composure, biting your tongue to subdue your drunken giggles.

“Yeah, like, so sorry. I had a lot of margaritas today.” Javi added, turning his head to let out a little burp at the end of his sentence.

“I don’t see any Peña’s on the reservation for tonight….” The hostess sighed, flipping back and forth between today’s pages, clearly not amused by either of your antics.

“Oh no… Does that mean we’re not getting pasta? Shit.” Javi pouted, crossing his arms over his chest like a little boy.

“Oh wait, are- are you sure it was a reservation for today? I see Peña on here at 6 for tomorrow?”

“Oh shit…” You and Javi replied, nearly in sync, visibly grimacing at the fact that you had spent the past 45 minutes in an alcohol induced frenzy, running through the resort to find a restaurant you weren’t even supposed to eat at until tomorrow.

Whoops.

“My bad….” You shrugged, sheepishly frowning as you looked back and forth between the hostess and Javi, “Okay, well, um, we’re gonna- We’re gonna go then.” You winced, grabbing Javi by the hand to slowly drag him away from the restaurant, hoping that the physical distance would somehow spare you the embarrassment you had just subjected yourself to.

“You’re fine, just- We do ask that our guests wear more, um- appropriate attire when they come to dine with us.” The hostess scoffed, huffing at you and Javi, looking you up and down with your beach bound outfits and hands full of pool accessories as you continued to back away.

“She doesn’t wanna see us eat pasta in our bathing suits?” Javi whispered in your ear, making you snort so loud it almost hurt your chest, trying to keep from bursting into full blown laughter before making it out of eye and earshot of the hostess, jabbing him in the stomach with your elbow, only spurring him on further, “She doesn’t know how sexy you’d look shoving a fist full of garlic bread down your throat with nothing on but a bikini? Her loss.”

Now out of sight of the restaurant, you and Javi exploded into an obnoxious fit of drunken giggles, feeling completely idiotic for wasting nearly the last hour of your night in a whirlwind journey to nowhere.

“Well, looks like no pasta for dinner tonight.” You sighed, playfully throwing up your hands in defeat. “I am starting to get really hungry though… Like too hungry to go back up to the room and change and then come back down and wait at a restaurant for more food.”

“Yeah, shit, I’m really hungry too… Wait!” Javi paused, his face lighting up with excitement.

“What, Jav?”

“Didn’t we pass a pizza place on the way up to the room when we first got here?

The grin on your face was now equally as wide, almost certain that you and Javi were having the same drunk recollection.

“I knew there was a good reason I married you.”

Somehow or another, you had not only managed to find your way to “Papa’s Pizzeria”, you had managed to successfully order an extra large pizza for the two of you to split, and make it back to the room without any pizza casualties on the way.

Even a drunken you couldn’t help but realize how lucky she was to have married a man like Javi, and not just because of his excellent memory for pizza restaurants- What you had been through in the past hour and a half could have easily sent any other couple into an ugly spiral of arguments and blame they’d cast upon each other for “ruining” the rest of their night.

You’d been witness to so many relationships and marriages where couples barely managed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company, let alone have fun together. Cohabitation drenched in resentment and unhappiness towards each other, forced proximity the only thing keeping them together.

You were positive that there would never be enough “thank you’s” that you could send out into the universe for letting you marry your best friend.

Because what would have been a soiled evening for so many others, was quickly turning out to be a better night than you could have ever imagined, plans tossed out the window to sit cross legged in your king sized bed together, bodies draped in fluffy hotel robes as you mowed down on slices of pepperoni pizza, giggling over shared, drunken secrets with your favorite person in the world.

“Okay, your turn now.” You snickered, shoving another bite of lukewarm pizza into your mouth, giving Javi a playful shove into the sea of pillows at the head of your bed.

“I just went!” He protested, trying to talk through the mess of cheese, sauce and crust he was still chewing.

“Nuh uh! I just did, remember? We got off topic because we started talking about the Farrah Fawsect poster you had in your room that your mom made you take down, but you were the one who asked me about who my first celebrity crush was, remember?” You insisted, pointing your half bitten piece of pizza at him, forcing him to hold up his hands in defeat.

“Okay, okay! Can’t blame me for forgetting after thinking about that poster, though.” Javi shrugged, smirking at the thought of his 12 year old self gawking at the beautiful blonde actress hanging above his bed, “Shit…. Gimmie a second, let me think.”

“I’ve given you plenty of seconds, goofball! Like all the seconds I spared you thinking about Farrah.”

“Shut up. Okay,” he paused, taking another bite of pizza, “who was your first kiss?”

“Really? Why, you gonna go hunt him down?” You snorted, feeling like you were gossiping with your teenage best friend at a sleepover rather than with your husband, Javi laughing along with you as he shook his head, “It was Jack Mullins in the 7th grade.”

“Okay, and?” Javi prodded, smirking as he interrogated you for more information.

“It was at a Halloween Party my friend Sarah had at her house. I’m pretty sure we were playing truth or dare, and all my friends knew I had a massive crush on him because he was the cutest boy in the 7th grade. So they dared me to kiss him and I did it. It was so awkward, and I had no idea what I was doing. Pretty sure we kissed while the “The Monster Mash” was playing, too. I was so embarrassed after that I cried in the bathroom and then walked home and didn’t even say goodbye to anyone. Didn’t ever think I’d speak to him again and he ended up being my date to prom.”

“Wow. That was a way better story than I was expecting to get. “The Monster Mash”? Truth or Dare?” Javi chuckled as your cheeks turned red, watching your eyes at his enjoyment of your story.

“Okay, I was 12 Javi, some of us were weird, awkward teenagers. I’m sure that you were very easily the Jack Mullins of your middle school and had girls at the door lining up to kiss you.” You rebutted, having seen plenty of pictures of teenage Javi, thanks to Chucho, knowing whatever awkward phase he went through was only a fraction of your pre-teen pain.

“No, I wasn’t. I was a pretty shy kid. All my friends had their first kiss way before I did.” Javi shrugged, now sounding slightly more embarrassed.

“Okay, so what? They were 12 and you were 13? I don’t believe it. I would have had the biggest crush on you in middle school.”

“I’m being serious!”

C’mon, Javi, if I’m telling you about my Monster Mash kiss, I get to hear about yours!” You insisted, giving him the biggest fake pout that you could muster until he gave in.

“I- I was 16 when I had my first kiss.”

“You’re joking.”

“Why would I joke about that?”

“16?!”

“Osita, you’re making it sound like I was 72 when I had my first kiss, not 16.”

“Considering how cute you were, yeah, I am! Okay, spill! Now I need to know!”

“I’m telling you, I was a shy kid. Didn’t really come out of my shell until 10th grade when I started doing swimming. There was a girl on the team I always thought was really cute, but I was too chicken shit to do anything about it. All my friends had girlfriends and dates to go to homecoming with, and I didn’t have anyone, so they forced me to ask her. She turned me down, told me she already had a date. I was devastated. Went to a party with the team after, got drunk for the first time because I was so upset, and ended up kissing my friend’s older sister, Katie. Made out in the laundry room in the basement for the rest of the night. My friend found us after he realized we both had gone missing and ended up punching me in the face and almost breaking my nose.”

“Holy shit. That’s a way better story than mine.” You gawked, eyes going wide at the turn Javi’s story had taken.

“I wouldn’t say way better, just stupid.” Javi huffed, “You do dumb things when you’re young.”

“Well, you must have been a pretty good kisser even back then if she made out with you for an hour. Honestly, would have been dumb if she didn’t make out with you, in my humble opinion.” You giggled, scooting closer to Javi as you snuggled into his lap, resting your head on his outstretched thigh and letting out a big yawn. Resting his hand on your back, Javi pulled you closer, running his fingers through the sun kissed ends of your messy hair, smiling at all the tell tale signs sleep was beginning to creep through your body and the way you snuggled up next to him.

“Okay, one last question because all these mojitos are catching up to me and I’m getting sleepy.” You mumbled, feeling your eyelids begin to droop as you curled up in the warmth of his body, comfort flooding over you from Javi’s presence.

“Okay, hermosa. Your turn.” Javi cooed, his voice softening to match your sleepy tone, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

“If you could change anything about your life, anything you want, what would it be?”

Javi paused for a moment, his fingers still daintily stroking across your hair and back as he thought. Truthfully, there were plenty of things he wished he could change about his past. It would take him less than a minute to come up with a list longer than most people could muster in a lifetime. He had wasted so many years of his life, bitter and remorseful about the things he had done, condemning himself to suffer the consequences of his actions. And yet, somehow, despite all of the things he could have said, out of all the painful things he wished he could go back in time to change, there was one answer that prevailed above all the rest, an answer that couldn’t have been easier to choose.

“I wish there was a world where I would have met you sooner. That I would have gotten to love you just a little longer.”

He waited for your response, settling into the silence until it was broken by one of your soft snores humming against his thigh, signaling to him you were sound asleep in his lap, not having heard a word you said. He laughed softly to himself, remembering the first night he had stayed at your apartment, and how it had ended just like this, conversation flowing until the early hours of the morning until you couldn’t fight sleep any longer, eyelids shutting as you fell asleep in his arms. How he watched you gently drift to dreaming, wondering if he was, too. That somehow, some way, the world had managed to bring the two of you together. And even if he wished he would have gotten more time to love you before you’d met, Javi knew that he’d be forever grateful for every minute he had left with you.

Despite the raging hangover the two of you had the next morning after you woke up from your alcohol and pizza induced coma, the rest of your honeymoon had been some of the most fun that the two of you had had in years. You’d spent multiple days at the pool, soaking up sun on the beach and swimming in the ocean, eaten so much delicious food you were convinced you were going to combust, drank more mojitos than you’d like to admit, and had even gone snorkeling on a tour through some of the islands outside your resort.

You also had been having so much sex, you were starting to feel bad for the rooms on either side of you.

Everything about your honeymoon had been everything you’d ever hoped for and more, but with only one full day left of your vacation, you couldn’t help but feel a little sad that your perfect trip to tropical paradise was coming to a close.

“What’s that look for, porbrecita?” Javi laughed, sneaking up behind you on the edge of the balcony, watching you watch the sunrise with your cheeks propped up in your palms, pouting at the way bright pinks and oranges were greeting the sky. Standing behind you, he snaked his arms around your front so he could bring your back to his chest, kissing the top of your head while his arms settled around your middle.

“I don’t want our honeymoon to end.” You sighed, craning your neck just enough to look at Javi over your shoulder, “I’m sad it’s gonna be over.”

“I know, mi amor, me too.” He softly chuckled, planting a long kiss on your cheek, the whiskers of his mustache making you giggle, “But what if I told you I have one more surprise for us before we go home tomorrow?”

This made you swing all the way around, now chest to chest with Javi as you looked up at him in confusion, “What? I thought we were spending our last day on the beach just hanging out?”

“Well we are, but what if I told you I rented one of those fancy cabanas at the end of the beach for us to use to celebrate our last day here?” Javi smirked, watching your face light up at his proposition.

“Wait, actually?”

“Yes, actually.”

“But aren’t they like, super expensive to rent for the day?”

“I mean… they’re not that expensive.”

“Okay, the pause tells me that you spent way more money than you needed to on this, Jav.”

“And what if it was? I’m not allowed to wanna spoil my wife on our honeymoon?” Javi grinned, gently cupping your face and playfully shaking it, making you laugh again.

“Your wife doesn’t need to be spoiled, just getting to be here with you is more than enough.” You paused, giving Javi a little nudge as he dramatically rolled his eyes at you, chuckling to himself, “What, you goof?”

“I hope you know that because you’re my wife, I’m planning on spending the rest of my life spoiling you, whether you like it or not. I’d give you the fucking moon if I could, Osita.”

“Well lucky for you, a day at a beach cabana will do just fine.”

While you never would have asked Javi to purposely spend extra money on things you really didn’t need to make your trip any more special than it already was, you couldn’t deny that spending the day in your own private cove of the beach in a luxurious cabana with food and drinks being served to you at your request wasn’t a bad way to spend the last day of your honeymoon.

The daybeds in the cabana had made a perfect place for a shady, mid day nap for the both of you, lazily waking up from the soft kiss Javi had planted on your shoulder, exposed from your bikini top, freckled and sunkissed from days in the tropics.

“I’m gonna go for a swim, Hermosa. Be back in a sec.” Javi cooed, gently stirring you from your catnap.

“Mmmmmmkay.” You smiled, flipping over for another kiss on the lips before Javi slipped out from the flaps of your tent, softly blowing in the breeze. You sat up on your lounger, the sight of Javi in nothing but his bathing suit waking you from your brief sleep in a matter of moments.

Even though you had seen Javi in nothing but bathing suits for the past 9 days, you were convinced it was a sight you’d never find yourself getting over. There was no doubt that you had always found him incredibly attractive, but something about this trip had skyrocketed him to another level of sexy you didn’t even know was attainable. You weren’t sure if it was the unbuttoned floral shirts, excessive time spent shirtless, his messy and wet beach hair, or just the fact that now you got to call him your husband- truthfully, it was most likely a combination of all of the above.

You perked up, pulling back the fabric door of the cabana enough to watch Javi’s arms stroke through the ocean, popping his head above water with a brief shake before he was shallow enough to touch the sandy bottom again. As he sauntered in from the ocean, you couldn’t help but admire the width of his shoulders and chest, glistening from the sun and salty water. You let your gaze travel down to his swim trunks, feeling your mouth water at the way they hugged his waist and crept up his thick thighs. With each step closer to shore, you couldn’t stop staring at the way his trunks were clinging to his lower half, perfectly outlining his generous length.

Javi must have noticed the way you were staring at him by the subtle smirk that had broken out across his face as he approached the cabana, eyeing you up and down right back.

“You have a good swim?” You asked, feeling your stomach swirl as you took in every inch of him, glowing in the sunlight.

“Mhmm. Did you have fun watching me swim?” He teased, tongue tracing over his teeth while he raised his eyebrows, knowing damn well the effect he was having on you.

“Maybe. What, I’m not allowed to enjoy the view? Not my fault my husband is so handsome.” Your smirk was almost as wide as his, biting down on your bottom lip as Javi entered the cabana, letting the flap to the entrance close behind him before caging your body under his on the lounge chair, trailing hot, wet, kisses across your chest and stomach.

“Say it again.” He mewled, looking up at you with his big, brown eyes as his kisses trailed lower and lower, watching as he began to settle himself at the edge of the chair between your thighs.

“My husband is so handsome. You’re so handsome, Javi.” You sighed, feeling the damp patch in your swimsuit bottoms growing, soaking the fabric with your slick and arousal.

“You’re so fucking good to me. Fuck, I’m so lucky.” He groaned, slinging your thighs over his shoulders, eyes still locked on you while he began to tug at the strings of your bikini, leaving your bottom half bare.

There was a part of you that knew you should be worried about someone catching the two of you, barely concealed by the flimsy confines of your cabana, but the part of you staring at your husband between your legs about to eat you out seemed a lot more convinced that this was the best idea Javi had all day.

“You’re so fucking perfect. Everything about you. I’m the goddamn luckiest man alive, you know that baby?”

Your response to his question was nothing but a ragged moan, feeling him draping his arm over your hips to hold you in place as he slid two fingers into your heat. He curled his hand to reach the spot inside you he knew made you crumble before diving back in between your legs, beginning to lick you up like a man starved.

His tongue swirled against your clit, the firmness of each stroke and the deep press of his fingers making you writhe under his touch, shooting your hand down to grab fistfulls of his damp, curly locks to brace yourself as he ate you out relentlessly.

“Oh my god, fuck, Javi. Fuck, you feel so good. Fuck-”

You could feel him switching tactics, latching his lips around your sensitive nub, rapidly sucking at the throbbing bundle of nerves, working his fingers deeper in your cunt as he felt you begin to clench around him.

“Fuck Javi, fuck, right there baby- fuck, I’m close.” Your fingers were buried so deep in his curls, tugging just enough to pull his face closer to you as you could feel your orgasm building at the base of your spine, desperate for him to give you your sweet release.

His thick fingers bumped along your g-spot, curving them ever so slightly in the way he had memorized like the back of his hand to make you come undone. The tingle along your spine quickly spread down your legs, pleasure building rapidly throughout your body as you felt yourself on the edge of release. Lifting his arm off your waist, he reached up to grab your hand laying out on the lounge chair, engulfing it in his grasp as he intertwined his fingers with yours.

“Dameló, (give it to me) sweet girl. Let go, baby, I’ve got you.”

You could feel the pressure inside you snap, the tingling in your veins quickly transforming into full blown pleasure as your orgasm swept through you. You gushed around his hand, cunt clenching down on his fingers as you came, losing all sense of inhibitions as you cried out with a volume much louder than intended.

But with Javi’s fingers still curled, prodding against your g-spot, you had a feeling those cries weren’t coming to a halt any time soon. It was only moments after your orgasm had finished he was already on a mission to give you another, tongue lapping up every ounce of your slick as it pressed against your clit.

“Javi, holy shit, baby, oh fuck.” You whined, bucking your hips towards his face and arching your back as he circled around your bundle of nerves, your moans and whimpers only egging him on more.

Even after all this time, there was a part of you that still couldn’t believe how fast Javi could make you cum. He had memorized every twitch, every tug of his hair, every breathy whisper to know what made you fall apart under his touch, loving every second of watching you come undone for him.

You could already feel the tingling of your next orgasm beginning to creep up your legs and into your stomach as Javi sucked at your clit, greedy for him to help you hit your second high.

“Please don’t stop, Javi. Fuck baby, fuck, fuck, I- ahhhhhhhhh.” That was all it took before you could feel the waves of pleasure rushing through your body again, your pussy throbbing as your orgasm flooded over you.

Your legs were all but jello at this point, trembling around Javi’s head, still buried between them. Your last two orgasms had been so intense, you weren’t sure you could take a third, but with the way Javi knew your body, you also were convinced it would barely take anything for you to cum again.

“J-Javi- fuck, baby, fuck I can’t-”

“Gimme one more, Osita. C’mon, sweet girl. Wanna make my wife cum one more time.” You nodded, looking down at the shine of your arousal covering his smirk, knowing that at this point, you were so worked up and overstimulated that just the fingers already inside of you really were all you needed to give him your last orgasm.

Javi’s fingers had already sunk so deep into your cunt, already so overly sensitive to every push and pull of his hand, that the grip you had on his hand had become so tight, you could feel your knuckles turning white. You cried out his name as it fell from your lips, babbling incoherently as the third rush of pleasure crashed over you, gushing onto Javi’s fingers.

“That’s my good girl. My perfect fucking wife. I love you so much.” Javi carefully pulsed his fingers a few more times as he felt you clench around him, making you hiss as he withdrew his hand now soaked in your slick, bringing the digits to his fingers to suck them clean with a satisfied smirk.

It was only moments before his sly grin had quickly shifted to full blown panic, you, still too blissed out to wonder why he was scrambling to throw a towel over your bottom half and one to hide the erection under his as he sat himself in the chair next to you. Thank god Javi still at least had an ounce of inhibition left to see the footsteps of the server who had been periodically checking in on you strolling their way through the sand under the edge of the cabana, saving you both from what could have been an incredible amount of embarrassment.

“Hi, how are you two doing? Anything else I can get for you right now?” Your server asked, peeking his head in through the flaps to see you and Javi trying your best to act as natural as possible.

“N-no, I’m good. You good, honey? Need anything?” Javi asked, looking over at you as his hand ran over the back of his neck, trying his best not to grimace at the awkward tension stewing between him, you and your poor, unsuspecting server.

“You know what, I think I’m gonna have another drink.”

“Alright! Another mojito for you, ma’am?” Your server asked, whipping out his pad of paper to note down your order.

“No, can you make this next one a Sex on the Beach? That sounds really good.”

It truly took everything in Javi not to burst out laughing, choking on his own spit at your perfectly timed order, shaking his head at you in a humorous disbelief.

“Perfect, well I’ll be right back with your drink!”

“Thank you so much!”

Once your server had disappeared, you and Javi erupted in hyena like laughter, the combination of your joke and almost fatal timing throwing the two of you into a fit of giggles.

“You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?” Javi chuckled, looking over at you as he shook his head.

“What? It’s our last day, figured we might as well have a little sex on the beach. The drink sounds like it’ll be good, too.”

Your mid-afternoon flight had made for an easy morning to pack up and soak in the last little bit of your honeymoon. It had given you just enough time to enjoy your favorite breakfast place, and have one more of the best blueberry waffles you’d ever tasted before your last shower (and shower sex) to get ready for your departure home.

While you were sad your vacation had come to an end, there was no denying that every last bit of your trip was absolutely perfect, and even more so that you got to spend it with the most perfect person you could think of. You were convinced you could have gone anywhere in the world for your honeymoon and you would have felt the same- in the end, it wasn’t the destination that mattered, it was the fact you got to spend it with your husband.

The fact that you got to spend every vacation together for the rest of your lives only made it that much sweeter.

While flying would never be enjoyable, you were thankful your trip home was fairly painless, granting Javi’s hand some grace, considering you didn’t feel the need to keep it in an iron grip for the two hours it took you to arrive back home.

You were also thankful that it was Steve and Connie who had offered to pick you up from the airport instead of Chucho, sparing you and Javi the same sort of awkward embarrassment you had endured on the ride to start off your honeymoon.

Well, it may not been the same kind of embarrassment that you had experienced with Javi’s dad, but it was foolish of you to think that Steve was letting you get away scott free.

At least he had managed to get creative with it, making a greeting poster with “Welcome home, lovebirds!” on it to help you find him and Connie in the airport crowd, making Javi let out a sigh loud enough that Steve probably could have heard it from the tarmac.

“Hey! There they are! Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Peña!” Steve grinned, pulling you and Javi in for a hug as you found him, Connie following suit with a much less dramatic greeting for the both of you afterwards.

“How was the honeymoon? Did you guys have a great time?” Connie asked, offering to take one of your suitcases, nudging Steve to do the same. “

“It was really nice. It was everything we could have hoped for. The resort was beautiful, the food was great, and the weather was fantastic. It really was perfect.” You smiled, looking up at Javi, nodding in agreement, reaching out to wrap his arm over your shoulder.

“Thanks again for picking us up.” Javi chimed in, the two of you now following along behind your friends as they began leading you through the airport towards their car.

“Don’t mention it, Jav. Least we could do.” Steve replied, reaching out to give Javi a little punch to the arm.

“We’re super excited to hear all about your trip!” Connie added, looking back at you and Javi with a genuine grin.

“Excited to hear if I’m gonna make good on my bet…” Steve muttered, laughing under his breath.

“Steve! Seriously? You promised in the car you weren’t gonna bring this up!” Connie huffed, giving her husband a slap to the chest, and a grimace that clearly was the silent way to ask “Will you please shut up?”

“What?! I put good money on it, I’m confident!”

“Wait, is this the same bet that Javi’s dad was talking about on the way here?” You asked, looking back and forth between Javi, Steve and Connie in confusion, perplexed as to what you and Javi had to do with whatever bet he and the Murphy’s were in on.

“Go ahead, Steve! Why don’t you explain?” Connie scolded, hands on her hips as she stared down her husband in all his big mouthed glory.

“You bet on it, too!” Steve retorted, holding his hands up in defense, pointing at Connie to claim her as part of the guilty party to whatever was going on.

“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” Javi asked, trying to cut to the chase of whatever cryptic game they were playing.

“After y’all left on your wedding night, we- shit, this does sound kinda bad when you say it to their face, huh?” Steve paused, letting out a huff as he turned back to Connie, grimacing in agreement, “Us and your family and your dad made a bet.”

“A bet on…” You led, waiting for your answer.

Steve sighed again, hands on his hips as he stared at the ground before looking back up at you and Javi, “A bet on how quick it would take after the wedding until the two of you announced you were pregnant.”

You didn’t even want to know how red your face was turning, but judging by the sudden pink flush of Javi’s cheeks, you had no doubt you looked exactly the same, if not worse.

“To be fair, your dad was the one who started it!” Steve exclaimed, pointing at Javi to let him know he wasn’t to blame for his friend’s embarrassment before shifting his finger to point at you, “And your brothers were the one who said we should make it a bet! I just wanted in on it!”

“Jesus fucking christ.” Javi sighed, face in his palm as he rubbed his temples with the pads of his fingers.

“I hope now you know we’re not gonna have kids just to spite all of you.” You teased, crossing your arms over your chest as you tilted your head at Steve. It was enough to catch Javi’s attention, eyes going wide that there was even a shred of you being serious, laughing to yourself as you watched the relief flush over him when you shook your head at your own joke.

“Yeah, okay, whatever you say.” Steve chuckled, his voice oozing with sarcasm, simply shrugging before turning back around to continue your journey to the parking garage.

Javi took his free hand, intertwining it with yours and giving it a gentle squeeze as the two of you trailed behind the Murphy’s soft smile on his face that despite his friends and families bet revolved around your sex life, there was a very real possibility that sooner rather than later, someone was bound to make their fifty bucks.

“What’d you bet?” Javi asked, feeling entitled to know how Steve had gambled after he’d spilled the beans on his little wager.

“Well, let’s see, y’all got married at the end of July, so July to August, August to September,” Steve paused, doing the quick math on his fingers as he calculated his answer, “9 months from now would be April, so I’ll be damned if you’re not tellin’ us your havin’ a baby by the fall and it’s here by the spring. And I know for a fact neither of y’all would be mad about that one bit.”

And as much as you both hated to admit it, it was one of the few things in life that Steve Murphy was very, very right about.

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @whyjuliaaa @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem

@angelofsmalldeath-codeine @pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae

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@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @messinadresa @milly-louise @jay-zzle

@the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled @pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper

@nastiasnow @vee-bees-blog @hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk

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@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @pedr0swh0r3 @survivingandenduring

@javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

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hwaslayer · 2 months ago

Text

wildfire (cs) | fourteen.

—spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: assistant professor in bioengineering, incredibly attractive, lonely and divorced; that’s how most people describe san. but despite the events that have happened in his life, san has a lot going for himself. he’s a successful, sought out professor due to his brilliant contributions to science at just an early age of 32. he worked hard to get where he was now; head deep into his research, his publications, building his lab and creating a name for himself. everything was good and smooth sailing— until it wasn’t. because when he meets you, a bioengineering grad student interested in rotating in his lab, he finds himself ready to risk all the blood, sweat and tears he put in throughout the years just to keep you close— his need for you spiraling out of control like a wildfire.

—pairing: asst. professor!choi san x grad student!f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, grad school au | fluff, angst, smut

—word count: 5.5k

—chapter content/warnings: cussing/mature language, mostly focused on namjoon again in his stressed with no rest era, oc tells her friends about everything, jiung x oc fighting, crying :(, oc has a pretty good talk with namjoon, things are just shifting/changing

—a/n: the next fic coming up after wildfire has been posted here! also if you haven't taken my poll, pls do so! hehe <33 i appreciate u

You lay back against the arm of the couch with your blanket sprawled on top, typing away the last bits of info into your presentation. You're a slide away from creating your acknowledgements slide and wrapping up the entire rotation update. You had gotten an email from both San and Namjoon stating that your rotation in San's lab was ending due to a change in your timeline and that you needed to present your rotation update to the both of them, along with the dean, in the following week. It scared you at first— and it still does now— but it's starting to make more sense as to why San did what he did. Namjoon sent you a side email asking if you could meet today because he wanted to discuss what was going on. He kept it vague. Short.

Maybe he was holding off until the meeting.

It's obvious who started all of this. It's not hard to tell.

But, you agreed to meet after TAing for Yunho— letting Namjoon know you'd be there as soon as class was over. He agreed to the time and sent you a reassuring message towards the end, telling you all would be well and that he'd help you figure things out no matter what.

It was reassuring, but it doesn't mean you weren't scared.

Anxious.

Nervous.

Doesn't mean any if this it hurt any less. Doesn't mean you weren't angry, upset, sad. You still needed to feel it out, especially being alone and going through this without anyone else to talk to about it.

You had Eunchae, Jurin and Felix. But, you wished you had Jiung to talk to. You wished you didn't feel hurt about him, too.

—FLASHBACK

"So, you two are seeing each other?" Jurin asks while she sits in front of you and holds onto your knee to give it a gentle rub. Eunchae sits next to you with her arm over your shoulder, also giving you a gentle caress, squeeze. Felix sits next to Jurin and he's got a look of concern, but sadness. You had finally opened up about everything between you and San; from how things started, the conferences, staying at his house, being with him—

To not.

Jiung keeps himself posted near your window because he doesn't really wanna hear more about it but he needs to— to understand the full story. Part of him also feels guilty for what he did hearing your cries and how awfully torn up you are over Professor Choi.

San.

He's gotta get used to you calling him San like that.

"Were." You shake your head and press the tissue against your nose to pat it dry. "It's done with now."

"But, why? Couldn't you guys just play it off?"

"I'm sure he wanted to be safe, though." Felix adds softly. "I think I kinda see where he's coming from." He looks at you. "I don't think he meant to hurt you, but he's probably trying to protect you and keep everything safe in the meantime. Once this blows over—"

"I doubt we'd get back together."

"Don't say that. You never know, Y/N. I agree with Lix. He's probably just trying to do what's best for now even if it hurts him to. I'm sure he cares a lot about you. I mean heck, he almost fucked up Hae-jin in front of everyone." You sigh and look down at your hands, the feeling of sadness and emptiness all consuming.

"He does." Eunchae adds to Jurin's reassurance. "I don't know why Professor Lee and Professor Jeong think it's their business, though. Haven't they done enough damage?"

"Awful. People literally can't mind their business, especially when it has nothing to do with them."

"I get the power dynamics but Professor Choi doesn't seem like the type. So, honestly, it's not like anyone was getting hurt in the process." Jiung silently fiddles with his hoodie string as Felix goes on.

"And people clearly don't know you if they assume you're the one throwing yourself on him." Jurin adds.

"Damn. Two people can't just be together?" Felix shakes his head. "Anyway, you got us, and this will pass. I'm sure Professor Kim will do everything to help and figure things out, too." You dig your face into your hands, trying to wipe away the remaining tears before you nod and smile at Lix in appreciation for his support, too.

Still, you can't help but notice how Jiung has remained quiet this entire time— barely able to maintain eye contact with you.

"Should we go to dinner? Get some food in you?" Eunchae gives you a small smile and giggle. You nod and stand with them, quickly checking your appearance in the mirror while the three start making their way out of your door.

"Can we talk for a second?"

"About?"

"I just have to tell you something. Probably shouldn't wait until after dinner."

"Um, okay?" You look at him, hands crossed over your chest in a vulnerable manner, doe-eyes peeking up at him as he lets out a hefty sigh. "What's on your mind?"

"Y/N, I'm sorry. I just wanna say I'm sorry and I hope you understand where I'm coming from. But—" He lets out another sigh before shaking his head, almost as if he were shaking his feelings off. Trying to tell himself he needs to say it. "I-I went to Professor Kim and told him about you and Professor Choi. I told him I thought you were being taken advantage of and that I was worried."

"What?" You can barely get out. "W-why would you do that?"

"I was really just worried and I wasn't sure how else to get to you. I-I thought Professor Kim would be able to help—"

"Jiung." You call his name and step back, not wanting to be in close proximity to him. You knew he was worried about you, but you didn't think he'd go off and talk to Namjoon about it right away. "Why would you do that? Why couldn't we just keep talking about it— why did you have to go and blow this up even more?!"

"I'm sorry, can you blame me?!—"

"You didn't have to go behind my fucking back and tell Professor Kim! I already told you it wasn't like that and you still told him it was?! What the actual hell, Jiung?"

"I was just worried about you! I was being your fucking bestfriend, trying to make sure you weren't hurt or anything."

"And then you made things worse. Are you happy?" You scoff. "Those assumptions could have really fucked up Professor Choi."

"What about you, Y/N? Why do you keep disregarding yourself?! Is that even healthy—"

"Healthy?! I'm telling you the truth!" You scoff. "And you don't know shit about me and him, so quit acting like you do." You throw your hands up in defeat because he'll never get it. "Forget it, okay? You'll never understand and I don't need you to."

"Hey, what's going on?" Felix pops his head in, confused at the ruckus going on behind doors. Truthfully, he heard everything just as he was approaching the door to check up on you, and he's not sure how to feel. It's hard. He feels like he's in the middle because he sees Jiung, he sees you.

"You guys can go off to dinner together, but I'll probably just stay behind."

"But, Y/N—" Jiung adds in defeat.

"Why don't you and the girls go? We'll catch up later." Felix tugs him by the sleeve and gives him a look. "Give her some space." He mutters lowly just as he gets in close distance.

—END

Your alarm blares on the coffee table, a harsh reminder that you haven't really slept much. It was time to wrap up and get ready for Yunho's class— something you weren't entirely ready to tackle today either.

But, you get up anyway.

You sigh and put on your brave face.

You throw on a simple sweater, jeans and your Sambas— dabbing a bit of mascara, brow gel and lip gloss to fix yourself up a tiny bit for the day. You were tired of feeling sad and dressing the part; the least you could do was finally get some fresh air and look decent enough for the world while coming out of your slump. You grab your things and pack up your bag, heading out of the door with your keys in hand.

Kinda sucks you won't be returning to San's lab.

Kinda sucks you won't be returning to San.

You let out a sigh and quietly walk over to the classroom in peace, keeping your head down for a majority of the time.

Avoiding eye contact, avoiding anything having to do with the outside world in meantime.

"Hey!" Yunho says in his usual fashion. You give him a small smile, although you're not really sure why he's joining class yet again today. He had been joining your class in particular recently, and you knew why.

He just wanted to get under your skin.

"Hi." You respond, getting your laptop together. Yunho continues to watch you from where you're standing, noting the sadness that envelopes your entire body. The way you're avoiding him. The way it's so blatantly obvious that you know that he knows.

That Iseul is the reason why you're sad.

You don't say anything otherwise; keeping your head down and away from Yunho even while the class walks in. You continue to carry on with the last journal club of the class before giving everyone time to work on their final proposals before it's due at the end of the evening. A few people linger at the end of class to speak with you and Yunho to get your guidance on the last remaining bits of their proposals before they thank you for all your help and head out for the day.

You still haven't said a word to Yunho, and he can't help but ask:

"Is something wrong?" Yunho asks nonchalantly after class, looking at your figure even though you are avoiding eye contact with him while packing up your things.

"No."

"You don't have to lie to me."

"I don't know why you're asking if something is wrong when you know what it is already. Don't you?" You look at him plainly from the side before gathering the rest of your things.

"Whatever's been happening between you and San is between you and San—"

"So, was it you who told Professor Kim? Or was it Professor Lee?" You cut him off. Yunho stares at you, and he doesn't respond. Of course he won't, of course he won't throw Iseul under the bus even though you know she was behind it.

"It was for the best."

"Quite frankly, I don't think you can speak on what's best for me or him. Especially him." You look at Yunho directly in the eye. "Are you both that determined to bring San down? Is that what this?" He furrows his brows.

"Reel it in, Y/N." He says, sternly. "Do you not understand how damaging this could be for both you and him? If anything, it was done to protect you both."

"What makes you think we weren't capable of doing so?" Yunho lets out a pathetic chuckle before he steps forward and leans towards your ear, a small smirk on his lips.

"I think snuggling up on campus and sneaking into his office is enough of a reason." He pulls back, licking his lips before dipping his hands into his pocket.

"And I think you need to learn how to mind your own business and let San handle his own." You scoff. "In any case, Yunho." You look him in the eye. "You and Iseul already ruined him from the beginning and you can't come to terms with it." You tilt your head to the side. "You both were never deserving of San, and that is sad. No wonder you two are miserable and are still keeping tabs on him." Yunho's mouth slightly drops, but he doesn't respond to your statement. "I'll help out with finals if needed. Otherwise, please consider my TA assignment with you done."

You almost run into Iseul as you stomp out of the classroom, leaving her to knit her brows at you in response.

"Nice talk." Iseul pops in, her husband biting his cheek.

"We should have never gotten involved with that, Iseul." He says lowly as he gathers his things together.

"Oh, so just let them—"

"That's exactly it, just let them be." He cuts her off and looks at her. "It didn't have to be us. We could've just let them be and let anyone else do the talking. Let them learn on their own." His jaw ticks.

"We did the right thing." She crosses her arms.

"Still doesn't change the fact that you're taking the opportunity to destroy San and running with it. It didn't have to be us." He repeats, slinging his bag onto his shoulder.

"Yunho." She says. "You're not actually taking Y/N seriously, are you? She's delusional if she thinks all of this is okay and would've slipped."

"Don't call her delusional, Iseul. You have no say in their relationship or what they're about. You had no right. They knew what they were getting into. You just lead them into the trap for your own benefit." Yunho scoffs. "You wanted to see this unfold, didn't you? You wanted this to unfold in a specific way."

"What is going on, Yunho?"

"We're not meddling in this anymore. If you're not ready to stop, count me out of it. I'm not doing this, I'm not picking at their business anymore." He grabs his things and takes the lead out of the room. Iseul scoffs and shakes her head, slowly trailing behind him.

As for you, you feel cold. You feel isolated. You feel empty. You walk out and find a hidden table behind the building and set yourself down to get yourself together. You let out a couple of breaths to ease your feelings, promising yourself you wouldn't cry over this anymore.

But, it hurts to hold it in.

It hurts.

You feel the dullness, the heavy ache, in the center of your chest, and it hurts.

You have to move on.

"Fuck." You sigh, hand over your chest to give it a few gentle rubs before you're back on your feet and checking the time. You need to see Professor Kim just like your promised.

Of course, as you're on your way to Professor Kim's office, you find San passing by with Yeosang and Jongho. His eyes land on you and you immediately break first, feeling the tears ready to well up in your eyes. He sees the way your head drops and how you turn away— he can't help but slightly turn over his shoulder to keep his eyes on you.

To lock eyes with you once more.

To feel.

But, it doesn't happen. And it fucks San up more than he expects because he doesn't know even know what Jongho and Yeosang are talking about anymore after that brief interception.

"Yo, you good?" Jongho taps his chest with a small chuckle, bringing San back to reality.

"Yeah. Sorry." He tries to play it off quickly but Jongho quickly turns over his shoulder to see you walking in the opposite direction.

"All good." He returns to San and gives his shoulder a small squeeze. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about." San gives him a toothless smile. "Anyway, did you guys figure out where we're going before we make laps around campus?" Yeosang and Jongho share a quick look before they follow behind San and pick the conversation back up to prevent any of San's sadness from creeping up.

Meanwhile, you continue your way to Professor Kim's office, wiping away the stragglers that manage to escape your eyes and streak your cheeks. You weren't gonna let this get to you, so you quickly try to brush it off and get yourself together especially when you walk down the hallway and into Professor Kim's office. He's in his chair, typing away on his computer— glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose.

"Hey Y/N, come sit and make yourself comfortable." He smiles at you and you return the gesture, sitting down on the chair posted in front of his desk.

"Thanks for meeting with me today, Professor Kim."

"No, thank you." He chuckles and finally shifts his full attention towards you. "How are you today?"

"Uh, could be better but not complaining."

"Yeah? How was class with Professor Jeong?"

"Hm, okay." You hum before shifting in your seat nervously.

"Just okay?" You nod. "Well, as long as there aren't any complaints or anything you wanna tell me." Namjoon knows you probably aren't having a great time in Yunho's class right now and he doesn't blame you.

"No." You force a smile. "Anyway, I see that I have to do my rotation presentation next week?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, Y/N. You do understand why this is all happening, right?" You slowly nod. "I know you and San have been seeing each other, and I know he ended things the other day. I'm really sorry, but I just need to protect you both. Word is getting around fast and the dean isn't having it. I can't have him fire San, I can't have him kick you out of the grad program. Please just understand why things have to be this way. I just need it to settle."

"I do." You respond weakly before looking down at your hands. "I'm sorry for causing so much trouble, Professor Kim. I didn't mean— we didn't mean for this to blow up. I-I know we shouldn't have been so sloppy and reckless, and I'm sorry—"

"Hey, hey." He shakes his head with a sympathetic look. "No need to be sorry. I promise all is fine, and that's why I'm here to help and protect you both." You look at him with a sad nod, and you aren't sure why that's the tipping point for you but you suddenly start to break down in front of Professor Kim. He feels his heart breaks because he knows there wasn't any power play in this; he knows San as a person, and he's familiar with you as a student and the work you do. There was no way either of you used any power or position for your advantage. He knew this had been a genuine, real relationship— it's just truly unfortunate it had to unfold this way.

If word hadn't gotten around, maybe Namjoon wouldn't care at all.

But, he has to now, and that's what makes everything hard about his role.

"I promise everything is going to be okay." He says softly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—" Namjoon shakes his heas, watching the way you cry into your hands.

"Y/N, it's okay. You can let it out if you need to." He passes you the tissue box. "Can I ask you something? And be honest. I've already figured out your plan for school so you don't have to hold back." Namjoon says. "Do you care about him?" You nod as you continue to cry, the ache in your chest making it hard for you to breathe.

You miss San.

"But, it doesn't matter because he ended it. It's over with."

"He only did so because of my guidance, and I'm sorry about that. I told him this too, but it's not something I wanted to do. Trust me. As his friend, it's the first time I've seen him genuinely and truly happy. It's all I wanted after the things he's gone through. But, I just can't risk it right now. San is beginning to reach new heights with his career and getting more real estate to do things he's been wanting to do with Jongho. You're also just getting into the groove of things. I don't want either of your hard work to get snatched away over something like this."

"No, I know Professor Kim. I do understand and I'm grateful. It just sucks. I don't know how else we would've gotten away with it, I guess." You sniff. "Maybe it had to happen."

"Look, I told him this, too. But, I can't police every detail and tell you who you can and can't date. If San is someone you care about, then so be it, but the only thing I ask of you is to keep it off campus. I cannot have you two interacting on campus or else he's out. Not by my choice, but the committee."

"I don't want anything to happen to him."

"I know, and he said the same thing about you. He cares just as much, so don't think that he doesn't." You dab your face with the napkin and nod.

"Jiung confessed and told me he came to you about it." Namjoon nods.

"I think he was just worried as your friend. Rightfully so. But, I think he also shouldn't have jumped to those conclusions right away."

"I told him that."

"If I hadn't known San so well, I probably would've believed Jiung." He sighs. "It's alright, he didn't know and he was worried. Are you two okay?"

"Not really, but I think we just need time. I'm trying to see his side of things, but I also didn't think he'd do that so it caught me off guard."

"I see. Well. Give yourself some time and grace, okay? I'm sorry it had to be this way for now." You give him a tiny, toothless smile. Eyes still shiny and watery from the crying you've just done.

I'm sorry it had to be this way for now.

It repeats in your head over and over again because why does it feel like this is just how it's gonna be? Despite Namjoon reassuring you, despite San's explanation. Why does it just feel like a fleeting moment? A chapter in your book— a part that was never really supposed to last.

"Thank you." He gives you a smile.

"So, shifting to the program. I was thinking I could pull you into my lab and we can figure out things as time goes on? Explore other options if there's anything else you'd wanna explore." You nod. "You know there's other paths we can look into, or if you're totally fine with where you're at in my lab, then we can just stick with that plan."

"That sounds good. Thank you, Professor Kim."

"Unfortunately, like I mentioned, I can't have you interacting with Professor Choi. I'll have to make sure you don't take any of his classes or end up in any collaboration projects with him." You nod.

"Okay. I understand."

"You'll have to halt all your work in his lab immediately. You can grab your things when you feel ready to, but I'll have you in my lab starting next week. I know it'll be a bit crazy with your rotation presentation, but I promise to make it a smooth transition."

"Okay." You purse your lips. "I'm almost finished with my rotation presentation."

"That's great!"

"It'll just be us three?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry. It's not the usual format but I need the dean to see all the good work you do."

"Thank you. I appreciate your support."

"Do you have any questions so far? Any other concerns?" You think for a second before shaking your head.

"No."

"I'll send you some onboarding info and give you the contacts to some key people in my lab to help you get started. We can figure out your project and goals in a little more depth next week. Let's aim for a Monday morning meeting? 9am?"

"Good with me."

"Thanks, Y/N. And please trust me when I say all is gonna be well."

"Thank you."

"See you next week? Be sure to keep an eye out for my emails." You nod as you stand and tuck your bag closely to you.

"I will." You give him another smile before heading out of the door. Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose and plops back down onto his chair, picking up his direct line to ring the dean's office phone. It rings for a few minutes before the dean is answering on the other end.

"Namjoon."

"Hey. Can we meet today to talk about what's been going on? I can be over in the next 15 minutes."

"I'm free, but I have a hard cut off in 45 minutes."

"That's plenty of time. I'll be there soon."

"See you." Joon hangs up and gathers his things, loosening his tie to get himself together for this meeting. He doesn't necessarily wanna do this, nor does he think he's ready for whatever the dean could unleash on him.

On you, on San.

But, he has a job to do and he'll make damn sure he gets his point across. He'll make damn sure he controls this well, and he'll make sure nothing happens to the both of you.

When he gets into the building and heads straight for the dean's office, he's greeted by the front desk and his executive assistant. The dean's assistant knocks on his door and pops her head in to give him a heads up about Namjoon's visit. It isn't long before she's gesturing for him to come into his office, stepping out and slowly shutting the door behind her once Namjoon's settled in the seat in front of him.

"Namjoon."

"Dean Louie." Namjoon clears his throat. "Can we discuss what's been going on? I've got a chance to review this more in depth."

"Great. So, tell me. What's with the anonymous tip? Is there truth behind San and his student's relationship?"

"No." The dean looks at him with his head cocked to the side. "Not at all."

"Namjoon. This isn't the time to play games."

"Who said I was?" Joon asks. "This is purely a rumor and there is nothing going on between the two of them. To keep things safe, I'll make sure they don't cross paths and interact on campus, and I'll make sure to work closely with her and keep her under my wing." Namjoon says.

"A rumor? That blew up around campus? What about Iseul and Yunho? Iseul told me about the happy hour event with San. All of this seems too good to be true, and if you're covering for them—" Namjoon cuts him off.

"Since when did Iseul and Yunho have their best interest in San? All I know is that they've always been the driving issue, not San." Namjoon looks at the dean confused. "I don't mean to be disrespectful, but a rumor is a rumor and I've gotten to the bottom of it. I talked to the both of them and they denied it through and through. The only reason why San got caught up in the whole happy hour business was because a postdoc was crossing the line and being really disrespectful to her. Any one of us would've done it had we caught it right away like San did." Namjoon continues to furrow his brows. "Now, please. I'd appreciate if we can move on." The dean sits back and lets out a hefty sigh.

"Go on."

"As stated in my email, she will do her rotation presentation in front of myself, you and San. After that, she will be removed from his lab and will be placed in mine. We'll have weekly check-ins, and I'll work with her to move her classes around and realign her priorities so that she and San don't cross paths in this program again."

"And what about this real estate in the building? I'm not going to give it over if this is what San plans to do—"

"I'm sorry, but this shouldn't define San and his work." Namjoon pauses. "He's not, alright? I already confirmed it was a rumor and there is nothing going on. No reason for you to pull back on that real estate deal especially when Jongho had nothing to do with this either and San has already explained his side and agreed to comply regardless. She'll be out of his lab." The dean gives Namjoon a stern look.

"You better make damn sure this doesn't happen again, Namjoon. No rumors, no slip ups. And you make sure those three stop causing trouble on campus. Iseul, Yunho and San. I don't care who did what and who is blaming who, I need this to stop. Now. We can't have childish, petty issues running amuck on this campus."

"You have my word."

"If I hear San and Y/N in the same sentence again, I can't promise it will be the same outcome."

"With all due respect, I need you to understand that whatever they do, whatever happens off campus, doesn't concern me and shouldn't concern you either. I cannot police their behavior and make them act a certain way off grounds. They are both grown, mature adults that can make decisions on their own, and you know that's unfair and very unrealistic." The dean doesn't say much. He mutters a few things under his breath before he's returning his attention to Namjoon.

"Not a damn word about them ever again, Namjoon. I mean it." The dean warns him again before settling into his seat and returning his attention to his desktop computer. Namjoon does a quick, silent bow before walking out, sighing loudly to himself as he's finally gotten that over with.

Still doesn't make it any easier knowing he had his friend make a very difficult decision that he did not wanna do.

He hopes in time, this could blow over and San could be happy again. Despite this hurdle, he's betting on it. On you and him.

Maybe when you come back together, circumstances will be different enough that it won't make the relationship seem as bad as it does right now.

"Shit." Namjoon clicks his teeth when he finally gets out of the building and breathes in the fresh air. He is exhausted, but his day isn't about to be over, no. On his way back to his office, he finds Yunho speaking to a few colleagues in the courtyard. He must have gotten out of a meeting and was walking his visitors out.

And Namjoon doesn't give a fuck. That visit is ending now.

"Professor Kim! It's an honor to see you in the flesh!" Namjoon smiles at his guests before returning the favor.

"Hi there." Namjoon does a curt bow. "Hope you've enjoyed your visit."

"Completely. We had a great collaboration meeting with Professor Jeong here, and he gave us a tour around."

"That's great, yeah." Namjoon smiles before looking at Yunho. "Can we talk in my office?" Namjoon says near Yunho's ear. "Now?"

"Sure." Yunho bids his last farewell before excusing himself and following Namjoon straight to his office. No words being spoken or shared. Namjoon shuts the door and sighs, looking at Yunho with his hand on his hip. "What's going on, Joon?"

"I'm just trying to understand why you and Iseul are trying so hard to ruin that man's reputation. The dean told me Iseul went over there to give him more of her little intel on San."

"I don't know what she said or did—"

"You still knew about it, didn't you?" Namjoon looks at him. "You knew this whole time Iseul was trying to raise hell about this and you let her."

"How is this not wrong?"

"No one said it wasn't wrong, Yunho!" Namjoon raises his tone. "There were just better ways to go about it than throwing San's name out there the way you two did. Just throwing him out there to the wolves without even knowing the full story. That's the problem!"

"I'm sorry, it doesn't seem like it now, but we were looking out for him and everyone else potentially involved."

"Except me. If you knew better, you both would've let me handle this accordingly. This doesn't just affect him, Yunho. It affects you both. It affects me. It affects Y/N, Jongho, everyone. Because you both didn't know how to be discreet about your plans to bring San down."

"It was never like that!"

"Then, what was it like? Tell me. As his colleague, as someone who acted purely for their own benefit, what was it like? As San's ex-bestfriend, what was it like?" Yunho doesn't respond. "This isn't high school, Yunho. I'm sorry, but the both of you need to grow up."

"We just tried to do the right thing and I don't take any of it back. If you fail to see that, then that's on you—"

"Oh, so approaching the dean to give him more talk in his ear with your so-called evidence before coming to me is doing the right thing?" Namjoon looks at him. "What was the goal here? What did this plan look like to you and Iseul?” He shakes his head. “No, actually, I don't wanna hear it, she already came into my office to talk my ear off about this. That should've been enough to let me handle it." Namjoon furrows his brows at him.

"We just thought we were helping everyone—"

"Helping? Yourself or Iseul?" Namjoon shakes his head. "You know what, this is done. The damage is done. So, thank you and Iseul for your generous help." Yunho sighs. "Now that you've done all the talking, it's my turn." Joon steps closer to him. "As long as I'm around, I'll continue to keep the peace in this department, and that means I don't want you and Iseul meddling in San's personal matters ever again." Namjoon's jaw ticks as he and Yunho stare at each other in the brief pause that falls between them. "I don't want you meddling in Y/N's personal matters, I don't want you two doing anything on this campus besides running your labs and minding your own goddamn business. Do you understand me?" Namjoon places his hands on his hips while he and Yunho maintain eye contact. Yunho swallows thickly before nodding, digging his hands in his pockets.

"Yes sir."

"The next time you and Iseul wanna act like I don't know how to do my job, I promise I'll be good with reminding you."

—read 14.5 here

—taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @vcutparis @chngbnwf @struggling101 @sanhwalvr @angelqueendom @barbielibra @brown88 @choisansplushie @yunhoswrldddd @hyukssunflower @vickykazuya @lucid-galaxys-world @jaytheatiny @pommelex @thechaotictheoryy @vixensss @santineez @nopension @domfikeluva @in-somnias-world @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @mountiiny @naoristerling @onmymymyway @thecutiepieme @wyrated

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admiringlove · 1 month ago

Text

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. the pieces are in place, the shadows are shifting, and soon, everything will unravel.

➵ warnings. mentions of blood; mentions of familial abuse; mentions of death; mentions of physical injuries, etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; SLOWBURN (but it won't be, soon. hehe); inaccuracies in the wizarding world because i did make some stuff up for the sake of the crossover; etc.

➵ word count. 25.5k.

➵ author's note. longest chapter i've written! let's make this official: there will be one final chapter after this. and then two epilogues. it will take longer to write from here on out, as all of these will be long (purely for my own indulgence sake). tysm for reading!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

You return to the wooden bridge that evening just as precisely as you had left, the world slotting itself back into place as if nothing had ever shifted. The castle looms in the distance, golden light spilling from its many windows. The night air is cold against your skin, and the sharp scent of pine presses into your lungs with every breath you take. The bridge creaks beneath your weight, the only sound in the quiet.

And then, before you can say anything, before you can even process the way the weight of time itself seems to settle back into place, Satoru turns on his heel and walks away.

His coat billows at his ankles as he strides toward the castle, and you don’t stop him. You don’t call out. You don’t even try.

You understand.

If you had just learned that a war was coming in the next decade, that you were fated to stand at the center of it, you’d want to be alone too.

But that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

The prophecy claws at the edges of your mind, and it's something you can barely begin to comprehend. Sukuna will rise again. And for what? To spread chaos, to shatter peace, to bring the world to its knees? He has no purpose beyond destruction, no motive beyond his hunger for power. He was never like Grindelwald, never a man with grand ideals of purity or domination. He exists only to challenge the strongest, to crush them beneath his heel, to prove, time and time again, that no one—not even the greatest among them—can match him.

And the strongest, right now, are Dumbledore and—perhaps, if he follows the path laid out for him—Satoru.

You’ve seen it before, in flashes, in hints, in the way he moves, the way he holds back. When he duels, he never fights at full strength. When he plays Quidditch, he never flies as fast as you know he can. He is always withholding, keeping something tucked away just beneath the surface, something no one else has ever truly seen. Not here. Not at Hogwarts. Because there has never been a reason to show it.

But there will be. And that scares you more than anything.

You exhale, the breath leaving you in a slow, deliberate sigh as your hands curl around the cold railing. The wood is smooth beneath your fingertips, worn by years of wind and rain and the occasional student who, like you, finds themselves here when they have nowhere else to go. Beyond the bridge, the Black Lake yawns wide and unbroken, darker than you’ve ever seen it. There are no ripples tonight, no telltale signs of the creatures that lurk beneath, and the reflection of the sky above—endless, and grey with the weight of something coming—sits undisturbed.

The Forbidden Forest looms just beyond the lake, its outline blurred by the early winter fog. It has never been peaceful, never been quiet, not really, not when it is filled with things that move in the shadows, things with sharp teeth and old magic. But from here, from this distance, it almost looks serene. You know better than to believe it, but for a moment, just one, you let yourself pretend.

And then—

Snow.

It falls suddenly, in light, hesitant flakes, drifting down from the sky like the softest kind of omen. You blink, startled, looking up as one lands on your nose, and melts instantly. The air changes, sharpens, and you know that by morning the castle grounds will be buried in white.

Satoru is gone, and for the first time since you met him, since he inserted himself into your life like an inevitability, he feels distant. He is probably alone somewhere now, trying to make sense of everything, trying to fit himself into a war that has already decided his role for him. You should be doing the same, you think. You should be planning.

There is too much to do.

You could write down the prophecy, put it somewhere in the Room of Requirement, pin it to the board as if that will make it less terrifying, less real. You could go to a professor—Dumbledore, McGonagall, Fig, even Snape—and ask for guidance, though you don’t know how you’d explain how you know what you do. You could start researching, could spend every waking moment in the library poring over ancient texts, searching for anything that might tell you what you need to know. About Sukuna. About dark magic. About how to stop any of this before it is too late.

But you are exhausted.

It sits heavy inside of you, in the way your shoulders slump against the railing, in the way your eyelids flutter shut for just a second too long. You are tired. Scared. Anxious. You don’t know what will become of Satoru. Or Suguru. Or Sukuna. Or yourself. Any of it, really.

Because how do you stop someone from reaching for power they were never meant to touch? How do you stop something ancient, something that has spent centuries waiting for a moment just like this? How do you stop a war before it begins?

You don’t know because it has never been done before.

And that is what terrifies you most.

You hear voices in the distance, faint at first, then growing closer. A moment later, you see them—Shoko and Nanami, walking toward you across the bridge. Shoko lifts a hand in greeting, her other tucked into the pocket of her robes, while Nanami walks beside her, quiet, watchful.

You force a smile as they approach, though you can tell from the way Shoko narrows her eyes that it is hardly convincing.

"You left Hogsmeade," she says once she’s close enough.

"Yeah," you murmur, wincing a little. "Some stuff happened, and I had to go."

"Stuff as in?"

"Stuff as in, Fushiguro and I ended things."

Not exactly a lie. But not the reason you left, either.

Shoko tilts her head, lips pressing together in something close to amusement. "Okay, Fawkes," she says, voice laced with a quiet kind of exasperation. The nickname makes your ears perk up, but she continues, "before you start lying to me again and again—"

You freeze.

She keeps going.

"-I know everything. So does Kento. We’ve known from the start."

You stare at her. "What?"

"We know you’re a Marauder," Shoko says simply. "And so is Satoru."

"Huh?"

"I figured it out first, actually. Right around the time you guys started," she continues, as if you hadn’t just been rendered speechless. "Kento caught on around the end of last year."

You blink, trying to process it, trying to make sense of how, when, why this happened.

"Hold on," you say, holding up a hand. "I’m still trying to—"

"Utahime doesn’t know because she can’t keep a secret, and Suguru doesn’t either, for obvious reasons," Shoko says, unfazed. "But yeah. We know."

You open your mouth, only to close it again.

"And," she adds, finally, "I just saw Satoru run to the Slytherin common room like his life depended on it, so I’m worried. Which is why I dragged Kento here with me."

Nanami sighs, rubbing his temple. Shoko smiles. You stare.

Nanami exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair before rubbing at his temple like this is already giving him a headache. The bridge is silent, save for the distant howl of wind threading through the trees, the occasional distant rustling of leaves.

"I'm sure by now you know that I sent the notes," he says finally, voice even but quiet, careful. "Well, Shoko and I both did. It would’ve been difficult for me to slip something into Gojo’s things without raising suspicion." He hesitates for a beat, then continues, "We just saw him running towards the corridor in a three-piece suit. He looked troubled. He was having trouble breathing, too, I think."

Something sharp pulls at your chest, your heart—like an invisible hook lodged deep inside, tugging. That familiar, gnawing worry. You’d known it was a lot. You’d known it would hit him, eventually.

"I should go," you say, the words slipping out in a breath, barely audible. "Check on him."

"No," Shoko cuts in, firm but gentle, shaking her head. "Let him be. Just for a while. God knows he needs it." She tilts her head, considering you. "Tell us what's going on until then."

Your breath catches.

"I…" You look away, pressing your lips together, hands curling into fists at your sides. "I can’t," you say finally, and it comes out more defeated than you'd like. You close your eyes, inhale deep. "It would put you two in danger."

"Tell us anyway," Shoko says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And you freeze. Because it’s what you’d said to Satoru. Your lips part slightly, the words catching in your throat.

"Shoko, Kento," you start, quiet, uncertain, "I can’t tell you because one of us could die. If anything goes wrong—if we make even the smallest mistake—any of us could die. And it'll be Satoru before anybody else." Your fingers tighten around the railing, nails digging into the wood. "I can't let anything happen to you all. I can't let it happen to him."

"I think that's exactly why we deserve to know," Nanami says. His voice is steady, certain. "If we knew, wouldn’t that make us prepared?"

"What he said," Shoko adds, jerking a thumb at him.

You chew at your lip, thinking. Really thinking. You weigh it in your head, measure it against all the things you have to lose. The answer should be easy. You should say no. You should shut them out, the way you’ve been trying to shut yourself out, trying to keep yourself from spiraling down the same hole that Satoru is surely falling into. But the reality of it is this: they already know too much. And you? You're tired of carrying this alone.

Your gaze flickers to Nanami. "You were the one who saw it happening," you murmur. "Suguru. Yes?"

"Yes," he says, without hesitation.

You exhale slowly.

"Then perhaps," you pause, gaze flitting between them, "perhaps I should show you. Both of you."

They exchange a glance, something unspoken passing between them. You don’t wait for them to say anything before you push yourself off the railing and step away from the bridge.

"Come along," you say, and start walking.

When Ieiri Shoko and Nanami Kento watch the Room of Requirement’s entrance unfurl before them for the first time, they are silent. Not because they have nothing to say, but because for once in their lives, words fail them.

The heavy stone wall melts away as if it had never existed, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond an almost obsidian door, lined with flickering sconces that cast shifting shadows against the uneven stones. The air is thick with the kind of magic that feels alive—sentient, even. Like the room is watching. Like it knows.

Shoko is the first to step inside, careful, as though she’s afraid that too much movement might shatter the illusion. But her eyes are wide, alight with something almost childlike, and when she turns back to you, her face is alight with a mixture of wonder and disbelief.

Nanami lingers in the doorway, gaze sweeping the space with the kind of measured, critical intensity he applies to everything. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so visibly stunned before—he probably wasn't when he figured out what you and Satoru had been up to last year, or when he discovered what Geto had been doing. But now, here, he looks awed.

“Welcome,” you say, voice soft in the cavernous quiet. "To the infamous Marauders’ hideout. The Room of Requirement.”

Shoko lets out a breathless laugh, half-disbelieving. “You’re telling me this has been a real place all along?" Her voice pitches, incredulous. "It’s not just a school legend?”

“No,” you say, amusement curling at the edges of your words, “it’s quite real.” You nudge your chin toward the far end of the room. “There’s even some Floo powder there, by the way. Although, someone who hasn’t been inside can’t access it from the outside. So it’s safe.”

They don’t reply immediately, too preoccupied with taking it all in. And you get it, you do. It’s a lot to absorb all at once.

The Room of Requirement is not just a place. It is a living thing, shifting to accommodate its keepers, breathing with them, anticipating their needs before they are even spoken.

Tonight, it is warm. Firelight flickers in the hearth, casting long golden shadows against the stone floor. A set of plush armchairs are arranged around a low table, the cushions so inviting you know that if Shoko sits, she won’t be getting up for a while. At the far end, a dueling area stands empty, training dummies lined against the wall, waiting. The bookshelves, stacked high with both school-required texts and books of a more illicit nature, stretch toward the ceiling, filled with the accumulated knowledge of generations before you.

Nanami’s gaze drifts across the space, sweeping over it like he’s cataloging everything, making sense of it piece by piece. But it’s the long wooden table in the back that finally holds his attention. That, and the pinboard behind it—cluttered with parchment, scrawled notes pinned in a desperate kind of order, books stacked precariously in between.

“That’s your research, I’m guessing,” he says after a moment, voice quieter than before. He tilts his head toward the table but keeps his eyes on you.

You nod. “And the Marauders’ business, too. But we haven’t been focusing on that for a bit.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” Shoko snorts, finally dragging her gaze away from the bookshelves. “Pansy was complaining about the fact that her love potion still hasn’t reached Satoru.” She rolls her eyes. “As if that would ever happen.”

That startles a laugh out of you, small but real.

Nanami sighs. "Please tell me you're not about to show us anything illegal."

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

"Depends on what you consider illegal," you say, before stepping further into the room.

The fire crackles, flames licking higher for a fleeting moment before settling into a steady glow. It smells like parchment and ink, like candle wax melting, like the dust that clings to old books. The air in the Room of Requirement is thick with something else, too—anticipation, maybe. Or something heavier. It's all waiting to be said.

You step toward the long wooden table, fingers absently undoing the buttons of your black long coat as you slide it onto the chair at the head of it. Shoko whistles low under her breath when she catches sight of what you’re wearing.

“Damn,” she muses.

You glance down at yourself, at the crisp white button-up and dark dress pants, the fabric stiff in a way your usual clothes never are. They feel unnatural on you, unfamiliar, as if you’re still wearing someone else’s skin. Gojo's mother's skin.

“It’s nothing,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. “Just formals. Gojo told me to dress the part for something we did today.”

It had been the only thing in your wardrobe without color that could pass as formal in the first place. Everything else had felt too casual, too much like you.

Shoko smirks. “Didn’t think you owned anything that made you look like you mean business.”

You roll your eyes, pushing up your sleeves. “Alright,” you sigh, palms flattening against the table as you look toward the pinboard, “this is… going to be a long night.” A pause, before you try to divert. “I think we should get some food. Or something.”

Shoko waves a hand dismissively. “Just start. I’ll take care of that in a bit.” Her lips quirk. “I’m dying of anticipation.”

“O-okay.” You exhale slowly.

The room is quiet but not silent—Nanami shifts slightly in his seat, arms crossed as he watches you with that unreadable look of his. The fire murmurs in the background.

You glance toward the board, at the tangled mess of parchment and ink that holds more questions than answers, and begin.

“A few weeks ago, Satoru and I got notes with riddles on them,” you say, voice steady despite the weight of what you’re about to unravel. “We didn’t know who sent them then, but obviously, that was you two. He, however, still doesn't know that.” You glance between them. “It took us sometime decode them. Mostly because of me, I think. I was too focused on trying to get into the Restricted Section. I kept making it more complicated than it needed to be.” A wry smile flickers across your lips. “Didn’t realize I already had the answer.”

Shoko snorts. “Sounds about right.”

You shake your head, turning back to the board. “Anyway. We figured out the riddles. But we didn’t know who was practicing the said dark magic.”

“We told you it was someone with dark hair,” Shoko points out, arms folded across her chest.

You give her a flat look. “You didn’t tell us it was Geto Suguru. How were we supposed to know it was him with just that one hint?”

Shoko huffs, looking mildly offended. “I put it in Satoru’s quill case.”

You blink. “What?”

She lifts her chin, indignant. “The note. I put it in Satoru’s quill case. Suguru gave him that for Christmas last year. It has Satoru's family crest on it.”

There’s a beat of silence as you stare at her, processing.

“Oh,” you say. A pause. “Wait, what?”

Nanami exhales sharply through his nose, the sound quiet but weighted, and when he finally speaks, his voice is even softer than before.

"I'm guessing Gojo knew from the very beginning who it was," he says. "He just didn’t tell you. Because it was his best friend."

The words settle heavily between you, like stones thrown into deep water, sinking too fast for you to catch them. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You blink, lips parting slightly, eyebrows knitting together as the realization unfurls inside your chest—too much, too fast.

"I..." You swallow, shaking your head slightly. "I can’t do this right now."

Your voice is quiet, but the panic threading through it is unmistakable. The walls of the Room of Requirement feel closer, the flickering candlelight too dim, the fire suddenly not warm enough.

"Wait," Shoko says quickly, pushing herself to the edge of her seat. "Calm yourself a bit. Don’t panic. Breathe."

But how could you? How could you possibly breathe knowing that everything could have been different?

"Shoko, you don’t understand," you say, voice trembling just enough to betray you. You take a step back, hands curling into fists, nails pressing into the flesh of your palms. "There's going to be a war. An inevitable one, and Satoru is going to be right dead in the center of it. We could’ve stopped this a lot sooner if he had just—" Your voice catches. "...If he had just told me."

Shoko’s lips part slightly, her brow furrowing in concern, but it’s Nanami who speaks first.

"I think coming to terms with the fact that your best friend is slowly losing his mind was hard on him," he says, measured as always, like he’s thought about this long before now. His voice is steady, but not unkind. "What would you do if it were Shoko? If you saw the signs, if you knew—would you tell everyone? Or would you keep it to yourself until you felt it was right?"

The question stills something inside of you, stills the rising panic clawing at your ribs.

That isn’t fair.

But the words don’t leave your mouth. Because the truth is—you don’t know. You’ve never had to consider it before. What would you do, if it were Shoko? If the signs had been there, if the truth had been staring at you all along, if you knew what she was becoming but didn’t want to know?

You don’t answer.

Nanami doesn’t push.

"Let’s not think about that right now," Shoko murmurs, her voice softer now. A sigh escapes her lips. "Just… tell us the rest. You can talk to Satoru later. I don’t think he’s going to hide anything else from you anymore."

You breathe out, forcing the tension from your shoulders, running a hand over your hair before finally giving a small nod.

"Yeah," you say, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Okay."

And so, after a long moment of staring at the polished wood of the long table, tracing the faint grain patterns with your eyes as if they might offer some clarity, you finally speak. The words come slowly at first, uncertain, before they gather momentum like a storm rolling in over the horizon.

You tell them everything.

The wild goose chase that led you through dead ends and tangled riddles. The reason you’ve been falling behind in classes, too preoccupied with shadows lurking at the edges of your vision, too consumed by something far larger than yourself. You tell them about the genealogy and the list you'd made of pureblood students, the weeks spent poring over lineages and old records, trying to untangle a history that had already written its ending. The wild goose chase Gojo had pushed you into, one he knew would come up with a dead end.

You don’t tell them about the night you found him bruised and battered, about the way his body had looked under dim candlelight, all pale skin and deep scars. You don’t tell them about how you reached for him before you could think better of it, how you’d pressed trembling hands against his wounds, whispering healing charms under your breath like they were prayers. You don’t tell them how, even now, the image of him sits heavy in your mind.

But you tell them everything else. Including the day you learned it was Suguru. And some of today.

The moment you say the name Sukuna, Shoko’s eyes widen. Nanami furrows his brow, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he folds his arms tightly across his chest. There’s a beat of silence before you continue, a silence so thick it almost feels suffocating. They know who he is.

"And," you say, voice barely above a whisper, "do either of you know anything about Horcruxes?"

You already know the answer before they shake their heads.

You sigh, fingers drumming against the table before pushing yourself to stand, turning towards the pinboard littered with notes, parchments, stolen scraps of information. You reach for one of them—a copied page from a book deep in the Restricted Section, enchanted to preserve its fragile ink.

"Horcruxes," you say, voice even, "are Dark Magic. The darkest. A Horcrux is an object in which a Dark wizard or witch has hidden a detached fragment of their soul in order to become immortal. As long as the receptacle remains intact, so too does the soul fragment inside it, keeping the maker anchored to the world of the living, even if their body suffers fatal damage. It is, by far, the most terrible of all Dark Magic."

Shoko lets out a slow breath, one you can tell she’s been holding since the moment you spoke the word Horcrux. Then, with shaky hands, she reaches into her pocket, pulling out a cigarette. The flick of her lighter is loud in the quiet room, the flame sparking before catching. She exhales a plume of smoke towards the ceiling, shoulders tense.

"How exactly does one make a Horcrux?" Nanami asks, and his voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it. A tension, a quiet dread, a thing he is holding back.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you take a slow step towards the pinboard, brushing your fingers against a yellowed scrap of parchment, one that holds the answer.

"Horcruxes can only be created after committing murder," you say, and your voice feels distant, as if it belongs to someone else. "The most supreme act of evil, as a means to tear the soul. The process involves a spell, but it also requires… a horrific act. Something else. Something beyond the killing itself."

Your throat is dry when you finish speaking. You don’t elaborate further.

Shoko exhales another puff of smoke, watching the way it curls into the air before vanishing entirely.

"Do we know what spell it is?" she asks, voice flat.

You shake your head. "No."

Nanami clears his throat, shifting his weight slightly. His voice is quiet when he speaks, deliberate. "How many does… Sukuna have?"

You hesitate. Your chest tightens.

And then, barely above a whisper, you say, "Twenty."

Silence.

Shoko is the first to react. She lets out a bitter, almost disbelieving laugh before running a hand down her face. "Oh, bloody hell," she mutters, more to herself than to either of you, her cigarette trembling slightly between her fingers. "We’re losing this fucking war."

You shoot her a sharp look, narrowing your eyes.

She lifts her hands in mock surrender. "Sorry," she says, though there’s no real weight behind it. Just the unshakable understanding that she’s right.

"So, after that, on a pure whim," you continue, voice even, "and because Dumbledore hinted at it, Satoru and I went to the Ministry of Magic."

The words barely leave your mouth before Shoko furrows her brows, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "Dumbledore?" she echoes. "He knows all of this is happening and he's just quiet?"

"Let me finish," you say, exasperated. "Anywho, we went there disguised as Satoru's parents. To get into the Department of Mysteries. And…" You pause, mouth suddenly dry. "We saw a memory. Through a Pensieve."

Nanami leans forward, the scrape of his chair against stone barely audible over the distant crackling of the fireplace. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell from the way his hands tighten into fists on his lap that he wants you to continue.

So you do.

"I was the one who saw it. Gojo’s mother was there. And a Seer. And she… she predicted this."

You don’t need to look at them to know that both Shoko and Nanami are holding their breath.

You grab a blank parchment from the pile near the long table, then reach for your wand. With a flick, you enchant the quill and the inkwell, and ink spills onto the paper in deliberate, flowing strokes. The prophecy comes to life in front of you, each letter bleeding into the parchment as if carving itself into history.

Once it’s done, you peel it from the desk, walking toward the pinboard. You pin it in place, stepping back as the ink settles into its final form.

Then, you wait. You watch them as they read it. As their expressions shift.

Nanami is the first to react. His breath comes slow, controlled, but you can see the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his fingers twitch ever so slightly where they rest on his knee. Shoko exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair before letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

"I never knew it was this serious," she mumbles, shaking her head. "I thought Suguru was just… straying. But this is—" she exhales, tilting her head up to stare at the ceiling as if it might give her answers, "this is so much more than just straying off the damn path."

"I'm aware," you murmur. Your gaze lingers on the prophecy, its words stark against the parchment. Then, you turn to Kento.

He is quiet for a moment, staring at the floor as if weighing something in his mind. Then, when he finally looks up, his voice is steady.

"He already has one."

Your breath catches.

You turn back to the prophecy, scanning the words again. Sure enough, there it is. Right in front of you. Hidden in the ink, waiting for you to see it.

The Dark Lord waits, scattered in twenty pieces, his whispers buried in stone and bone and blood. But the first has been found. A hand unknowing, closest to your son, holds what should have never surfaced. A heart still torn between shadow and light.

It’s silent for a long, heavy moment. Then, softly, Shoko whispers, "Oh. Oh. Is that what that thing was?"

Your head snaps toward her. "What thing?"

She presses her lips together, then leans forward, stubbing out her cigarette on a scrap of parchment and leaving it there. When she speaks, her voice is quiet.

"Kento said Suguru had something in his hand the day he saw him," she says. "Said he was trying to do something with it. But he failed."

You feel your pulse spike. "What was it?"

Nanami shifts in his seat. His brows are furrowed, expression unreadable. "Some kind of jewelry," he says after a beat. "A ring, a locket—something like that. If I remember correctly." His gaze flickers to you. "It glinted in the night. I wouldn't have been able to see it otherwise."

A ring. A locket. Something like that.

Your fingers curl at your sides. Your mind races, filling in gaps, connecting threads you didn’t even know were there.

Suguru had it. The first. He didn't know how to use it.

And for the first time in what feels like forever today, you exhale, a sharp breath pushing out of your chest, and let out something that feels dangerously close to a laugh. A breathless, almost incredulous smile pulls at the corners of your lips.

"He doesn’t know how to use it," you say, and the words sound foreign, unbelievable even as they leave your mouth.

Shoko’s head snaps up. "He doesn’t?" Her brows lift, her eyes sharpening with interest.

You nod, still grinning, still letting it sink in. "He doesn’t know the spell," you say again, firmer this time, "Just like us. He has no idea how to use it. He probably knows the ritual Sukuna performed when he made the receptacle, sure, but he doesn’t know how to absorb it. He doesn’t know how to become Sukuna’s vessel."

Silence. The distant hum of magic humming in the walls.

Nanami exhales slowly, a measured sound, like he’s letting himself believe it in pieces. "That buys us time," he murmurs, voice even.

"More than time," you say, your breath coming fast now, the weight in your chest loosening for the first time tonight. "This—this is good."

Something sharp and triumphant cuts through your voice, and when you look up, Shoko’s already watching you, her lips twitching, her cigarette forgotten between her fingers.

"Okay," you say, inhaling, rolling your shoulders back. "Here’s what I need from you two."

They straighten at once.

"Find out as much as you can about the ritual," you tell them, stepping forward, hands bracing the back of your chair. "Whatever you can get your hands on, I’ll take it. Anything. If you can find anything on the absorption process, even better."

"That would require us to go to the Restricted Section," Nanami points out, voice steady, "How are we supposed to get in without raising suspicion?"

For a second, it's quiet.

Then Shoko lifts her chin, something glinting in her gaze. "I’ve got it," she says. She sits up, snuffing out the last embers of her cigarette against a stray piece of parchment before flicking it onto the table. "I can get Slughorn to give us permission. I’m in his Slug Club, anyway."

She glances at you. "I know you dropped out because of everything else you've got going on."

You nod, lips pressing together. "I quit last year because I became a Prefect."

"Exactly," she says simply. "So it won’t look suspicious if I’m the one asking."

Nanami hums, nodding along, considering it.

"Good," Shoko says quietly, then shifts in her chair, watching you carefully. "And, erm…" She hesitates. "I think, just maybe, you should approach the Suguru angle with Gojo."

You blink at her. "What do you mean, 'Suguru angle'?"

She exhales, shaking her head. "Try to figure out where he’s doing what he’s doing. He probably realized the Black Lake was too conspicuous for him to be practicing dark magic there. If he’s serious about this, really serious, he’s already found a new place. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere not easily accessible."

Your lips thin as you consider it. You don’t like it. You don’t like the idea of talking to Satoru about this right now—not when you’re already angry, not when the hurt of his silence is still fresh. But you know she’s right.

"Alright," you murmur finally. "Makes sense."

And then, before anyone else can speak, the door swings open.

You turn at the same time as Shoko and Kento.

Gojo Satoru stands at the entrance of the Room of Requirement, eyes wide, his breath just slightly unsteady. The light from the torches lining the stone walls flickers across his face, casting half of it in shadow, but you can still see it—the shock. The way his whole body tenses when he takes in the room. The pinboard. The parchment. The faces of the people sitting at the long table, staring back at him like they know everything.

His mouth opens. "What the bloody hell is—"

But before he can even finish the sentence, Shoko and Nanami stand.

"We’ll be back in a bit," Shoko says breezily, brushing past him, her fingers already digging into the pocket of her robes for another cigarette.

Nanami is more measured, placing a hand on your chair as he steps away, his voice quieter, meant only for you. "Sort this out," he murmurs. "We’ll be back once you do."

Then, with a final glance at Gojo, they slip out of the room, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind them.

And then it’s just the two of you.

Gojo stares at you, his expression unreadable, but you know him too well—you can see it, the flicker of something behind his eyes, the tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for his blindfold even though he isn't wearing it. Like he wants to hide.

The air in the Room of Requirement is thick, heavy, charged with something electric and sharp, like the moment before lightning splits the sky.

"Why were they here?" he asks again, his voice slow, deliberate, as if each word is pulled from the depths of something ugly. "Why were they sitting here, looking at all our work? Why have you gone and put them in danger?"

Your spine straightens. You exhale through your nose.

You don’t know how to approach this, how to tread the thin line between confrontation and whatever twisted kind of loyalty still lingers between the two of you. Should you let him rage, let him try to talk his way out of it? Should you let him explain before you say the words that have been sitting in your chest like lead?

Or should you laugh in his face? Should you remind him exactly what it feels like to be kept in the dark?

Fuck it. You’re choosing the latter.

"When the fuck were you going to tell me you knew about Suguru from the very beginning?"

The tone shifts. It’s dead silent. You step forward. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and for the first time tonight, his confidence wavers. His brows furrow, and he blinks, once, then again, as if he needs a moment to process the fact that you’re not asking—you’re accusing.

"I did not—"

"Don't you dare lie to me." Your voice is eerily calm, even to your own ears. "You knew. You knew from the beginning. You said you found the note in your quill case. The one with your family crest."

Gojo says nothing, but the shift in his stance is enough. His lips part, then press back together, like he's trying to think of what to say, how to spin this into something palatable, something that won’t make you hate him.

But you don't give him the chance.

"The one Suguru gave to you last year for Christmas," you say, voice quiet now, final, like a blade pressing against the soft of his throat.

"I-I told you, I didn’t know until I confirmed it," Gojo says, his voice breaking, desperate in a way you’ve never heard before. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

You shake your head, pressing forward, your movements deliberate, and before he realizes it, he’s backing up, until the back of the sofa is against his legs and he has nowhere else to go. The firelight flickers behind you, casting long shadows over his face, over yours, over the room that has borne witness to months of secrets, of sleepless nights, of a war neither of you were ready for but have been forced to fight anyway.

"Gojo," you say, voice deadly quiet, "you lie to me one more time, and I walk away. I drop everything. I leave you to fight this war by yourself, and I won’t look back even if—"

You can’t bring yourself to say it. You can’t even bring yourself to imagine it.

Your throat bobs. The silence between you is thick, suffocating.

"Tell me the truth," you say, voice barely above a whisper now, but somehow heavier than anything you've ever spoken. "For once. Please."

Gojo exhales, and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t try to charm his way out of it. His shoulders sink, his mask crumbles, and something inside him breaks.

"I knew from the beginning," he admits. His voice is raw, like he’s dragging the words out of his chest. "That it was Suguru."

The confirmation should not hurt as much as it does. But it does.

You inhale sharply, blinking once, twice, feeling the heat behind your eyes, the way your pulse roars in your ears.

"So you sent me on a wild goose chase for no reason whatsoever?" you ask, voice shaking, too close to his face now, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. "You let me go weeks without sleep. You let me end up in the Infirmary. All because you were scared of telling me the truth?"

Gojo’s hands twitch at his sides. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

"I’m sorry," he whispers, and his voice is so full of regret, so full of something that looks like guilt and something that looks like shame and something that looks like every broken thing inside him. "I-I didn’t want Suguru to get hurt. He’s my—"

"Best friend," you cut in, shaking your head, rolling your eyes, feeling the exhaustion seep into your bones, "yes. You’ve made that quite clear, by putting all of us in danger."

Gojo flinches like you struck him.

"Fawkes," he says, softly. It is not the teasing lilt you are used to, nor the lazy drawl that usually stretches your name into something playfully insolent. No, this is different—a quiet fragility in a way you have never heard from him before. "I’m sorry."

The room feels smaller now, like the walls have drawn inward, sensing the shift in the air. The parchment on the walls—maps, theories, pages ripped from books, all of it evidence of what the two of you have built together—rustles faintly from a draft you cannot place.

Gojo takes a breath, shallow, uneven. "I didn’t mean to hurt you," he says, "I didn’t mean for you to end up in the Infirmary, and I really, really didn’t mean for it to become this bad. I’m sorry."

A muscle jumps in your jaw. Your hands curl into fists at your sides. You are so close to him, too close, the heat of his body pressed against yours like a suffocating thing, a reminder of how easily he has wormed his way into every part of your life.

You shake your head. "What good is your apology going to do right now?" Your voice is thin, breaking apart at the edges. You swallow against the tightness in your throat. "We have to work. We have to figure out how to—"

"Fawkes."

His grip on your arm is sudden, warm, and firm enough to pull you against him. Your breath catches. It is exactly like earlier today, when you could not breathe, when he had held you upright and let you lean into him, when the weight of it all had pressed so violently against your chest that you thought you might shatter under it.

You look up at him now, forcing yourself to keep your expression blank, forcing yourself to ignore the way his touch—steady, grounding—threatens to unravel you. But your chin quivers, just slightly, and you curse yourself for it.

You exhale sharply. "There’s no point, Gojo." The words come out quieter than you mean them to. "Everything surrounding you is a lie. Everything you tell me is either a lie or half of the truth. I’m done."

"You can’t be," he whispers.

His throat bobs as he swallows, as if he is trying to push back something he cannot name. His fingers tighten around your arm, just barely, like he is afraid you will slip through them if he lets go. His eyes are wide, shining in the dim firelight, rimmed red in a way that makes something ache in your chest.

"Not now," he breathes, "not when everything is just starting."

You don’t pull away. But you don’t move closer, either. "How am I supposed to believe anything you say?"

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before looking at you again. "I know," he says, shaking his head, voice hoarse, "I know. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything you want to know from now on. I won’t hide anything, I promise." His hands tremble slightly as he moves, as he lifts them and cups your face, as if grounding himself in the feel of your skin beneath his palms.

You stiffen. His fingers are warm against your cheek, tentative, as if he is afraid you might pull away, might shatter like glass beneath his touch.

"Just don’t—" His voice breaks. He swallows. "Don’t leave."

Your breath catches. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, hesitant, careful, like he is memorizing the shape of you. His hands have always been steady, in duels, in Quidditch, even in your reckless Marauder stunts, but now they tremble just the slightest bit. You cannot tell if it is fear or exhaustion or something else entirely.

"I was stupid," he whispers, his forehead almost touching yours now. "I thought I could do everything by myself because I am the strongest. But I’m not."

You blink. He exhales shakily.

"I need you to be who I am," he continues, softer now, as if admitting it is costing him something. "I’m not a Marauder without you."

Something in your chest twists violently, and you cannot tell if it is anger or grief or something far, far worse.

You pull away from him. The air between you turns cold the second you do, like the warmth of his hands had been the only thing keeping it from suffocating you both.

You rub at your arm, where his fingers had been wrapped just seconds ago, trying to erase the sensation, the weight of it. His touch lingers like an ache, like a bruise that hasn’t formed yet. Your breath is uneven, but you force your voice to stay steady. "Nanami sent us the notes."

Gojo's brows knit together, but he doesn’t say anything. He only watches you, his face unreadable.

"Or, well," you correct yourself, "he saw it happen. And he told Shoko. And they thought it best to send us the notes."

A sharp pause. You can hear the low crackle of the fire, the distant echo of footsteps outside the Room of Requirement, the way Gojo’s breath hitches, like he’s bracing for impact.

"What?"

"Yeah," you say, looking up at him again, studying his expression—how he stiffens, how the realization settles into his bones, how his lips press into a thin line. "They sent us the notes because they thought we’d be able to do something about it. It’s how I know that you knew from the beginning."

His fingers twitch, curling into his palms.

"Shoko told me about the quill case."

Gojo exhales sharply. The sound of it is almost a laugh, but not quite. "O-oh." He nods once, slowly, then wipes a hand over his face. "Right. Of course."

You hesitate. "Y-yeah." The words feel thin.

A long silence stretches between you. He isn’t looking at you now, staring instead at the scattered parchment on the walls, at the hastily scribbled notes, at the maps and the half-finished equations, at the things the two of you have been piecing together, brick by brick, clue by clue.

You exhale. "So I told them everything."

His gaze snaps back to you, sharp, searching.

"It’s why they were here," you continue, voice quieter now. "They’re going to help us."

Gojo hums. His expression is unreadable again. "And I’m assuming I can’t say anything against it?"

You look him straight in the eye. "No."

Something shifts in his face. For a second, he looks tired—exhausted, even. But then he nods, and there’s something almost resigned in his voice when he says, "That’s alright too." Another pause. Then softer, "That’s perfectly alright."

He steps closer again, hesitant this time.

You don’t move away, but you can’t bear to look at him.

"Fawkes," he says, softer now.

The room is quiet. Not silent—never silent—but quiet in a way that makes it hard to breathe, a quiet that seeps into the walls, into the very air between you. The glow in the room is too dim to be comforting. This is not a comforting place anymore. This is a room built for secrecy, for the unspoken, for the things no one dares to say aloud. And it is waiting.

You don’t look at him when you speak. You can’t.

“Let’s just get our work done, please.”

It comes out barely above a whisper, the words steady but brittle, like the glass panes of the high-arched windows, delicate and too easy to shatter. You walk toward the long table again, fingers trailing absently over the rough-hewn wood, and release a breath that is far too shaky for your liking. But before you can gather yourself, before you can push it down, you ask, “Oh, um, Satoru?”

He looks up immediately. His name on your tongue is a hook in his ribs, pulling taut. Always, he is waiting for you to call on him. Always, he turns too fast, listens too carefully.

“Yes?”

“Is there anything else I should know?” You still don’t face him. Instead, you keep your hands busy, pressing the edges of a parchment flat against the table. “About this whole situation?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. A long, harrowing second where the only sound in the room is the slow crackle of the fireplace. But then, a shift. A sharp inhale.

The almost-imperceptible tension in his shoulders, in his spine.

When you do look up, he is already looking at you, wide-eyed, guilty in a way he can’t quite hide. His throat bobs, like he is forcing something down, like the words are already thick in his mouth. You narrow your eyes.

“Out with it, please.”

“I—” He hesitates. He wets his lips, exhales sharply, then straightens. “You have to promise me you won’t be angry.”

Your stare flattens.

“I mean it,” he presses, raising his hands in a pitiful show of defense. It’s almost funny—if you weren’t so tired, if you weren’t so very sick of this entire thing, maybe you’d laugh. Instead, you cross the space between you.

“Satoru.” Your voice is low, edged with something dangerous. “You realize we can’t keep going like this. With me in the dark all the time.”

A breath. A moment.

“You’re right.” He closes his eyes, just for a second. And when he opens them, there is something raw in his face, something hesitant and young and unsure. “Here goes, I guess.”

A pause. A bracing.

“Suguru is a Legilimens.”

The words hit like a curse. You still. “You have to be joking.”

“He’s—” Satoru exhales, shaking his head. “That’s all of it. I’m not hiding anything else.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

“Wait, no,” you say, shaking your head, as if that will change what he just said. “Shut up, Satoru. Do you not realize what that means? He can read your mind! Everyone’s minds! He knows we’re the Marauders, and he definitely knows that we’re trying to stop him!”

“He doesn’t know! Well, he knows we’re the Marauders but he doesn’t know that we’re trying to stop him,” Gojo says immediately. “He doesn’t read everyone’s minds like that.”

“Satoru,” you snap, frustration curling sharp in your throat, “you really can’t be serious—”

“He doesn’t,” he repeats, firmer this time. He clenches his fists. “I know it. He doesn’t read my mind specifically.”

“How do you know that?” Your voice is rising now, unable to help it. “You defend your best friend with all your might. But you’ve known from the beginning, Satoru. You’ve known that it’s him all along. That he’s practicing dark magic on school grounds, that he’s trying to collect Horcruxes, and you kept me in the dark for all of it. Like a stupid puppet.”

“I am certain he doesn’t read my mind!” he says, and there is something desperate in it now, something like insistence, like panic. He shakes his head, hard, like he’s willing it to be true. “He does not. He cannot. He will not. If he does, he’ll die.”

The words drop like lead between you. You blink. Your breath stills.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He hesitates. It’s a strange thing—to see Gojo Satoru hesitate, to see him falter. It is a chink in armor you did not think was penetrable, a glimpse of something fragile beneath all that gleaming arrogance. Finally, he exhales.

“We…” He swallows. “We made a blood pact.”

You stare. The words don’t land, not at first. They slip through your mind like water, too large to process, too absurd to be real. “You made a blood pact with Geto Suguru?”

The horror in your voice is palpable as you continue. “You made a blood pact with a dark wizard?”

“He was not a dark wizard when we did it! And we were stupid and only fourth-years! We didn’t know what we were doing!” he fights back, something heated in his eyes, “He would not read me. He can’t read me. I-I made sure of it. There will be dire consequences if he does.”

“I know what a blood pact is,” you say, and you hate the bitterness in your own voice, the way your chest twists with it.

For a second, you are quiet. Too quiet.

You’d let go of his arm a while ago, but now you are thinking.

Something isn’t right.

“A blood pact is not made with just one person’s conditions,” you murmur, and your voice feels like it belongs to someone else. “What was your part of the pact, Satoru?”

The guilt that crosses his face is immediate. That is when you know.

“I vowed that I would not betray him.”

Your chest tightens.

Your breath hitches. The world is tilting, slightly, like a chessboard mid-topple, like something irrevocable has just clicked into place.

“You are inadvertently betraying him right this very second.”

“No, I am not,” he insists, shaking his head. “You know blood pacts do not need to be direct. I do not believe I’m betraying him. I believe, completely, that by helping take actions against his dark magic, I’m helping him.”

“A loophole to a blood pact?” you ask, voice barely more than breath. “Are you serious?”

“I am not dead yet, am I?” he asks, laughing hollowly. “Dire consequences are nowhere to be seen. I’m fine.”

The anger snaps back so fast you barely register it.

“What if you aren’t one day?” Your voice rises again, this time without restraint. “What if you’re dueling with him or something, and you drop dead? What am I supposed to do then? Live with the fact that you’re gone?”

The words are out before you can stop them, before you can weigh them, before you can take them back. They echo in the stillness of the room, reverberating off the stone walls, hanging in the charged space between you. And Satoru? Satoru just stares.

His breath comes uneven, shallow, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. His brows knit together, faintly, lips parting as if to say something, but nothing comes. He looks confused. Not at what you’ve said, but at why you’ve said it. At why you care.

“Fawkes,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, like he’s trying not to startle something fragile. “I’m not going to die.”

He steps forward, instinctive, but you step back. He stops.

Your head shakes, slow, resolute. “What if you do, Gojo?” Your voice is uneven, something raw lurking just beneath it. “What if you leave me all alone? What then?”

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. Not right away. His throat bobs again, and he looks at you—really looks at you—like he’s seeing something he wasn’t supposed to, like he didn’t expect it.

And you hate it. You hate the way his gaze lingers, searching, pulling apart your words for something unspoken. You hate the way the room feels smaller now, like the walls are closing in, like something between you has been cracked wide open.

You hate the bitter, twisting thing crawling up your ribs, taking root in your chest, making itself at home in the hollow places neither of you want to acknowledge.

So you don’t. You say nothing else. You only turn, walking away, back to the table, back to your work, back to anything that isn’t this.

You wake to the soft crackle of dying embers.

The Room is quiet now, still wrapped in the remnants of last night—scattered parchments on the table, ink pots half-open, books stacked haphazardly as if the two of you had torn through them in desperation before exhaustion won out.

For a moment, you don’t move.

Your body is sore, stiff from sleeping on a couch not meant to hold you for this long. The cushions are plush, but they don’t erase the weight pressing into your limbs, the ache behind your eyes. You sit up slowly, exhaling as you push the blanket off you—when had you even pulled it over yourself?

Then, your gaze drifts.

Across the room, Satoru is sprawled on the opposite couch, long legs bent awkwardly, his arms crossed over his chest like he’d fallen asleep still determined to argue. His breathing is slow, steady. The faint glow of the fireplace flickers over his face, turning his white hair gold at the edges, making the shadows under his eyes look deeper than they should.

You don’t remember much of last night, only fragments—the two of you combing through pages of research, flipping back and forth between theories and dead ends, the tension never fully fading. You remember the way he had scowled, bitter, whenever Kento had an input on anything. That he and Shoko were helping. That it wasn’t just the two of you anymore.

They had left around four in the morning. You had stayed, not because you thought you’d find anything else, but because leaving had felt impossible.

You had tried, at first, to keep working. Then you’d gotten distracted by what Dobby had packed you. And then you’d forced yourself to work again. To go over the same notes, to dig through the same sources, to look for something—anything—you had missed. But your eyes had burned, and your hands had begun to tremble, and you had forced yourself onto the nearest couch, curling up closest to the fire, ignoring Gojo’s presence entirely.

You hesitate, glancing at him again. His blanket has slipped, one shoulder exposed to the cold air. It’s instinct, maybe, or something quieter, something smaller, but before you can think too much about it, you reach forward, pulling the fabric higher, covering him again.

He stirs.

A breath, sharp. Then a shift, a slow unraveling of sleep. He inhales, blinks rapidly, groggy and disoriented before his gaze finds yours.

“Oh,” he murmurs, sitting up quickly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry.”

You frown. “For what?”

He exhales, tilting his head back, pressing his fingers against his temples. “I don’t know. Just—sorry.”

There’s a nervous energy here now, thick and crackling. The fire crackles again, punctuating the silence, and you cross your arms, glancing away.

“There’s no reason for you to apologize,” you say, voice quiet.

His hand drops to his lap. He looks at you again, searching, as if trying to find something in your face that he can’t name.

“We should go for breakfast,” you say softly, “Utahime’s probably wondering where I am.”

He hums, “I should go, too.”

You look at him for a few seconds, and for those few seconds, it feels like it’s just the two of you. The world beyond the Room of Requirement recedes—Hogwarts, the war, the things you know you shouldn’t say aloud. Everything dissolves, leaving only the soft crackle of the dying embers in the fireplace, the quiet rhythm of your breath, the space between you that neither of you dares to cross. He’s looking at you, his expression unreadable, the blue of his eyes sharp, like winter morning frost. And you are looking back at him, knowing something you cannot name, something that roots you to the spot, unwilling to move.

He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to say something. And for a moment, you think you might.

But then you stand, the movement stiff and awkward, your limbs sluggish from sleep, and the words you might have said slip away. You fidget with your fingers as you glance toward the door. The warmth from the fireplace lingers against your skin, the weight of last night still pressing down on your shoulders.

“You should perhaps,” Gojo says, his voice still rough from sleep, “change before you go to the Great Hall.” A pause, then, dryly, “You still look like my mother.”

You blink, looking down at yourself. Oh. You had forgotten—crisp white dress shirt, untucked from the black trousers due to you sleeping in them, the long black coat draped over the sofa behind you. It’s not a bad look, but it’s not yours. It had been necessary last night, however, to present yourself as his mother when you’d infiltrated the Ministry. But now, with the morning light filtering in, you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

You pull out your wand, murmuring, “Multicorfors.”

The fabric shifts and morphs, your clothes shift and settle into something that feels more like yourself. A multicolored jumper, the Gryffindor emblem embroidered near the collar, the threads slightly frayed where your mother’s careful embroidery had begun to wear over time. Beige jeans that are wide-legged, familiar and soft from years of use. Your shoulders drop slightly. This is better. This is you.

Gojo doesn’t say anything, but you feel his gaze lingering, feel him watching as you nod once and turn toward the door. The wooden panels creak softly as you push them open, and behind you, you hear the quiet shuffle of his footsteps as he follows.

It’s quiet as you make your way through the castle halls, but unlike the quiet of the early morning, when sleep still clung to your bones, this silence is heavier. For as long as you’ve known him, Gojo has never let silence settle for long. He has always been someone who filled the spaces with something—easy laughter, a careless joke, a passing observation that made the world feel lighter. But now, there is nothing.

You don’t know if it’s exhaustion, or if it’s the weight of everything you learned last night pressing down on both of you. Either way, neither of you breaks the quiet.

When you reach the Great Hall, you spot them immediately—Shoko and Nanami, already seated at the Gryffindor table, unbothered by the stares Shoko’s presence earns. She is hunched over a steaming cup of tea, her face drawn with fatigue, while Nanami reads something, chewing absently on a piece of toast.

Utahime isn’t here. Probably still asleep. And Suguru is nowhere to be seen.

You slip into the seat beside Shoko, offering her a small, tired smile before reaching for a glass of water. The coolness soothes the dryness in your throat, grounding you, anchoring you to the present.

Gojo sits across from you, but you don’t look at him. And he doesn’t say anything, either.

You watch as Gojo reaches for the serving spoon, lazily scooping a heap of scrambled eggs onto his plate. He takes his time, as if every movement is too much effort, dragging on as he adds a portion of sautéed mushrooms and a couple of sausages, barely looking at what he’s doing. Nanami, opposite him, chews on a slice of toast with the same absentminded exhaustion. His book is open, resting on the table, but his eyes are fixed on a single line, unfocused. He isn’t reading. He’s just staring.

Shoko cradles her teacup between her hands, fingers curled around the warmth, but she isn’t drinking. The steam curls into the cold morning air, dissipating in soft, lazy tendrils. None of them are speaking. The clatter of cutlery and the distant murmur of the Great Hall should fill the silence, but somehow, among the four of you, it feels heavy. Too quiet.

They’re all zoning out. You can feel the weight of it, pressing down, turning everything sluggish, hazy, muted. Like sleep paralysis while still awake.

You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice, trying to break through it.

“Guys,” you whisper, urging, “Come on. Cheer up. We can’t get like this.”

Shoko barely reacts. She blinks, slow and lazy, before murmuring, “We’re not sad, stupid.” She shifts her teacup to one hand, rubbing at her temple with the other. “I’m just tired. I reckon Kento is, too. It’s just you and Satoru who look like you’ve seen hell.”

Your grip tightens around the tea cup you had just reached for. You let the warmth seep into your fingertips, grounding yourself, but it doesn’t help much.

“That’s sort of because I have,” you say, voice lighter than it should be. The words don’t match the feeling in your chest. You glance at Gojo as you speak, sharp and accusing. Just a little jab. Just a small way to let him know you haven’t forgotten.

His eyes flicker toward you, narrowed, quiet in a way he rarely is.

Nanami’s gaze shifts. He watches, his exhaustion momentarily pushed aside, studying the way you look at each other. His brow raises. “What is that supposed to mean?”

You don’t look at him. You don’t look at Shoko either. Your eyes stay locked on Gojo’s. You want him to see it coming. You want him to know that you have no choice but to say it.

“It means,” you murmur, slow and deliberate, “that Gojo, here, has given me some very important information that he should have given me a long time ago.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, just the faintest shake of his head. It’s so small that if you weren’t looking at him, you might have missed it. It’s a warning, a plea, a quiet, desperate beg.

Don’t say it.

But you have to. Maybe not all of it. But some of it.

You turn to Shoko first. Her gaze sharpens, curiosity overpowering the exhaustion. Then to Nanami. He is already waiting, arms crossed, ready for whatever it is you’re about to say.

You swallow once before you speak.

“Suguru is a Legilimens,” you say, voice controlled but firm. “He can read minds.”

The moment hangs. Suspended. A thread pulled too tight. Shoko’s jaw falls open. Her fingers tighten around her cup.

You see the realization unfold in real time.

Her tiredness vanishes in an instant, her eyes widening as her mind catches up, as the implications sink in, as she pieces it all together.

Across from her, Nanami is still. Staring.

Then, suddenly, he exhales sharply, setting his book down with slow, deliberate movements, as if he needs to physically hold onto something to steady himself. His fingers tap once against the wooden surface of the table. His face betrays nothing, but you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, in the way his jaw locks.

No one speaks.

For a moment, the sounds of the Great Hall—the scraping of forks against plates, the distant laughter, the echoes of chatter—feel too far away.

And then, just like that, the air shifts. The weight of this knowledge crashes down, pressing into the space between the four of you. And you know, without anyone saying it, that they’ve both been stumped.

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Shoko mutters, her voice edged with something sharp, something incredulous. She doesn’t look at you. She looks at Gojo.

Then, suddenly, she leans in, whispering, but it’s the kind of whisper that crackles with restrained fury, the kind that feels louder than a shout. “How dare you not tell us something that important beforehand? Honestly, Gojo, you stupid git. None of us can perform Occlumency. Do you know how hard this makes everything for us?”

Gojo exhales through his nose, tilting his head back just slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, as if suddenly exhausted, he reaches into his pocket for his reading glasses, slipping them on in a slow, deliberate motion, like they might shield him from the weight of their glares.

“I was only trying to protect him,” he mutters.

The word ‘him’ sits heavy between you all.

Gojo adjusts his glasses, looking at Shoko again, like he’s daring her to argue with him on this. “If it was her,” he jerks his chin toward you, “you would’ve done the same.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Shoko snaps, “because she isn’t trying to absorb Horcruxes and revitalize a crazy wizard who likes killing everyone.”

You snort, lifting your teacup to your lips. “Shoko wins.”

“Stop that,” Gojo huffs, narrowing his eyes at you before turning back to the other two. His glasses catch the candlelight, making it hard to see his expression beneath them. “We can still do this.”

Nanami raises an unimpressed brow. “Really?” His voice is flat, even. “How are we possibly supposed to do… this? We can’t fight someone when they’ll know exactly what we’re going to do before we even do it.”

“He won’t hurt us,” Gojo says. His voice is calmer now, quieter. “I’ll make sure of it. I promise. None of us, absolutely none, will get hurt.”

The words settle over the table like dust.

It’s too big of a promise. Even Gojo must know that.

Shoko exhales sharply, pressing her fingers into her temples like she’s willing the headache away. Nanami leans back in his seat, arms crossed, brows furrowed, deep in thought. You stare into the dark amber of your tea, watching the ripples along its surface, the way it stills, the way it waits.

Nanami is the first to speak again.

“What are we supposed to do now?” he asks. “I mean, how are we supposed to approach this at all? We don’t know anything about absorbing Horcruxes. We don’t know anything about Sukuna. His name might be buried in the footnotes of some books in the Restricted Section, but he isn’t mentioned anywhere specifically.”

No one answers.

The four of you stare at one another, the weight of your own ignorance pressing down like a thick fog. You try to sift through everything you know, everything you’ve read, every lead you’ve ever had. But all of it comes back to the same thing. The prophecy. It isn’t enough.

Then, Gojo speaks.

“My mother.”

Your head snaps up. His voice is firm, certain. He doesn’t hesitate. “She might know something.”

Your expression hardens immediately. “Absolutely not.” The words come faster than your thoughts, automatic, firm. “We will not be going to the Ministry again. We are not contacting your parents—”

“Trust me.”

It is not the first time he has said those words.

But it is the first time they feel different.

His voice cuts through yours, quiet but forceful. It makes you stop. He looks at you then, properly, his glasses slightly slipping down his nose. His brows knit together, just barely. His lips press into something unreadable. His expression is serious in a way that you don’t see often.

“My mother is not my father.”

The silence that follows is different this time. You watch him carefully, scanning his face, waiting for something—something defensive, something stubborn—but there is nothing but certainty.

And for the first time, it sinks in. The world slows.

The Room of Requirement feels closer than the Great Hall. You remember it. All of it. The way you'd crouched down in front of him, seen his most vulnerable side that even Suguru had never experienced fully. The way his entire pale body was filled with cuts and stitches. The gash that you'd undone—the same one Dobby the House-Elf had novicely stitched, because his father forbade any healing.

You remember the incantations you'd whispered under your breath, wand glowing, watching his blood trickle back into his body, leaving only the scar so his father wouldn't hurt him more upon seeing it. The quiet between you, the way his breath had evened out as the pain faded.

You remember looking back up at Gojo and seeing the relief on his face. You'd watched his smile come back when he realized that the pain was gone.

The tension in your body does not leave completely, but it shifts. Not quite loosening, but settling.

You still do not want to go to her.

But you know you will.

Shoko exhales, sets her teacup down carefully, the porcelain making a soft sound against the table. Then, she looks at Gojo, gaze measured, decisive. “I don’t think Kento or I should come with you for that,” she says. “I think we should search the library for anything about Sukuna that you two missed.”

Nanami nods almost immediately, as if he’s been considering the same thing. “I agree,” he says. “We weren’t at the Ministry. We shouldn’t be coming to see your mother.”

It’s logical. The right choice. But it makes everything feel more real.

Gojo’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the way his fingers curl slightly against the table, his shoulders drawing back as he processes it. Then, after a moment, he nods. “Right,” he says. His voice is quiet, but there’s no hesitation. “Alright.”

As the four of you step out of the Great Hall, the corridor leading toward the Boathouse is alive with noise—frantic voices, hurried footsteps, the occasional shriek of frustration. The usual morning murmur of students moving between classes or lingering over breakfast has twisted into something far more chaotic.

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd. People stand in clusters, talking in hushed, urgent tones, eyes darting around as if searching for something unseen. Others pat at their pockets, at their robes, their satchels—searching. A few are outright panicked, their voices rising above the rest.

“What’s going on?” you ask, your brow furrowing as you glance at Gojo.

He only shrugs, but his eyes are already fixed on the scene before him, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows something the rest of you don’t. There’s a glint in his glasses when the torchlight hits them, an unmistakable spark of amusement that makes you eye him warily.

Then, you pay attention to the shrieks.

“Where is it? I just had it—”

“I’m missing my Remembrall!” someone else cries out from further down the corridor, their voice tinged with disbelief.

Another voice follows, equally distressed. “I had fifteen galleons in my pocket just seconds ago!”

More students are checking their robes now, some overturning their bags, some spinning in place as if they’ll find what they’re missing lying at their feet. The anxiety is infectious, spreading like wildfire, and soon, the entire corridor hums with suspicion and alarm.

You glance at Shoko and Nanami, but they only shrug, both of them watching with mild curiosity.

Gojo, on the other hand, is grinning now, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he surveys the commotion like it’s the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head, the way he shifts his weight onto one foot, pleased, expectant.

He knows something.

And whatever it is, you have a feeling it’s about to make itself known. You eye the corridor again, stepping closer to Gojo unknowingly, before you finally see it.

A flicker of movement in the periphery of your vision—quick, darting, barely there before it vanishes again. The shadows in the corridor shift, and then, out of the murmuring chaos, a small creature scurries forward, its tiny claws clicking against the stone floor.

Your breath catches as you watch it—fur dark and glossy, a deep, ink-like sheen that catches the torchlight, but its snout is lighter, pinkish, twitching as it sniffs the air. Its eyes, round and black as polished obsidian, gleam with something both mischievous and knowing.

And it’s heading straight for Gojo.

It scales his leg with ease, nimble paws gripping onto the fabric of his trousers, moving with a confidence that suggests it has no doubt in its own ability to get what it wants. Gojo doesn’t startle, doesn’t even flinch—he merely raises a brow, watching as the small creature climbs higher, right up to his waist, before it stretches a tiny paw toward his face, reaching—

For his glasses.

Gojo grins, catching it before it succeeds, fingers curling around its tiny body. It squirms in his grasp, but only briefly, before settling against his palm, its small chest rising and falling in quick, excited bursts. You can hear the faintest sound of snuffling, of the creature’s nose twitching rapidly, as if it’s still searching for something, still determined to find something shiny to snatch.

“Niffler,” you whisper, exhaling in quiet disbelief as Gojo, entirely unfazed, tucks the small animal into his pocket.

You gape at him. “Gojo, you can’t just—”

But he’s already turning, already moving, leading the four of you toward the quieter hallway, away from the ongoing commotion. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t explain. Just keeps walking, casual, as if he hasn’t just stuffed a Niffler into his pocket like a particularly unruly quill.

Your frustration simmers, but before you can scold him, he stops abruptly, pulling the small creature out once more.

You watch as he holds it up to his face, as if inspecting it, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. The Niffler tilts its head in return, mirroring him, tiny paws twitching. Gojo blinks at it. It blinks back.

Then he nods, satisfied. “It’s a baby.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Hagrid,” you mutter. “He’s probably lost one.”

Gojo hums, rubbing the Niffler’s tiny head with the pad of his thumb, and it makes the faintest chirring noise in response.

Shoko, who has been watching this entire interaction with mild amusement, rolls her eyes and stretches her arms above her head. “Alright,” she says, turning toward Nanami, “I think it’s about time we go check the library.”

Nanami nods in agreement, shifting his book under his arm. “We’ll try to find anything useful. Maybe we missed something before.”

Shoko looks at you and Gojo, then at the Niffler still nestled in Gojo’s hand. “You two should go take that thing back to Hagrid before it robs the entire school blind.”

“Yeah,” Nanami agrees, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. “Handle that first, then go deal with… whatever you’re planning with Gojo’s mother.”

You glance at Gojo, who merely shrugs, still preoccupied with the Niffler.

Shoko waves a lazy hand as she and Nanami turn to leave, already heading toward the library. “Good luck,” she calls over her shoulder, her voice dry.

You watch them disappear down the hall, the weight of what’s ahead settling in your stomach once more.

Gojo, still grinning, taps your shoulder with the tip of the Niffler’s snout. “C’mon,” he says, tucking the tiny creature back into his pocket. “Let’s go find Hagrid.”

The Niffler does not stay put.

No sooner has Gojo tucked it away than it wriggles free, its small paws gripping onto the hem of his pants as it pulls itself back into the open, its nose twitching, eyes bright and mischievous. It pops its head out of his pocket, looking directly at you—round, shiny gaze unblinking, expectant.

You soften immediately. How could you not? It is, objectively, adorable. You reach forward instinctively, running a careful hand over its soft fur, scratching lightly at the top of its head. It chirrs, a pleased little noise, and you smile. Which, evidently, it takes as an invitation.

Before you can react, the Niffler scrambles out of Gojo’s pocket entirely, landing with an almost comically quiet plop onto the stone floor of the hallway. It pauses, stretching out its tiny limbs as if testing its newfound freedom.

Gojo watches, unimpressed. “You realize it’s going to run, don’t you?”

You barely hear him. You’re already crouching down, reaching for it. “No, no—come here, it’s alright—”

But of course, it does exactly as Gojo predicted. It bolts.

Its tiny feet barely make a sound as it scurries across the hall, slipping effortlessly between shadows, darting past the ankles of unsuspecting students still lingering from the commotion. The flickering torchlight catches the glossy sheen of its fur, a quick flash before it vanishes around the corner.

Gojo chuckles. A low, knowing sound. “Told you so.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, already moving to chase after it. “Come on, let’s catch it.”

“We could just use the Summoning Charm,” Gojo begins, lazily, not quite making an effort to keep up. But then, he stops. His gaze sharpens, a flicker of something shifting behind his glasses. You follow his line of sight, and—

The Niffler has stopped.

It is at the very end of the corridor now, a dark, small shape against the cool grey of the stone floor. It does not run. It does not hide. It simply… waits. Its head turns back towards you, as if making sure you’re still watching.

You straighten. “It stopped.”

Gojo presses his lips together, contemplative. “Do you think it wants us to follow it?”

You look at him. He looks at you. Then he nods. The two of you move forward, cautiously at first, then faster when it darts off again. It weaves through the dim corridors, past wide-eyed students still murmuring about their lost belongings, past the grand staircases shifting overhead.

It leads you downward.

Past the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room, deeper into the castle’s stone belly, where the air is cooler, where the dungeons press against the foundations of Hogwarts itself.

You frown. “Where is it going?”

But it doesn’t stop. It does not linger near the dungeons. It turns sharply, scurrying up the staircase again. Up, up, up, higher and higher, the two of you following in its wake. You’re breathless by the time you realize where you are. Gojo hums beside you, entirely unaffected, his hands by his sides, his long, lanky stride making the chase look effortless. “It’s going toward Dumbledore’s office.”

Your lungs are burning. “What?”

He shrugs. “Dunno why.”

You groan. “Why?”

“How am I supposed to know?” he retorts, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m in the same boat as you.”

Then the Niffler takes one last sharp turn. And suddenly, you are not alone.

Because standing at the very end of the hallway, framed by the shifting candlelight, is the headmaster himself. Dumbledore.

The Niffler does not hesitate. It scurries right up to him, climbing his robes with the same eager ease it had when it clambered up Gojo’s leg. Dumbledore does not move, does not react, merely watches in quiet amusement as the small creature settles onto his outstretched palms.

He lifts it, the long sleeves of his robes shifting as he studies it with a curious, knowing gaze.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“This,” he murmurs, voice lilting, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, “would be Pip. He’s a new addition to Hagrid’s pets.”

You and Gojo share a look.

Dumbledore watches the two of you for a long moment before he moves, stepping toward you with the kind of quiet grace that makes him feel untouchable, otherworldly, like he exists in a time entirely separate from the one you are bound to. He does not hurry. He does not need to.

With a gentle pad of his thumb, he strokes the baby Niffler’s fur. Pip, warm and impossibly small, lets out a soft chirp, burrowing deeper into his palm, entirely unbothered by the tension in the air.

Dumbledore exhales, the corners of his lips curling into something like amusement, though it does not quite reach his eyes. As he hands Pip to you, he says, “Curious, isn’t it? How creatures have a way of leading people exactly where they need to be.”

You glance down at Pip, who wiggles in your grasp, before flicking your gaze back up to him. “Sir, I’m not sure what exactly you mean.”

He regards you carefully. Not unkindly, but knowingly, as though he is staring at something within you that you yourself have yet to realize. “Miss [L/N],” he starts, “not all knowledge is meant to be uncovered so soon. But perhaps, the two of you may be short on time.”

A beat.

Gojo shifts beside you. You do not look at him, but you can feel his stare, the way he turns toward you first before setting his sights back on Dumbledore. There is something sharp in his posture, something electric in the way he carries himself now. As though he, too, understands that they are teetering on the edge of something irreversible.

Dumbledore continues, undeterred. “I cannot stop you from doing what you must. But I can ensure you are safe.”

There is no doubt in his voice. No hesitation. Only quiet certainty.

Gojo exhales, slow and measured, but then he is stepping forward, his hands pushing deep into his pockets as he tilts his head. “Sir,” he says, his voice smooth, “can’t you do something about this? I mean, you already know everything. I’m sure you do. Why can’t you take any action?”

Dumbledore smiles at that—soft, understanding, but lined with something heavier. “That,” he says, “is because every action I take will be closely monitored by your father. And the Minister of Magic. I cannot use my wand without them knowing what spells I conjure.”

Oh.

The realization lands heavy in your stomach. The Headmaster of Hogwarts himself, shackled. Forced to move only within the constraints of the world he has built himself into. That is why he has been keeping his hands clean, why he has been letting the rest of you run headfirst into the unknown.

You sigh. “Sir, we think we should first figure out what exactly it entails. The Horcruxes and their absorption.”

“You would be right to do that,” he says, nodding slightly. “Come to me, when you’re done searching for information. I may have something that will guide you in the right direction.”

His gaze lingers, and there is something there—something unspoken, careful. It makes your stomach twist.

Then, as if in afterthought, he adds, lightly, almost playfully, “A record of sorts. An old thing, long forgotten, but still quite useful.”

You exchange a look with Gojo, a flicker of understanding passing between the two of you before you return your focus to Dumbledore.

He nods, but then he is stepping past you, walking toward the arched window at the end of the corridor, where the gray sky spreads vast and endless beyond the glass. His voice, when he speaks, is casual. But it is never just casual with him, never just words.

“The fields toward Hagrid’s hut,” he muses, “are rather peaceful at this time of day. A good place to gather one’s thoughts.” He clasps his hands behind his back, peering out at the grounds. “Of course, the path is rather open. But there are ways to walk unseen, if one knows how to step carefully.”

A pause.

Then, without turning back, he says, “Should you find yourselves there, I do hope you do not linger too long. It would be… unwise.”

And just like that, the conversation is over.

The two of you run.

The wind drags against your clothes, the cold air biting at your skin, but you push forward, feet pounding against the earth as the castle looms behind you. The Niffler is warm in your hands, tucked securely against your chest, its tiny claws gripping at your sleeve, its small, round body rising and falling with each breath. You glance down to make sure it’s comfortable, adjusting your hold so it doesn’t jostle too much. It peers up at you, dark eyes bright, unbothered by the urgency, as though it is entirely content in your grasp.

You glance at Satoru. “I suppose we’re Disapparating to your home?”

“We are,” he says, barely winded. His voice is casual, but his gaze flickers around, scanning the landscape, searching for a place that is truly hidden. “We just need to find somewhere completely out of sight.”

Then his attention shifts to the creature in your hands, his pace slowing just slightly. “It’s cute. Pip. Got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, looking down at the Niffler. Its tiny nose twitches as it burrows into your jumper’s sleeve. The two of you slow to a brisk walk, breath evening out, the grass crunching beneath your feet.

The fields stretch wide ahead of you, untouched and open. No students wander this far past the castle, anyway. Only Hagrid’s hut sits in the distance, a plume of smoke curling lazily from the chimney. The air is cool, the sky a dull blue.

“Should we go give him to Hagrid first?” you ask, adjusting Pip in your hands.

Satoru narrows his eyes at the creature, considering it, before glancing back at you. “Nah. I suspect he’ll be useful to us. If we need to swipe something from my home, that is. Let’s keep him for now.”

You eye him, unimpressed. “I still can’t believe the only reason you know everything you do is because you’re technically a thief. And an unconventional spy who gets caught from time to time by your father.”

He smirks, pushing his hands into his pockets. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my unconventional skills.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you mutter.

He lets out a small huff, shaking his head. “Alright, are you prepared? You get sick from Disapparition, right? Would you prefer it if I got us into my room again? So you can have a few moments before we speak to my mother?”

You shake your head. “It’s no matter. Let’s just get this done.”

A breeze cuts through the fields. You exhale, slow and measured, before stepping closer.

Step by step, you close the distance, until the space between you is almost nonexistent. You feel the warmth radiating from him, the way the air seems to shift, heavy and quiet. You let out a breath, looking down at Pip, then back up at him, your voice softer now.

“Hold me.”

Satoru stills.

“What?” he asks, his breath coming just a little faster.

You smile—just barely, teasing, the faintest curve of your lips. “Don’t you need to touch me to Disapparate me along with you? I haven’t learned it yet.”

“Oh,” he mumbles, blinking once, twice. “Right. Of course.”

There’s a beat. A hesitation. Then he reaches for you.

The violent pull is back.

It doesn’t just take you—it seizes you, yanks you from the inside out, your entire body forced through a space too narrow, too suffocating. Your stomach twists, knots itself into something unrecognizable, your guts wrenching as if someone has reached inside you and wrung them like a wet cloth. There’s no air. No weight. No direction. Just a terrible, gut-churning sensation, as if your very bones are unraveling, as if you are collapsing inward and being thrown forward at the same time.

Then, just as suddenly as it starts, it stops. Your feet slam onto a cobblestone path. Your knees nearly give out.

You gasp, the nausea surging hot and awful up your throat. Your stomach lurches, twisting again, fighting against itself. For a horrible second, you think you’re going to vomit. You clutch onto the nearest thing, which is Satoru’s sleeve, knuckles tightening, eyes shut. The world spins violently around you, and you focus on breathing. One. Two. In. Out. Do not throw up. Do not throw up.

Satoru’s arm is still around you, steadying you as you keel forward.

“Fawkes, you good?” His voice is somewhere above you, wry but laced with something softer.

You swallow hard. Nod. Force yourself upright. The nausea lingers, a sour taste in your mouth, a hot wave in your chest, but it’s not as bad as before. That’s the worst part. The fact that it’s getting easier. That your body is learning, adjusting. That Disapparition—this awful, gut-wrenching, stomach-turning thing that you’ve grown to hate more than anything—is becoming familiar.

You exhale, long and shaky, before finally looking up. And stop breathing altogether.

The house, or what should be called a house, though nothing about it is ordinary enough to warrant the name, looms before you, towering, sprawling.

A mansion. A manor.

Its sheer scale is suffocating. Sharp, formidable stonework stretches high into the sky, cut through with vast windows, each one a dark, reflective eye. The glass glows faintly in the moonlight, but it isn’t warm—it’s cold, untouched, as if the place is meant to be observed, not lived in. The roofline is broken up by chimneys and sharp balustrades, delicate but unyielding. Ivy curls up along the lower portions, thick and dark, trying in vain to soften the edges of a structure that refuses softness.

It’s beautiful in the way something haunted is beautiful. In the way ruins are beautiful—except this is not ruined. It is intact. It is alive.

Your head turns so fast to look at Satoru that your neck twinges.

“I was inside that?” your voice is too quiet, almost incredulous. “The last time we came?”

Satoru exhales sharply. “Yes,” he mutters. “We were inside that.”

Your eyes flick back to the mansion. It is massive. It is horrifying. It is beautiful.

“That is,” you say slowly, “a horrifyingly beautiful mansion. And big. And I can’t believe that something this big is in London.”

Satoru shoves his hands into his pockets, gaze flat. “Thanks,” he deadpans. “I hate it.”

You blink at him. “Right. Of course you do.”

He starts walking, heading toward the front doors like this is just another ordinary day, and you force your legs to move, still half-struck by the sheer weight of the place.

The double doors open on their own as you approach, revealing a grand hall so large it almost makes you dizzy.

Marble stretches beneath your feet, gleaming, catching the flickering light of the chandeliers overhead. Everything is vast. The walls, lined with intricate carvings, stretch so high you can hardly see the ceiling. A sweeping, bifurcated staircase curves up to the right, its bannisters smooth and dark, splitting into two separate landings above. Balustrades line the mezzanine, delicate and detailed, polished so that even in the dim glow of candlelight, they shine.

The space is silent, the kind of silence that swallows you whole.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until you see Satoru already halfway through the hall. You shake yourself, quickly following.

You glance right, and through an open doorway, you glimpse a billiards table. You straighten, frowning. A whole room. For snooker.

Of course.

Something small scurries past the edge of your vision, just then. A familiar figure, ears twitching, moving fast, and then—

“Master Satoru—”

"Dobby," Satoru interrupts smoothly, "where would my mother be at this time?"

You force your attention away from the billiards room, looking toward the house-elf. Dobby’s ears twitch again, and he fidgets slightly, gaze darting toward Satoru, then away.

"Master Satoru," he says hesitantly, "I can't tell you that, I'm afraid—"

Satoru hums. “Dungeons or library?”

Dobby squirms. Visibly uncomfortable. Satoru smiles. Pats the elf lightly on the head. “It’s okay, don’t worry. I won’t rat you out. I’ve got this.”

You smile at Dobby as you pass, pausing briefly. “The pastry you sent with me last time was really good, by the way.”

Dobby’s ears perk up. His expression brightens. “I’ll make sure to give you more this time.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have time to eat later,” you admit. “But sure. I’d like that.”

The two of you walk, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the sheer vastness of the place. Dobby trails behind, small and silent, his presence barely more than a flicker against the scale of it all.

Satoru leads you through the snooker room you had mentally dismissed a minute ago, and you blink, looking around as you step inside. The absurdity of it hits you first. Then the grandeur. The ridiculous, ridiculous grandeur. The deep green of the felt, the polished wood, the way the overhead lights cast perfect, crisp shadows against the walls. A whole room dedicated to this. An entire space, immaculate, untouched, meant only for the occasional amusement of knocking balls across a table.

You force yourself to walk forward, past it, into another stretch of hallway that is just as overwhelming, just as impossibly extravagant. You try to take it in, try to remind yourself that this is not a museum, not some historical estate, not a tourist attraction.

It’s Satoru’s home.

And that makes it even stranger.

Your fingers brush against the edge of your sleeve as you glance around, your heart giving a traitorous little kick of excitement when you see what’s ahead.

The library.

Your steps pick up slightly as you enter, as if drawn forward by some gravitational force. It is grand. Vast.

Rows upon rows of dark mahogany shelves stretch upward, polished to a deep, rich shine, so tall you would need a ladder just to reach the highest tiers. The ceiling disappears into shadow, the walls lined with books, the weight of them pressing down in a way that is not stifling but exhilarating. This—this is a library meant for reading, meant for existing inside, meant for getting lost in. The space is warm, not in temperature but in atmosphere, an old, settled quiet that feels untouched by time.

In the center, a designated seating area with deep leather chairs, tucked neatly around small tables. And those lamps—the classic ones, old-fashioned, heavy with history, the green glass shades casting a muted, intimate glow against the dark wood. The kind of lamps you’ve only ever seen in places where knowledge is sacred. Like the Hogwarts library.

You inhale, eyes wide. “Oh my god,” you whisper.

“I knew you’d like this one. Remind me to bring you around in the summer if we’re alive,” Satoru murmurs, pushing his glasses up, unimpressed.

You barely hear him. Or you ignore him. You can’t tell the difference.

He stops walking, glancing at one of the bookshelves, tilting his head slightly before humming in vague interest. You watch as he steps forward, lifting a hand. His fingers brush against the top of a book—no, not a book. A block disguised as one. You squint, your stomach twisting slightly in anticipation.

Satoru steps back.

You take a step back too, just in case.

Dobby shifts uncomfortably at your side, his small hands twitching, and you swallow, suddenly clammy with anticipation.

The bookshelves move.

Not in the ordinary way, not like a door swinging open or a cabinet being pushed aside, but in the way magic moves when it forgets the laws of reality exist. The shelves fold into themselves, sliding back, layer upon layer peeling away, collapsing inward like a collapsing star.

It is seamless. Effortless. It is not a door opening. It is a secret unfurling. You gasp. The space beyond reveals itself slowly, another section of the library, deeper, older, hidden. The air here is heavier, the scent of parchment and ink more concentrated, as if time itself has thickened.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, crossing into the new space without so much as a glance back. You swallow your awe and follow. The moment you step through, the bookshelves slide back into place, as if this were an entirely different room.

“I was wondering when you’d be coming home,” a voice.

You flinch at the sound. The voice is smooth. Low. Measured. You tense, your spine stiffening instinctively as you turn. Gojo’s mother.

Mirai.

She stands, hunched over, at a podium—no, a lectern. The kind of furniture that exists in places of power. The kind that commands attention without trying. The kind you wouldn’t dream of even thinking if you were buying a house for yourself and decorating it.

The lighting here is dimmer, the glow of the lamps casting long shadows across the floor. It only makes the space feel more cavernous, more secretive. Your gaze flickers, taking in the details, the delicate gold accents lining the bookshelves, the heavy wooden table in the center—the color and wood identical to the one in the Room of Requirement, only this one’s circular instead.

Satoru barely reacts.

“Mother,” he says, dry, unimpressed.

She looks up, adjusting her glasses as she takes the two of you in. The glasses, you realize distantly, are beautiful. Oval frames, thin, delicate, with spectacle chains that glint faintly in the low light, encrusted with stones so fine they can only be precious. Platinum? Silver? Some other metal you don’t even know the name of?

Her gaze flickers between the two of you, sharp and assessing.

“I’m guessing you’ve found out something is happening,” she says, voice smooth as ever.

Satoru exhales, leaning casually against a shelf, arms crossing over his chest. The smirk that pulls at his lips is almost lazy, but knowing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know who was impersonating you and father at the Ministry?”

Her brows furrow, ever so slightly.

You shift, your palms damp, but you force yourself to glance around, taking in the details so you don’t have to feel the weight of the tension pressing against your skin. The books, the lectern, the grand structure of the bookshelves—raised slightly, a small step leading up to them, as if the act of retrieving a book is something to be ascended toward. It makes your stomach flip in some strange, giddy way. You love it here.

Mirai steps down, her movements smooth, unhurried. She pulls her glasses off, letting them rest against her collarbone, the spectacle chain glinting faintly.

Then, her eyes. Sharp, piercing, so much like Satoru’s as they flicker between the two of you.

She is composed in a way that feels calculated, her posture precise, every movement measured. A deep green coat flows around her, the fabric shifting with each step, its weight a quiet nod to both wealth and history. There is something structured about it, the way it cinches at the waist before cascading into a fuller silhouette, the high collar framing her face with an air of hushed charge. The buttons gleam in a neat row, catching the light like polished brass, fastening everything into place—elegance, control, restraint. The sleeves taper smoothly down to her wrists, fitted just right. Everything about her is perfect.

And then, her voice. Low, certain. "It was you?" she asks.

Satoru doesn’t blink. “It was I,” he says, almost pleased with himself. Then, glancing toward you, “And her. She might’ve told Evelyn that you’d read her research paper, though. Make sure you do that, and maybe compliment her or something. She seemed a little jumpy.”

You inhale sharply. “Sorry,” you blurt. “Mrs. Gojo. I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out—”

She ignores you at first. “Polyjuice Potion?”

Satoru nods. Then, finally, she turns to you.

"You certainly dressed the part,” she remarks, her gaze sweeping over you, coolly appraising. “Although your coat wasn’t as long as I like mine to be.”

You blink. “Oh.” A pause, then meekly, “Sorry?”

“Don’t worry, darling, you did fine.”

She waves you off without so much as a glance, already moving, already shifting her focus elsewhere. There is something effortless about the way she moves, something deliberate, as though every action is carefully measured, calculated. She reaches for the lectern, her fingers pale against the dark grain of the wood, picking up the book and parchment she had been studying as though it were of no more consequence than a discarded letter. She does not hesitate, does not pause, simply turns and walks past you, the long hem of her dress sweeping against the marble floor with a whisper of movement.

You watch her as she places the book down on the large, round table in the center of the room, the sound barely a whisper against the wood. Then, without looking, she speaks.

“Come sit.”

A glance over her shoulder. First at Satoru. Then at you.

“You as well.”

You scramble.

The movement feels inelegant, out of place in a room like this, in the presence of someone like her. You reach for the chair closest to Satoru’s, gripping the back of it before pulling it out and sitting down, hands clenching briefly against the arms before you force yourself to release your grip.

You do not look at her.

Instead, you look at him.

Satoru sits beside you, careless in a way only he can be, his body angled slightly, his arm resting lazily on the table’s edge. His expression is unreadable as he stares at his mother, but his hand—his hand finds yours beneath the table, warm, steady. His fingers slip between yours, intertwining, holding.

Your breath catches.

It is an absurd thing to focus on at a moment like this, but you cannot help it, cannot stop the way your pulse speeds up, the way your skin burns where he touches you. You blink, hard, forcing yourself to steady your breathing, forcing yourself to look away from him, to look at her.

“I’m guessing you already know,” she says, voice smooth, even. “Since you looked through the Pensieve.” A pause. Then, sharper, “But seriously, Satoru, I raised you better than that. You cannot break the law and expect me to lie. What if they use Veritaserum on me someday?”

She fixes him with a look, one that is not quite exasperated, but close.

Satoru rolls his eyes, still holding your hand as he leans back slightly. “Mother,” he drawls, “You’ve practiced Occlumency for a reason.”

She exhales, a sigh that sounds half-resigned, half-amused. Then her gaze flickers back to you. Then to him.

“Who saw the memory?”

“I did,” you say softly, raising your hand the way you would in class, voice barely more than a murmur. Then, instinctively, “Sorry.”

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Quit apologizing, dear.” A beat. “I’m guessing my son probably forced you to go there in the first place.”

You do not know how to answer that.

The woman standing before you is not the woman you saw in the Pensieve. That version of her had been different, sharper in a way that felt less like a mother and more like something else entirely. But this—this is something else. You get the distinct impression that she assumes roles the way one might change outfits, slipping into them with effortless precision, adapting, adjusting, becoming whatever the moment requires.

You wonder which version of her this is.

“Actually,” Satoru starts, as if this conversation is of little importance to him at all, “Have you heard of the Marauders?”

“The hooligans at your school that disrupt decorum and steal things?” she asks, raising a delicate brow. “I doubted it was you and your friends.”

“You’ve got me right,” Satoru nods, as if pleased with himself. Then, with a smirk, “But it isn’t Suguru or Shoko or anyone else. It’s her.”

There is a heavy pause. A single blink.

“Oh,” she says simply, considering. Then, almost amused, “That makes things a lot easier.”

“If I were to start from the beginning,” Satoru begins, but Mirai lifts a single finger, silencing him before he can go on.

She turns—not to either of you, but to the far end of the room, where Dobby stands, still and silent. You realize then that you had forgotten he was even there, standing as he has been this entire time, as if waiting for something. The realization makes something twist in your stomach, a sharp little pang of guilt. You try for a small smile, something apologetic, but it feels more like a grimace.

Mirai does not acknowledge your reaction.

Instead, she regards the elf for a moment, her gaze unreadable, before speaking. “Dobby, we might be here for a while. Hours, perhaps. Could you get us tea and refreshments?”

“Yes, Madam Gojo,” Dobby nods immediately, disappearing with a small pop.

You wish you could do that. Disappear, just like that. Not the sharp, gut-wrenching twist of Apparition, but the way elves do it, seamless and quiet. No sound but a hush of displaced air. No warning. Just gone.

You wish you could be anywhere but here, in this room, where the air feels thick enough to choke on, where something tight and coiled sits heavy in your chest. You were giddy at first, but the tension felt like it would drown you any second.

Unfortunately, there is nowhere else to be.

“Anywho,” Satoru drawls, stretching his legs out under the table like this is any other conversation, like he isn’t standing at the edge of something irreversibly dangerous. “As I was saying, we were… made aware of someone attempting to use dark magic at school. Anonymously, of course. And so, we investigated it. As the Marauders. After everything, here we are.”

His mother exhales, slow, measured.

She looks between the two of you, gaze flickering over your joined hands, the space between you, as if assessing something.

Then, finally, she asks, “How much do you know?”

Satoru’s grip on your hand tightens, the barest squeeze. “Everything,” he says. “Everything except what exactly is going to happen, and how to stop it.” A pause. Then, more deliberately, “The whole bit. Sukuna. Twenty Horcruxes. Suguru being the one behind it all. You already know the gist, though. From the prophecy.”

Something shifts in Mirai’s expression. Not quite fear, but something close to it.

“Satoru,” she says, voice careful now, “I do not want this for you. I do not want that prophecy to come into fruition.”

There is something about the way she says it that makes your chest go tight, that makes the moment feel heavier than before, like the weight of what you’re about to do is truly beginning to sink in. “Do not try to get dragged into this war.”

Satoru does not hesitate. “Like it or not, Mother, I’m already a part of it.”

There is a finality to the way he says it, an unwavering certainty, and you see the way Mirai’s expression shifts, see the way her fingers press slightly into the table’s surface, how her posture stiffens.

This could very quickly turn into something worse.

You feel it before it happens, the air in the room shifting, thickening with something unspoken. Your heart is in your throat, your pulse too quick. You do not want this to turn into an argument—not now, not when there are things more urgent at hand, not when there is something far more important to be said.

So you speak before it can escalate.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Gojo.”

Her attention snaps to you, her gaze sharp, but you force yourself to keep steady, to press forward.

“We came here for a reason,” you say, voice more even than you expect it to be, though your fingers tighten around Satoru’s under the table. “That is to find out what exactly Horcrux absorption entails. We don’t know what’s supposed to happen. Or how it will happen at all.” You swallow, throat tight. “We don’t know anything about that kind of magic, and we couldn’t find anything on it in the library at Hogwarts. In the limited time we had, of course. There may be a lot we missed just because we were short on time.”

A moment of silence. Then another.

You exhale, shakily. The room feels colder now, or maybe you are just beginning to realize how real all of this is. How much you don’t know. How much you still need to figure out.

Mirai watches you. Then, at last, tilting her head as she regards you. “You’re much smarter than I thought you’d be. You should consider Research if you haven't already done so. The Department could use someone like you.” A pause. “I’d say you’re the brightest of Satoru’s friends.”

Something in your chest unfurls, unexpected but not unwelcome. It’s the kind of thing you’ve heard before, the kind of praise professors have given you in passing, the kind of validation that normally doesn’t mean much. And yet, coming from her—from Gojo’s mother—it makes something warm flicker at the edges of your ribs.

Before you can think of what to say, Satoru exhales sharply through his nose. “Mother, please stop trying to recruit my friends into working for you.”

She ignores him.

Her gaze lingers on you, sharp and assessing, before she finally speaks again. “Tell me, in detail, how much you know.”

You inhale, steadying yourself, choosing your words carefully.

“Well,” you start, fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the table. “From what Satoru has told me, and from what I’ve been able to find, Sukuna was a dark wizard with a fixation on power—his objective wasn’t conquest or control, just the elimination of the strongest. And when he supposedly died, he fractured his soul, creating twenty Horcruxes. Somehow, in this day and age, Suguru has found one. And if someone were to absorb enough Horcruxes, they might become a vessel for him.”

Satoru takes a slow, measured breath through his nose. Then he exhales, looking at his mother. “I could’ve told you all of that.”

Mirai doesn’t even blink. “I know.” A pause. “But you would’ve said it in that sarcastic tone I have neither the patience nor the tolerance for at the moment.” Then, almost offhandedly, she adds, “And I like her more.”

Satoru makes a noise of protest, but she speaks over him, still looking at you. “She seems more sensible than you. And looks like she keeps you out of trouble.”

You don’t dare say anything, but Satoru makes a quiet scoffing sound.

Mirai ignores that, too. “That’s a lot more than you should know,” she murmurs, thoughtful now. She studies you with something almost unreadable, something careful and heavy. “I hope you understand that people have been killed in my Department for less.”

Your hands tighten in your lap, nails pressing into the fabric of your robes.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say quietly, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “Satoru made that clear when he told me everything.”

Mirai hums. “I’d assume so.”

Then, finally, Satoru shifts forward, voice pressing into the space between you like a blade slicing through the tension. “So how do we stop it?” he asks. “What’s the ritual?”

His mother exhales, long and slow. Then, without a word, she reaches for the book and parchment she had brought from the lectern earlier. She sets them down in front of you, the pages crackling slightly as she spreads them across the table.

“This,” she says simply.

Satoru frowns, eyes scanning the parchment. The sheet is large, covered in ancient text and something even more incomprehensible—diagrams, circular and intricate, layered with symbols you can’t place. They are runes, of course, but not the kind you’ve studied before. Not the ones etched into the corners of your textbooks, not the ones carved into the stones of Hogwarts, not even the oldest ones you’ve come across in the Restricted Section. These are something else entirely.

His mother reaches out, tapping a few of them.

“Sukuna was a dark wizard,” she says, tone careful. “That much is known. But where his Horcruxes are hidden is not. No verifiable records of him exist, nothing about his followers—he had quite a few, by the way—nothing about how his magic worked. The information is ancient.” Her fingers skim across the parchment again, tracing the lines of the diagrams. “It’s like the way the Egyptians lasted for so long that they had to study their own history. What little we know about Sukuna comes from fragments, secondary sources, myths passed down through centuries.”

Something about that sparks in your mind, some half-buried recollection. “The Ancient Egyptian civilization lasted over three thousand years,” you murmur, the words coming unbidden, “the only major interruptions being the short twenty-year period of Atenism being made the state religion. And later, when it was annexed by Rome, which led to its decline.”

Mirai glances at you then, just briefly, something unreadable in her expression. But there’s something else there, too—something almost like approval.

“You know your history,” she says. It isn’t quite praise, but it’s close.

Satoru looks at you at that, but he doesn’t say anything. Mirai turns her attention back to the parchment, fingers moving from the runes to the dense columns of text.

“Well,” she continues, voice steady now, “most of these suggest Japanese origin. Heian era.”

“The golden age of Japanese culture,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

Mirai nods. “That’s what it suggests. That he was alive during that time. But no one in the Department, not even me, has been able to decrypt these runes.” Her fingers tap against the parchment, the ancient symbols etched into the brittle surface like the grooves of a fingerprint, impossible to erase, impossible to alter. “We can’t understand them, no matter how hard we try. I’ve brought in experts, some of the best minds in magical linguistics. Nothing. Even Bathsheba Babbling, your Ancient Runes professor, was consulted. No luck.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, frowning. “No one from Mahotokoro?” His brow arches, blue eyes sharp with skepticism. “Come on. If anyone should be able to read this, it’s them. The Japanese Wizarding School. It’s their language. Or, was. I think.”

His mother exhales, slow and measured. “It’s our language too,” she says. “And yet I don’t see either of us—” she gestures between them, a slight wave of her hand, “understanding what this means. Any of it.”

You press your lips together, stifling a laugh, but before the moment can stretch into something lighter, something less sharp, the sound of hurried steps against stone makes you glance up. Dobby appears at the edge of the room, scurrying in through—

A bookshelf?

Your brows lift, and before you can say anything, Satoru leans in, voice low. “There are multiple entrances. That one’s small enough for elves.”

“Oh,” you whisper back.

Dobby climbs up onto a stool—one that must have already been waiting for him—and carefully places three teacups onto the table, each nestled in a saucer. A small porcelain container follows, filled with tiny cubes of sugar. His hands are steady, practiced, but when you catch his eye and offer him a small, grateful smile, he stiffens slightly, his ears twitching.

You mouth thank you, and he quivers, just barely.

Before you can say anything else, another elf appears, this one balancing a much larger tray. Dobby takes it carefully, adjusting his grip before stepping forward and setting it down with practiced precision.

You blink. Two plates of strawberry pastries.

Your gaze flickers to Satoru just in time to see his mouth part slightly, eyes bright with interest. But then, you notice what he’s really looking at—a third plate, larger than the other two, piled high with soft white pillowy spheres. Not quite spheres, actually. Something round, but pliable, edges dusted in a fine white powder that you can only assume is sugar.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. He reaches out and takes one, biting into it without ceremony. You see it then. The thin outer layer gives way to something soft, something thick—white cream wrapped around a pale green filling. You tilt your head, curious, before Mirai speaks.

“Kikufuku,” she says, watching Satoru chew fondly. “A type of mochi. The green bits are edamame-flavored. He likes them a lot.”

“Oh.” You glance back at Satoru. He’s already reaching for another.

He swallows, then grins, gesturing toward the half-eaten mochi in his hand. “Mum took me to this bakery in Tokyo when we were in Japan. I was a kid, maybe six or seven. They had these, and I thought they matched my hair, so I asked for them.” He pauses. “Didn’t expect the inside to be green, though.”

You stare at him. “You wanted it because it matched your hair?”

He nods, completely serious. “Yeah.”

“And then you ate it anyway?”

“Obviously. Been my favorite ever since.”

“You are—”

“Insufferable?”

“Ridiculous.” You take a slow sip of your tea, letting the warmth settle in your chest before setting the cup back down. “Anyway, we should probably get back to…”

You trail off. Mirai is watching you.

Not just watching, but watching—her gaze steady, unreadable, something almost like fondness flickering just beneath the surface. You’re not sure what it is, not sure if you should try to name it. But then she blinks, snapping herself out of whatever thought she had been lost in, and clears her throat.

“Right,” she says, a bit too briskly, shifting her attention back to the parchment. “As I was saying, there is nothing known about Sukuna. Not yet.”

Satoru finishes the mochi in his hand, brushing his fingers off against his pants. “What about Horcruxes?”

She exhales, long and slow, pressing her fingers into her temples, as if trying to smooth away an oncoming headache. The book before her is ancient—a dark olive green, its spine barely holding, pages so brittle they seem to whisper when the air shifts. It looks as though it has been read and reread for centuries, as though it remembers too much. She drags it toward herself with careful hands.

“Horcruxes are something we know about,” she says at last, her voice measured, clipped, as though she is trying to convince herself that it is enough. “Not enough, according to me, but enough for now.” She inhales again, deeper this time, knuckles turning white where they grip the book’s edge. “Merlin, help me. I can’t understand why I’m sharing classified information with my teenage son and his friend, potentially putting both of your lives in danger, but—”

“Mum,” Gojo interrupts, tipping his chair back onto its hind legs, arms crossed, voice flat. He is already bored of this argument. Already exhausted by it. “Our lives are already in danger. Stop worrying.”

Mirai’s fingers tighten around the book. There is something in the way she looks at him now—something unreadable. Motherly, but distant. A deep inhale, a slow exhale, and then she is flipping the book open, splaying her fingers across the brittle pages as though steadying herself. Her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose, and she pushes them back into place before speaking again.

“You already know what a Horcrux is,” she says. Her voice is quieter now, but no less heavy. “It’s a receptacle. Binds someone to the living world, even after death.”

You nod, chewing slowly, letting the flavor settle on your tongue. The pastry is soft, dusted in sugar, but the sweetness is cut by the sharp, tart burst of strawberry jam. You glance up at Dobby, who stands quietly at the room’s edge, eyes round and luminous in the dim light. You nod at him in approval, and he bows, delighted, before disappearing with a soft pop.

Mirai continues, her voice steady but her fingers still tense where they rest on the parchment. “A Horcrux is made through murder. Afterward, a ritual is performed—an ancient, unspeakable spell that encases the torn fragment of soul within an object. A Horcrux is never random. It is always an object of deep personal or historical significance. When I was a student at Hogwarts, Slughorn told me that Horcruxes were the ‘wickedest’ form of magic in existence. But Slughorn has a malleable spine. He is easily swayed.”

“Very few wizards know how to make them,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “I’m guessing you do.”

“I do,” she says. She places her teacup down with careful precision, the soft clink of porcelain ringing through the still air. “But it isn’t necessary for you to know. Hence, I won’t be telling you.”

“Sorry?” Gojo straightens, blinking once. “We deserve to know. We deserve—”

“No.” She shakes her head, the motion deliberate, firm. “You deserve to know what I tell you, you deserve to know. Nothing more, nothing less. You should know how to end a Horcrux. You should know how to stop your friend. That is all. I am not giving you information that is unnecessary. I will not have my only son playing with things he doesn’t understand. I will not have my only son die because of them.”

The silence that follows is sharp, the kind that slices before you even feel the wound.

Gojo exhales sharply through his nose, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling as though it holds answers. And then, in a voice that is too calm to be anything but violent, he says, “I was dying every single day living with him.”

Mirai stiffens. You know it’s an unfair game.

“You never did anything about that,” Gojo continues, quiet but unwavering, and something inside the room shifts. Something in the air presses heavy against your lungs. “I try to find excuses to stay at Hogwarts every summer, but I come back here anyway. Because of you. Do you know how hard that is? To come back here, to see his face, to know that you stay with him despite everything he’s done to me?”

She does not speak. She looks down at her lap, fingers curled so tightly against her robes that her knuckles glow white.

Your throat tightens. Slowly, carefully, you reach for Gojo’s hand. His fingers are sticky with sugar, dusted in white, and when you pull his hand toward you, pressing it into your lap, his grip is tight. He doesn’t look at you, but his fingers press into your skin, firm and unyielding, as though grounding himself. You squeeze back. You don’t mind the stickiness, the way the sugar clings between the creases of your palm. You wouldn’t mind anything uncomfortable if it meant this—if it meant anchoring him, if it meant making him feel something other than what he is feeling now.

When Mirai finally speaks, her voice is quiet, so quiet it barely reaches above the sound of the fire cracking in the hearth.

“I can’t apologize for things that have already happened,” she says. Her voice is neither defensive nor pleading. Just tired. “I tried to do my best as your mother despite everything else.”

“Trying wasn’t enough,” Gojo mumbles. “Your trying got me a gash so deep that I had to ask her to heal it. I had to make sure the scar wouldn’t be gone in case he’d hurt me again because of it. Do you know how painful it is? Do you?”

She looks at him, unblinking, but her eyes are glassy behind her spectacles. You can tell. “I do, because my mother was the same, Satoru. I tried, despite your father treating you horridly. Trust me. Trying was all I could do.”

“Satoru,” you whisper.

The sound of his name tugs him back, just for a second. His eyes flick to you, unfocused at first, pupils slow to adjust before dilating, but then there’s recognition. His breath comes sharp and shallow, his fingers curled so tightly against his palm that his knuckles have gone white. You exhale, softer this time, tilting your head just slightly, enough for him to see the movement, enough for him to understand what you mean: Breathe.

His chest rises and falls once, twice, the movement deliberate, strained. His mother watches, expression unreadable, then looks down at the book in her hands uncomfortably. The sound of her fingers turning the brittle pages is nearly imperceptible, but you hear it, hear the paper sigh under her touch, hear the way she clears her throat before she speaks again.

You glance down at your hands. Sugar coats your palm, fine and white, dusted over your fingertips like ash. It has transferred from Gojo’s hands to yours, clinging stubbornly to your skin. The ghost of something sweet.

“A Horcrux cannot be destroyed through ordinary magical means,” Mirai says at last, her voice shaking, “It requires highly destructive magic. Horcruxes radiate a dark aura. An influence, a corruption. They take from those who possess them.”

“Possess them?” You frown. “Does that mean the same thing could be happening to Suguru? That he’s being controlled by whatever thing he found?”

“What thing?” Mirai repeats. She tilts her head slightly, waiting.

You nod. “A type of jewelry. A locket, maybe. Or a ring. Something small, something that catches the light.” You pause, thinking back. “Whoever saw it, said it was in the dark. They couldn’t get a clear look. But it was one of those two. A locket, or a ring.”

Mirai hums, a contemplative sound, her fingers tapping absently against the fragile spine of the book as she tries her best to straighten herself. “Whatever it is,” she murmurs, more to herself than to either of you, “it must have held significance to Sukuna. A soul, when split, becomes something less than human—both in form and in essence. And some Horcruxes, particularly those made by the truly powerful, develop a will of their own. They defend themselves.”

“Oh, God,” you whisper, barely resisting the urge to groan. “How do you destroy one?”

“With something stronger than it,” Mirai replies simply. “A basilisk’s fang. A magical artifact imbued with raw, ancient power. The Sword of Gryffindor, perhaps.” She shakes her head. “There aren’t many options.”

You exhale slowly, mulling over the information. “And the ritual?”

“The ritual is… complicated.” She sighs, rubbing at her temple. “Again, we don’t know everything. But we know enough. It’s a process that allows a wizard to reclaim the fragments of their soul, to draw them back into a single vessel. But the process requires a location of immense significance—one tied irrevocably to the original caster.”

“Something tied to Sukuna?” You furrow your brow. “So… Japan?”

“Possibly,” she says. “But where, exactly? That is the question.”

“Damn,” Gojo mutters. Mirai flicks him a sharp glance at the language, and he mumbles an automatic apology before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What’s the most important place to a person?” he asks, voice thoughtful, gaze distant.

You blink at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, as a person. What’s the one place in the world that matters most? The one that holds the most weight, the most history?”

The Room of Requirement. The answer sits on the tip of your tongue, burning there, desperate to be said. It’s the place where the two of you have spent countless nights—plotting, hiding, finding solace in stolen hours of mischief and whispered schemes. It’s yours. But that’s not the answer he’s looking for. It’s not logical enough. Sukuna wasn’t sentimental. He wouldn’t have needed comfort. He would have needed something practical. Something that mattered.

“Where he was born?” you say at last, though the words feel uncertain even as you speak them.

Mirai doesn’t respond immediately, but her expression sharpens, eyes narrowing in thought. She looks down at her notes, turning them over in her mind, and beside you, Gojo smirks.

“Or?” he prompts. You glance at him, confused. “Or what?”

His smirk widens just slightly, but there’s something in his eyes now—something knowing, and expectant. He nudges you, grinning as if you’ve missed something obvious. “You’re getting rusty, Fawkes. Think about it. Sukuna wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t some run-of-the-mill dark wizard. He was obsessed with power. He spent his life eliminating threats, making sure no one could challenge him. He killed people for sport.”

You shake your head. “I don’t—”

And then, suddenly, you do. The realization crashes into you all at once, unraveling in your mind like a thread pulled too fast. You turn to Gojo, and he’s already looking at you, already knows that you understand, already knows that you’ve both come to the same inevitable conclusion.

“The place of his death,” you say.

“The place of his death,” Gojo repeats deliberately, as if saying it aloud makes it more real, more inevitable. He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back against the chair again, staring at the ceiling like the answer is written there. “Probably somewhere in Japan. And somewhere that is… very well known. Mostly. Probably. Merlin, I hope not.”

“Even if it is well known,” Mirai says, tone measured, “a part of it will be hidden from Muggles. That much is certain.”

You hum, fingers tracing idle patterns over the grains of the wooden table. “What about the ritual of absorption itself? Is there anything you know about it?”

“Yes,” she nods, flipping through the pages of the book. “Horcruxes aren’t usually absorbed. But, for research purposes, we got our hands on one once. And we experimented with it.”

Gojo makes a noise, something caught between disbelief and exasperation. “Experimented?” His eyes narrow. “With a dark magic artifact?”

“Yes,” she says, flatly, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s my job, isn’t it? To uncover what has yet to be understood?”

You don’t miss the way Gojo’s mouth twitches like he wants to argue but can’t. She doesn’t give him the chance.

“Anyhow,” she continues, flipping another page, “we believe it was once used by dark wizards to steal or consume the power of another’s fragmented soul.”

“Vessel,” you whisper, the word rolling off your tongue before you can stop it. A sharp, quiet sound in the heavy stillness of the room. “Becoming a vessel for the fragmented soul.”

“Exactly,” Mirai murmurs. Her gaze flickers up to meet yours before settling back on the text. “The ritual must take place at a site with a deep magical connection to the fragmented soul. In Sukuna’s case, that would be his grave, as my very dear son, whom I am definitely not fearing for the life of, mentioned.”

Despite yourself, you smile, just a little. Now you see where Gojo gets his dry, sardonic humor.

But Mirai isn’t finished. She exhales, something weighty in the movement, before pressing on. “The process involves three elements. The vessel, which is the person performing the ritual, the one absorbing the Horcrux. In this case, Geto Suguru. The conduit. This would be the receptacle containing Sukuna’s fragmented soul. The third, however, remains a mystery. A magical force strong enough to contain the essence without consuming the vessel in the process.”

A pause.

You swallow. The room suddenly feels smaller. “So,” you begin, voice quieter now, thinking through the weight of it all, “if it goes wrong, Suguru faces—”

“Imminent death,” Mirai says, just as softly. But there is something else in her voice, something clipped and unforgiving. “Or something far worse.” She meets your gaze, unflinching. “He does not know what he is dealing with. And I intend on finding this location—Sukuna’s grave—so I can put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. I will not have my son be put on the frontlines of a war that should not exist.”

Satoru’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

She tilts her head, watching him carefully. There is something unreadable in her expression, something that makes the air between them crackle, taut with unspoken things.

“If you think I’m letting children stop a dark wizard and get your hands on an artifact like Sukuna’s Horcrux, you’re out of your mind.”

Gojo’s chair scrapes sharply against the floor as he stands, the sound splintering through the quiet. “Mother, you cannot be serious.” His voice is tight, and it’s not often you hear him like this. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. There is something far more dangerous about the way his voice lowers, like a thread about to snap. “We are the only ones who can do this without getting Suguru killed. If you—if they—get involved, he’ll die. You know what the Aurors are like. You saw what they did to Credence Barebone in New York in the twenties.”

“He didn’t die in New York,” you murmur. “He was… displaced.”

“And did that solve the problem?” Gojo’s gaze snaps to you, fierce, insistent. “They made it worse. You said it yourself.” He gestures at you with his palm, frustration bleeding into his movements. “If they had just let Newt Scamander handle it, if they hadn’t interfered, it wouldn’t have escalated.”

There is a moment of silence before Mirai sighs, rubbing at her temple. “How do you two know all this?” she asks, exasperated. “This isn’t being taught at Hogwarts, is it? Because if it is, I’ll need to send some very urgent owls—”

“Relax, mother,” Gojo rolls his eyes. “Fawkes considers this kind of thing light reading.”

Mirai’s expression shifts—barely, subtly—but enough for Gojo to see it. Enough for him to understand where this is going.

“Still,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not letting you kill my friend. Or displace him. If you get involved, you’ll throw him in Azkaban, and I’ll never see him again.”

Mirai doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t so much as blink.

“Satoru,” she says, voice calm, quiet, unwavering. “He is a dark wizard. He will be sent away. That is the law.”

And that—that—is when something in him snaps.

“I don’t care!”

His voice cracks through the air like a whip, like a fracture, like the beginning of something irreversible. You flinch despite yourself, knowing that this is the moment it happens. The moment everything spirals.

It is time to leave. Gojo will burst, and he will take you with him back to Hogwarts. The unraveling has already begun.

"Come on, Fawkes," he says, voice low and seething, the weight of it pressing against your chest. "We must leave this place at once."

"Satoru, listen to me—"

"No." His voice cuts through the room like a snapped wand. You stand, caught between instinct and hesitation, but he's already looking away from you, already turning, his jaw locked tight, the muscles in his neck drawn taut. His hands tremble—not with fear, never with fear, but with something else, something sharp and bitter and vile that seeps into his irises with fury. He turns his gaze to his mother, and whatever light lingers in his eyes dims into something cruel. "I will not. I hope you have a terrible day. Goodbye, Mother."

"Satoru—"

Mirai Gojo’s voice is the sound of something breaking. You feel it even as he yanks you forward, his grip on your wrist tightening, fingers pressing into the thin fabric of your sleeve. He moves quickly, pulling you through the doors, past the cold marble and tall, unfeeling windows, but the click of heels follows. His mother is behind you, pacing after him, still speaking, still trying.

"Satoru, Dumbledore is an incredibly selfish man!" she calls after him, her voice warping under the high ceilings. "He won’t act until he realizes it’s begun to affect him personally, and by then, he will do anything—anything—to ensure he comes out on top! It’s why I had your father put him under surveillance! Please, stop walking away from me and just listen—"

He stops. And so do you.

It’s abrupt, jarring, even. He makes a sharp turn, and before you can speak, he grabs at your sleeve again. You blink up at him, but he isn’t looking at you, isn’t even breathing properly. His tongue clicks once, twice, three times, rapid, impatient, his mind already leagues ahead, already somewhere you can’t follow.

"Stall her," he murmurs.

"What?"

"Stall her," he repeats, more urgently now, eyes flicking to his mother behind you, then back to you. "Wait here. Talk. You’re smart, right? You’ll manage. She likes you, anyway."

Before you can react, before you can even process what he means to do, he’s gone—pushing past his mother, heading up the stairs two, three at a time, disappearing into the high halls of the estate.

Mirai Gojo stops walking. And you are left standing there, the air thick with words left unsaid, biting at the inside of your cheek, wishing for something to ground you as you stare at the floor.

Then, tenderly, brokenly, "Can I ask something of you?"

You look up. Her voice is different now, no longer the sharp edge of a woman trying to pry open the locked door of her son’s mind. Now, it wavers. She steps forward, hands curling into the folds of her dress, fragile in the way she looks at you.

"I don’t want anything to happen to him," she says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. Then, with more force, more desperation, "Anything. I can’t… I can’t bear it."

You feel it before you understand it.

Something tightens inside your chest, a sharp, breathless ache that buries itself beneath your ribs and wraps around your throat. It is an unfamiliar feeling, terrible in its clarity, overwhelming in the way it presses against you, in the way it makes the world tilt on its axis.

The idea of something happening to him. The thought alone is enough to make you sick. For all his recklessness, for all the ways he invites trouble like an old friend, for all the ways he believes himself untouchable—what if he isn’t? What if he isn’t? What if he isn’t?

He cannot always be the strongest. The greatest. Honorable. And the thought haunts you. Your breath is shallow, your hands cold. And before you can stop yourself, before you can even think, "I can’t either."

The words slip out, and you realize with startling, terrifying certainty that they are true. Mirai Gojo stares at you, blinking her tears away.

"Then you’ll ensure it?" she asks. "His safety?"

You nod, your throat tightening further. "With my life."

She exhales, the sound small, almost defeated. "I’m sorry to ask that of you," she murmurs, looking down. "But it is the only way. He won’t—he won’t listen."

You swallow, feeling the weight of something irreversible settle onto your shoulders. "I understand," you say, voice steadier than you expect. "If I were in your place, I’d do the same."

And before she can say anything more, you hear the hurried thud of boots against the stairs. Gojo is rushing back down, skipping two, three steps at a time, and in the dim light, the sharpness of his face is more pronounced, the tension in his shoulders wound tight enough to snap.

And the faint, familiar chirring sound from his pocket.

Your eyes widen. Pip. The Niffler had probably slipped away the second you arrived, and knowing him, he had spent that time collecting whatever he could get his tiny, greedy hands on.

Gojo barely spares his mother a glance.

"Alright," he says, grabbing onto your arm. "Let’s go."

And then—

Darkness. The sharp, gut-wrenching pull of disapparition. And silence.

Gojo doesn’t hesitate when the two of you walk into the Room. He steps forward, hoists the Niffler into the air, and, with a sharp grin, flips the creature upside down.

"Let’s see what you’ve got, Pip."

A moment of stillness—then a rain of stolen treasure.

Galleons clatter against the wood, rolling to a stop against the uneven surface. A delicate chain, unmistakably his mother’s, slides across the table before catching the light in a glint of gold. A sigil ring, heavy with meaning, lands with a quiet thunk beside it, its crest unmistakable—the Gojo family seal. Small, glistening gemstones follow, scattering like fragments of a shattered spell.

And then, last of all—a phial.

It does not clatter. It does not roll. It hovers.

Suspended in midair, the artifact is a delicate yet foreboding creation, its craftsmanship meticulous, its purpose unmistakable. At its heart, an opalescent gemstone glimmers—violet, blue, and gold shifting uneasily beneath the light. Silver filigree coils around it, twisting into vine-like patterns, an intricate cage meant to contain what should not be freed.

It hangs in the air, unmoving, its weight heavier than the metal that encases it. A pact sealed in blood. A promise not easily broken.

This phial is the only evidence of the blood pact Gojo Satoru made with Geto Suguru.

You reach out, fingers brushing the smooth surface, and as soon as you make contact, the phial drops into your palm with unnatural weight. Your grip tightens around it instinctively, your jaw clenching. You do not look at Gojo, but you can feel the shift in the air beside you, can hear the way his breathing changes—shallower, controlled.

You glance at him then, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

The moment is broken by the door swinging open.

"Guys!"

You barely have time to slip the phial into your pocket before Shoko and Nanami step in, breathless and wide-eyed.

Gojo huffs, shaking off whatever had settled between you. He reaches for his sleeve, but before he can pull away completely, you grab onto it, holding him in place. He stills but does not pull away.

"We found something," Shoko says, voice hushed but electric. She glances over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to have followed them. "In the Restricted Section. Can you believe it?"

You lift a brow, waiting. She nods quickly, whispering a sharp "oh" in realization before nudging Nanami, urging him to pull a slip of parchment from his pocket. He hands it to you, and you smooth it out over the table, eyes scanning the inked lines of text.

Your breath catches.

"Your mother was right," you whisper, glancing at Gojo. "Japan. Kyoto, specifically. The burial site of Sukuna Ryomen. But it doesn’t say where in Kyoto. It’s a big city, after all."

Gojo exhales sharply. "No fucking way." His gaze flicks to Nanami. "How’d you find it?"

Nanami adjusts his glasses, expression unreadable. "Tricked Slughorn into thinking we were interested in Japanese locations and runes," he murmurs, though there’s something stiff about his tone. "It felt like committing a crime."

"Welcome to the club," Gojo mutters. There’s a short, humorless laugh before he shakes his head. "Feels like shit the first time. The more you do it, the more exhilarating it gets."

You refocus on the parchment, tracing the words with your fingertips. The air is thick with possibility, with something sharp-edged and thrilling that makes your heart pound.

"Satoru," you say, measured, "we should probably go talk to Dumbledore. He said we should come to him after it’s done, right?"

He nods, jaw tightening. "Yeah."

Shoko and Nanami exchange a look, something wary and unspoken passing between them. Then, Shoko’s gaze drifts down to the Niffler in your arms, and her lips quirk.

"You still haven’t returned that thing to Hagrid?"

You glance at Pip, now curled against your chest, small paws clinging to the front of your robes. His fur is impossibly soft, and despite everything, despite the night pressing in around you, you feel something settle, something warm. You stroke his head gently.

"He led us to Dumbledore earlier," you murmur. "I want to keep him. But I know I can’t. At least, not now. Maybe I’ll ask Hagrid to give him to me before I graduate."

"You’re just collecting creatures now?" Gojo raises a brow.

You narrow your eyes at him. "Pip is not a creature. You said it yourself. He’s cute."

Shoko makes a low, teasing noise at the back of her throat. Gojo scowls.

"Fuck it," Gojo mutters then, his breath sharp as it leaves him. His hand rakes through his hair, the gesture quick and restless before it falls back to his side. "Let’s go to Hagrid after we see Dumbledore."

A pause lingers, stretching just long enough to be felt.

Shoko watches you both, arms folded, gaze keen in that way of hers that suggests she sees more than you would like her to. "When are you going to fill us in on everything that happened with your mother?"

You hear them land in Gojo’s silence, in the way his fingers flex where they hang at his sides. You feel them in your own breath, caught between your ribs. Mirai Gojo’s voice flickers through your mind, distant and clear all at once, echoing with something that had felt less like fear and more like inevitability.

"Meet us at Hagrid’s in half an hour," you say quickly, not giving her a chance to press further. Your fingers curl around Gojo’s sleeve, tugging him forward. "I’ll tell you afterward."

And then you run.

It is not like before.

This is not the reckless, breathless chase of childhood, not the kind where Gojo is laughing ahead of you, a blur of white hair and mischief as you swear you’ll hex him for whatever prank he’s pulled this time. This is not the kind where you are running after him or from him, the space between you filled with nothing but the thrill of the game.

This is different.

This is the sharp slap of your feet against the stone, the echo of your breath tearing in and out of your lungs, the cold bite of the castle’s air as you tear through the corridors. The walls blur as you pass them, a rush of shadow and torchlight, of portraits who barely have time to stir before you are gone.

The tower looms ahead.

The gargoyle sits, unmoving, its stone face impassive. The final stretch. You push yourself forward, legs screaming, lungs burning. You skid to a stop, breath catching in your throat.

“Sherbet Lemon,” you gasp.

For a moment, nothing happens. And then, stone grinds against stone, the gargoyle shifting aside to reveal the spiraling staircase behind it.

You don’t wait. Your feet hit the first step, and then the next, the staircase moving beneath you as you ascend, Gojo right behind you, the Niffler wriggling in his grasp. The office door swings open before you even reach for it.

And the room is still. Faint candlelight casts long shadows, stretching along the walls lined with ancient books and impossible artifacts. The air hums with quiet magic, the kind that lingers in places where knowledge is older than time itself.

Dumbledore is nowhere to be seen. Your eyes dart across the space, searching. Then you hear it. Soft, measured steps, descending from above.

"Ah," a voice greets, gentle and knowing. "The two of you."

He emerges slowly, stepping down as if he has all the time in the world, as if this meeting is nothing more than a quiet inevitability. His robes shift as he moves, deep blue threaded with gold, the fabric catching the flickering light.

"You’ve gotten everything you need, I trust?"

The question is light. Deceptively so.

His hands fold together, gaze settling on you both with the kind of ease that makes something bristle inside you.

Gojo exhales, the sound quiet, and nods. "Yes. We do."

"Not entirely," you cut in, voice sharper than you intended. "We still need the location. The specific, exact location of Sukuna Ryomen’s tomb—if there even is one. Kyoto is too big. We need something more. Exact."

Dumbledore smiles. It is slow, faint, touched with something unreadable. The kind of smile that does not belong in a moment like this. The kind that suggests he knows more than he will say. He does not answer immediately. Instead, his gaze flicks, thoughtful. First, to the Niffler in Gojo’s arms. Then, to Gojo himself. And finally, to you.

"I promised you something," he says, as if recalling a distant conversation, an old favor once exchanged. "And here you are, ready to collect."

Your fingers twitch. "You said you have something that will guide us."

"That, I do."

And yet, he does not move with urgency. He turns instead, a slow pivot, his hand lifting to rest lightly upon Fawkes’ plumage. The phoenix shifts beneath his touch, feathers gleaming in the low light, but makes no sound.

Then, Dumbledore steps past her. Toward the shelves. There is no hesitation in his movements. His fingers trail absently across the spines of books, skimming the dust that has settled over them. And then, without ceremony, he reaches.

Something wrapped in leather. He pulls it from its resting place, the drawer sliding shut with a quiet click. The object is old. You can see it in the way the edges of the leather are softened from years of touch, darkened with time. Dust still lingers upon its surface, undisturbed.

He steps forward. And he places it in your hands. You unroll it. A map.

At first, it appears blank. The parchment is thick, the edges lined with deep maroon leather. The surface is empty, untouched, except for the faintest shadows of something beneath, something waiting to be revealed.

"It works the same way yours does," Dumbledore says, voice light.

Your breath stirs in your chest.

"The—" You swallow. "You know about The Marauders’ Map?"

His lips curl, just slightly. "This one works quite similarly. A minor enchantment. One the Ministry will not bother with. They will dismiss it as my own eccentricity, an old man playing with parchment and ink." He winks.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lifts his wand. He presses the tip against the map’s empty surface. And he speaks.

"I solemnly swear," he murmurs, voice quiet, "I am up to no good."

At first, there is only silence.

Then, the ink does not appear in tendrils. It spreads.

A darkness unfurling like roots beneath the surface, creeping outward, seeping into the parchment’s fibers. It does not move like ink. It does not sit upon the surface but within it, sinking into the very bones of the map, pulsing, alive.

And within its depths, a dot. A single point of light, swallowed in the dark. Your dot.

You stare.

"If you get close enough," Dumbledore murmurs, watching your face carefully, "you’ll find that it will lead you exactly where you need to go."

a/n. this was proofread with me being half asleep on the train. i'm pretty sure it's alright, but if there are any problems, do let me know! and thank you for following along with me on this journey, and supporting me even through tough times!

203 notes · View notes

madamechrissy · 2 months ago

Text

Took you Like a Shot Masterlist

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Final part (coming soon)

Pairings- Rich Frat/fuckboi Toru x Preppy Sorority reader

Summary- One VERY drunk encounter between your greatest rival ever - on your last day of college- leads to you being knocked up. Satoru Gojo, a fuckboy, fratboy, rich little jerk, has been a rival of yours since you all met in College, every damn grade you fought for he got with ease. He crashed every Sorority party you threw. The two of you are so infamous in your rivalry, your friend groups were rivals, and for some reason, life is playing some damn joke on you both. Now... you have to tell him the news - but how Satoru takes it surprises you. Can you both raise a baby together!? And do you even really know each other?

Contents/Warnings- gonna be flashbacks to the rivalry/that night, nerdjo but make him a fratboy, enemies to kind of begrudging partners, but then as the pregnancy progresses, they fall in love hehe- fluffy and smutty, MDNI -will have explicit sex etc, art in the banner by Yuana on X - WC so for- 35.5k

Playlist -preview below!- headcanons - here & here

It had been an absolutely filthy night, that led to your doctor coming in and informing you three months later-

'You're pregnant'

You came in for a normal checkup, you're on the pill and you have no sex life, aside from one encounter over three months ago. A filthy, questionable ass encounter with what so happened to be your former 'bully' - rich boy, frat boy, pretty boy, pretentious boy- Satoru Gojo.

For years, the two of you were rivals, not just academic either, since you were both top of your class all through college, but at everything. He'd hold your notebooks high and laugh at you, he'd try to ruin and crash every sorority event he could. Known as the Queen and King of the campus, you ran the rivaling Sorority to his Fraternity. The amount of times you all had gone toe to toe was literally notorious, even your best friends hated each other on your behalf, starting an entire war between you all.

You have no clue how it happened, still, how the two of you had the best sex of your life at that damn party, fueled by drinks but also something you'd never admit- you've always wondered. Hearing those stories about his... skills, seeing his perfect body and the way his pretty lips smirked so cruelly your direction, even after all these years- how it all led to this moment.

'Hah, sweets, ya finally admit I'm good at something?' Satoru had murmured in your ear, while he'd had you bent right over some bed at some party- both of you were seniors in college on your last and final party, finally you thought you'd be rid of him, of this ass of a man. He was going to live the rich life, working for his family, you were moving on to a whole different career.

'One t-thing... that's it...' You had cried out when his cock had shoved in so deep, making you cum all over him, his fingers gripping your hips while he'd pumped deeper and deeper, impossibly until he'd been right on your cervix. 'F-fuck!'

'Fuck... you had a pussy like this and we've been fighting!?' Satoru is whispering, resting his snowy locks against your neck, biting it with sharp teeth as you milk his cock. 'so greedy, huh?'

'S-shut up, mnh- just... keep... there, there shit!' Satoru had slammed right against your cervix, feeling you pulsing around him, it had been too good, too tight, too fucking wet, he'd paused then, looking at your arched ass, your skirt shoved over your hips. 'Keep g-going, please...'

'M'gonna cum, tho-she's too tight- shit can I?'

Your drunk ass had said- sure. You're precise on that pill, every day your alarm goes off in the morning, you take it. How could...

"Pregnant!?" You repeat. Unbelievable. No fucking way. You...

"Yes sweetie I suggest prenatal and an ultrasound, hmm?" The nurse says so sweetly, as you feel sick to your stomach, which your hand goes down to touch.

Pregnant. With rich, notorious fuckboy Satoru Gojo’s baby- now you would have to tell him!?

Shit.

#satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru x female reader #gojo smut #jjk smut #gojo x reader #jujustu kaisen #jjk gojo #divider by cafekitsune #satoru smut #satoru gojo #current wips #story preview #nerdjo #Fratboy gojo

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moonshapedbox · 2 months ago

Text

swan shaped heart

arthur morgan x preacher’s daughter

a/n: whew! this story is finally leaving the confines of my drafts and i’m so happy!!! it’s longer than I anticipated it would be but ultimately decided that this will be a series. longer chapter to start with to set up the storyline. extremely self indulgent bc i want a man like this. reader is pretty freaky but we’re all adults here okay sdfjkf special shoutout to @dilf-luvr-4evr who wanted me to tag her, tysm to u and to my other dear moots for hyping me up and encouraging me to write !!! ok i think that’s everything! :D

tags: reader is in her twenties, lots of fluff, hint of age gap, ton of romantic tension. no blasphemy bc i’m religious <3 hands..lots of hands (you’ll see) no smut but heavily suggestive, lots of religious themes throughout obviously, no use of y/n (I wrote in 3rd person hehe), read at ur own discretion !!!

wc: 6.5k

part one | part two

He arrived in a little town 15 minutes outside Valentine– couldn’t remember the name of it nor did he care. Hell, he didn’t know why he was riding there or what he was going to do when he did get there, but he was exhausted from casing banks and stores, or sizing up the potential jobs in the area, he needed a place to rest.

He looks up at the sky, the sun had just gone behind the mountain; he was too far from camp to head back now, there was no reason to risk being caught in any attacks from rival gangs if he were to travel during the night. The slight breeze was cool and wet, there was rain coming. He needed to find shelter–and quick.

The town hardly changed at all since he last visited 4 years ago, maybe a fresh coat of paint on the post office or the new signage on the general store–it was like time stood still. As he rode into town, there were a few people who knew him, giving him subtle nods as he rode past, others not at all. He found some lodging to stay in overnight and took inventory of his saddlebags, counting all the things he lacked. He decided it was smart to make a run. Soon enough, he secured his horses outside the general store, only buying a couple things before he left town again in the morning, enough food to last on the trip and a new pack of smokes.

He got what he needed and packed his saddlebags– when his eyes met with the church. He wondered how she was doing, what she looked like now, if she even remembered him at all—the preacher’s daughter. He heard a lot of stories about preacher’s kids; lascivious, wild and unruly. Although she was different– an honorable woman, who took everything her father taught her to heart, and tried to be her best when the Bible instructed it. Her even-tempered and friendly demeanor was like a calming balm on his aching soul. It was something so refreshing, so sweet in comparison to the life he was living. If life was a long and painful drought, then this woman was the rain– and he needed rain desperately.

“Mr. Morgan?” a voice broke him out of his train of thought. Mr. Morgan. That voice–he’d know that voice from anywhere. He looked back and sure enough there she was, standing there with her ruffled white dress, burgundy boots with laces wound up snug against her ankles, and a dainty swan pendant necklace that adorned her neck, glimmering in the western sun.

He inhales into a small grin, “Well, I reckon I know you from somewhere” he smirks. “How you doin’ little lady?” She squeals loudly and hurries over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a friendly embrace, “I can’t believe you’re here I thought you’d never come back,” she says, holding onto him for a moment longer before he pulls away. “Can’t have you be huggin’ me like that in the street or else people’ll think we’re sweet on each other” he jokes. She finally steps back to look at him and there’s a beat of silence, so short that if you were to exhale you’d miss it, but Arthur picks up on it. It’s awkward, in a sweet way. She looks down for a moment before looking up at him again, “Town missed you Mr. Morgan, where you been?” she asked.

He felt guilty at the question. He’d been robbing, scheming, hurting, killing. Although he couldn’t tell her all that, she’s a preacher’s daughter. He felt so surely that if she ever found out what he did for a living she’d shun him for the rest of his life, “Uh, work mainly. You know how it is darlin’,” he replied, putting a lit cigarette up to his lips, taking a drag.

“How long you plannin’ on stayin’ for?” she questioned, looking at his face for any clues to why he’s here. He shrugs, honestly he wasn’t planning on staying for long at all but since she’s standing right in front of him, with big glossy eyes and the hint of her sweet orange and vanilla perfume catching every now and again with the slight breeze– he couldn’t say no.

“Not long darlin’, just for the night and then I leave in the mornin’,” he explains, that should give him enough time to visit without raising suspicions. She flashes him a melancholic smile and nods, wishing that he’d stay longer. She never got a chance to spend any time with him when he came to visit for the first time.

Arthur Morgan–what a man, it would be an honor to get to know him behind his mysterious and aloof nature. To know what he was thinking, what he was feeling, she wanted to be the one to break his walls and scoop into his soul. Her mind starts to race with thoughts as her eyes gloss over his features: warm dark blonde hair, big blue eyes and scruffy beard–he was perfect.

He gets even more handsome than the last time I’ve seen him. He must have a girl–there’s not a woman on earth that hasn’t claimed him for herself yet. I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty…Lord, he’s so much older, so much more experienced– what am I thinking I ain’t got a chance.

“You okay darlin’?” his voice broke her train of thought, she watched him put the cigarette back to his lips. She nods, “You was always an inquisitive one.” she teases, trying to change the subject. He raises his eyebrows and scoffs playfully, he never thought of himself as the inquisitive type. “I could say the same for you missy…’sides why’s your Daddy lettin’ you in town all by your lonesome?”

“I’m just going to get a couple things, we ran out of some food back at the house,” she explains, kicking some of the dirt on the ground with her foot. Arthur nodded slowly, he was nervous. Why was he so nervous? Words not coming to him with such ease, that beat of familiar silence encompasses the air again. She looks over at the entrance of the general store, “Well, I guess I must go now, it was nice seeing you again, Mr. Morgan.” she softly bows her head and turns away. The sight of her leaving pains him, even if it’s just for a moment. There is something stirring in Arthur. Something big and explosive —yet strangely familiar. Before he can even think about what he’s saying, he hears the words leave his mouth, “Wait– I’ll go in with ya.” he says, stamping out his cigarette and catching up beside her, “it ain’t safe… a young lil thing like you by yourself.”

She stops and looks up at his big looming figure standing next to her, “I can manage just fine Mr. Morgan, but I will not turn down your company.” She quietly thanks the Lord under her breath and enters the store with him. She greets the shopkeeper while he follows her around, making mental notes of the stuff she’s buying, looking over her shoulder for trouble so she doesn’t have to.

“Y’know Mr. Morgan, you were our hero 4 years ago…helping us round up all our missing cattle that those awful Montgomery boys stole from us.”

Hero? A title that he rarely heard attributed to him. Her words transported him back to that time. He couldn’t believe it had already been 4 years since a trembling, fresh faced, beautiful young woman begged him to take care of some seemingly rotten men. Men that did nothing but terrorize the town by fighting, stealing, and getting into all sorts of debauchery– including looting and descrating her father’s church. As the tears ran down her soft and supple cheeks, she didn’t know that the man she was pleading to help save them from misery– was planning to rob her townsfolk and shoot them dead if needed to. A plan that would inevitably fail, all because his heart got the best of him.

He blinked back out of thought, “It was nothin’ really. It was nice spendin’ the week in only one place for once– speakin’ of them boys; they been givin’ you any trouble lately?” he exhaled, scanning over her features. “No, you must have scared them real good Mr. Morgan, ‘cause I haven’t seen them since.” she replies, checking the pears for bruises.

Of course, because he shot them dead.

“Well…maybe they moved away.” he gestures vaguely. She smiled politely and continued to shop for the ingredients she needed. She fidgets with her swan pendant necklace and he picks up on this small habit too–trying to etch every aspect of this woman in his mind so he’ll never forget. When she had gotten all she needed, he offered to pay for her groceries. A gesture that restored her faith in man. She insisted it wasn’t necessary but Arthur paid for them anyway. As they walk back out, they loiter around the front of the store for a moment.

“Thank you for courting me Mr. Morgan, y’know you really didn’t have to.”

“Oh sure, I wanted to, really.” he smiles softly.

They gaze at each other for a moment before she smiles back, “It was nice seeing you again Mr. Morgan. God bless you.”

He nods and smiles back, watching her walk away, wicker basket of groceries cradled in the crook of her arm. He sighs to himself, it was all so soft and so sweet, truthfully, he needed this. As he began walking over to his horse, thinking over the interaction, a soft ping of metal reverberated against the wood paneling on the steps. He looks down by his foot and a glimpse of something bright catches his eye, he picks it up and studies it.

It’s her swan pendant necklace.

“Shit…” he mumbles to himself. He looks around the building to see if he can catch up with her but it’s too late. He sighs and gives it another look over. The picture of the elegant swan on the pendant with gold trim perfectly catching the sunlight stared back at him. It was a beautiful pendant– while her family wasn’t dirt poor, he knew her folks were certainly not rich, especially given her father’s profession. There was no way she could have the money to buy this on her own–this must have been a family heirloom. He shoves it in his pocket for safekeeping.

That evening, the rainstorm he predicted was currently pounding against the glass of the window in his room. He shuts the door behind him and thuds himself down heavily on the side of the bed. He starts to rub his eyes, watery from exhaustion, with his index finger and thumbs. The events of the day weighed heavy on him, from having to stay overnight, to having to go back to camp empty handed, it was like a weight of stress was congregating in his chest. Despite all of this, the image of her stayed in the back of his mind. She looked well off and healthy, getting to see her after so long was pleasant to say the least. He sighs deeply and kicks his boots off.

He lays on the bed, adjusting his weight to the mattress to get comfortable. He feels something in his pockets that prod at his hip, before reaching back in only to pull out the preacher’s daughter’s necklace. While he knows it’s just an object, he shares a moment with it— reminding him of its owner. Oh how pretty she looked today, like an angel. She smelled so sweet, her smile so soft, she was divine in so many ways. He thought of how the cool enamel of the pendant would touch her warm skin. His mind starts to wander, thinking about her only wearing the pendant, how it would glimmer under the low light of a bedroom, as he caresses her soft, untouched skin. Guilt stops him for a moment, and he curses himself for thinking such a thing– this was the preacher’s daughter he was thinking about. It would never work and he knows it, she’s forbidden fruit–but there’s something that courses in his veins, something that makes his mouth water for just a small bite.

He lovingly caresses the pendant with his thumb, the ghost of a smile visits his lips. Strangely enough, he found himself dreading to give it back to her. The pendant was expensive enough that he could have just sold the damn thing and went on his way–or at least that’s what Micah would insist him to do. Although he would never inflict such cruelness on this innocent daughter of the Lord. No–he didn’t want the pendant for monetary gain, all he wanted a little memento to remember her by. He closes his eyes and places the softest kiss on the enamel of the pendant before opening his eyes again.

“The preacher’s daughter, of all women–,” he mumbles to himself, “you sure know how to pick ‘em…don’t ya?” He exhales as he rolls over, before placing it on the nightstand. He stares at it once more before putting out the candle.

“Goodnight girl.”

The next morning, Arthur finds himself on her porch, the sun barely cracking the sky open. He knocks a rhythmic pattern on her front door, and clears his throat. He’s nervous–strangely enough. He sniffs a few times and clears his throat again. He looks down at his hands and takes another glance at the pendant, he’s shaking just a bit. He should have been back on the road by now, but here he was, waiting for the preacher’s daughter to answer the door. What was taking her so long? Maybe this was a sign from God that he should just leave and take the pendant with him–the door swings open, he shoves the pendant back into his pocket before she can see, her eyes widen at his presence.

“Mr. Morgan!” she smiles with bewilderment. Arthur looks her over– she’s stunning even for so early in the morning. He takes his gambler's hat off and holds it against his chest, “Morin’ little lady,” he responds, “I–uh, found something yesterday,” he reaches into his pocket and extends the pendant out in his hand, “I think it might be yours.”

She audibly gasps and places her hand on her chest before clutching the pendant, “Oh my stars, I have been looking for this everywhere I was sure it got lost forever!” she beams with excitement, “Praise God you found it! Where was it?”

“Outside on the steps in front of the general store,” he replies. She lovingly stares at the pendant before looking back up at Arthur. She pauses and opens her mouth to say something, before closing it again. He cocks his head at her in confusion, she exhales and starts over, “You want to come in for a bit?”

Arthur grimaces and shakes his head, before exhaling, “Ah, I don’t know about that darlin’, I’ll gotta be gettin’ a move on. Besides I ain’t wanna intrude on y’all’s activities.”

“Oh I insist! I know, Papa would love to see you,” she explains. Her father would love to see him? He mentally rolls his eyes at her naivety. While it was true that the preacher didn’t actively hate Arthur, he wasn’t fond of him either. She frowns at his disbelief that laid evident on his features, “Really Mr. Morgan! I’m serious, let me repay you for finding my necklace.”

“Just a little bite before you go,” she smiles and sways her hips innocently. “I’m sure you’ll have a long journey back and you gotta eat, right?”

He sighs and smiles softly in return, “Okay. I guess I do gotta eat…just as long as I ain’t intrudin’.” He shifts his weight on one hip.

“Not intrudin’ at all. Breakfast is almost ready, come on in and make yourself comfortable.” she stands by the door and watches his big and broad figure walk through the threshold, “You’ll have to forgive Papa for his temporary absence, he’s in his room finishing the last part of his sermon. so I’m afraid it’ll be just us for now.” she says, closing the door behind them as she leads him into the kitchen. He was more than okay with that. It was already nerve wracking enough sitting alone with her, he didn’t need anymore stress from her father picking him apart in his head, cataloging all the sins that he’s riddled with.

He looks around the living room as he follows her into the kitchen. The house is quaint yet congenial–just how he would imagine a pastor to live. The scent of breakfast wafting through the air was wonderful, he hadn’t had a proper meal in days. He does what she says and makes himself comfortable at the table as she returns to the stove to gently stir the contents of the pan before joining him.

He sees the Bible open on the kitchen table, assuming she was reading it while she was cooking, “Didn’t mean to interrupt your routine,” he gestures to the table. She adjusts herself at the table and meets his eyes, “Nonsense, you’re not interrupting anything,” she picks up the Bible, and quietly continues to read, “I just like to read a little bit of scripture in the morning to get my day started. Let me finish this passage real quick.”

Arthur didn’t mind, he sits and fidgets with his lighter for a moment. After a few beats of silence, he puts his arm on the table and leans, trying to see what she was reading on the page, “So what’s it say?”

She giggled at his curiosity before clearing her throat, “It says, ‘Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you,’ that’s Esphesians chapter four, verse thirty-one and two.” She smiles softly.

Arthur nods, it all sounded lovely to hear. Although bitterness, wrath, and anger was all he was filled with– he couldn’t remember the last time he felt any differently. He felt like his whole life was one big sorry situation, tired of the ache of ruminating over the things that had gone wrong, people he lost, and regrets that plagued him. He was mad at everyone and everything. In Arthur’s case, forgiveness felt like water that was just out of reach for him. The thud of her closing the Bible jostles him back into the moment, he watches her get up and place the book back on the shelf in the living room.

“Y’know, you’re good at that.” he calls out to her, adjusting himself in the chair, his hips bucking forward a tad to get comfortable.

“What. Reading?” she calls back from the living room before walking back to where he was.

“Sure. If I was guaranteed you’d be the one preachin’ then maybe I’d start goin’ to church.” he smirked.

A rosy pigment of blush spread across her cheeks, “Now Mr. Morgan, what exactly is that supposed to mean? I’ll have you know Papa has wonderful sermons.”

That’s not what he meant– her obliviousness to his gentle flirting was endearing, he chuckles to himself. “I don’t doubt it darlin’” he mindlessly fidgets with his lighter again.

“--Hey, that’s a wonderful idea. Why don’t you come to church with me this morning?”, she inquired, “You can sit next to me the whole time.”

His eyes widened before grimacing at the idea, that really wasn’t the best move considering who he was–although she was none the wiser, “I don’t know ‘bout all that, darlin’...” He hadn’t stepped foot in church since–well since the last time he saw her 4 years ago. “Why not?” she asks innocently, her big eyes gazing back at him. “If it’s about how you’re dressed the congregation won’t mind.”

He looks down at his attire and exhales a chuckle through his nose, mentally rolling his eyes at her assumption, “It ain’t about the clothes… it’s–” he sighs in between his words, “you know church..ain’t my thing,” he rubs his jaw, thinking over how awkward it would be to sit at one of those pews.

“How do you know if it ain’t your thing if you don’t try?”

He scans her soft features, “I been around a lot longer than you, trust me on this.”

She gazes back at him and nods, walking back to the stove to finish preparing breakfast. There was a significant amount of silence that unaccounted for, Arthur who usually didn’t mind the stillness of the morning, grew restless in his chair.

“So…uh..whatcha makin’?” he asked, trying to find something to talk about.

“Biscuits and gravy” she replied, stirring the gravy in the saucepan to keep it from burning.

“Sounds good, ain’t had biscuits and gravy in a long time,” he taps his fingers against the table rhythmically.

Arthur was never good at small talk– he wasn’t like Dutch in that respect. That man could talk his way out of a death sentence, and God did he wish he had Dutch’s silvertongue right about now. Instead, he silently watched her cook, as a warmth spread in him. She’s wearing her Sunday best– and he notices the way her dress hugged her body and her bodice cinched her beautiful figure, how concentrated she looked when she was taking the biscuits out of the wood-burning oven, it strangely felt like home. For a moment, he forgot he was some outlaw, but just a simple man in the kitchen with his beloved.

“Mrs. Hawthorne was askin’ about you yesterday. She saw you ride into town” her voice snapped him out of his trance, he grunted an acknowledgement, “The lady who was convinced her dolls were talkin’ to her?” he replies.

“Well she– now wait there Mr. Morgan she certainly does no such thing,” she explains, “That was just a rumor.”

“Ain’t a rumor if I seen her do it,” he laughs, “Sometimes she talks back to ‘em. Gives ‘em funny voices.”

“That’s not funny Mr. Morgan,” she frowns, trying not to laugh, wooden spoon still in hand, “Besides it’s not right to gossip.”

“What’d I say?— Oh so it’s not okay to gossip but it’s okay to laugh at her expense? I get it now…” he jokes. She turns away, hiding her face from him. He stands up and saunters over to her, “Don’t think I ain’t seein’ you fight back a laugh. You think it’s funny too.” He chuckles. She eventually bursts out in laughter, the original joke not even that funny, it was something about his tone that tickled her. Suddenly, they both erupt in big laughter together.

The atmosphere in the room is light and airy–like both of them could breathe for once. “I think the gravy is done, you wanna taste?” she asked, her voice easing from laughter into a normal speaking pattern, wiping tears with the back of her wrist. Still grinning, he nodded in response, and leaned his hip on the side of the counter. She pulls open the silverware drawer and sighs, “Oh darn, I thought I had a spoon but I guess they’re all dirty.” she shrugs and fixes the issue by innocently tapping her finger into the saucepan, holding it out for him to taste. In her mind, she thought he would have a quick taste and tell her his opinion. Oh to the contrary.

His heart jumped at the sight of her outstretched hand, slowly but surely he wrapped his lips around her finger, licking the sauce. The pent up desire that was bubbling deep inside of him started to rise to the surface, and before he could catch what he was doing, he began to deliberately yet gently suck on her finger. The feeling of his tongue wrapping around and in between her two fingers, made her lightheaded, electricity ran through her body and caused a heat to pool in her stomach. After licking her fingers clean, he pulled away and gazed into her eyes for just a moment.

“It’s perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and slightly shaky. She gazes into his eyes for a moment, before responding with a small and trembling voice, trying to pretend she wasn’t affected. “You sure? Does it need more pepper?”

He knew exactly what she was doing, whether she realized it or not; and he couldn’t help but find her innocent curiosity endearing. A small smile appears on his face, “I don’t know, let me taste it again.”

A justification to have her fingers in his mouth.

Without a second thought, she taps her two fingers in the gravy again and holds them out for him, this time her hand trembles at the thought of re-experiencing the feeling. His big, calloused hand wraps around her soft wrist to steady her fingers for him. He takes them in his mouth again, gently caressing them with his tongue, silently wishing to himself that he could kiss her with this much fervor and passion. He looks into her eyes before closing them, letting out a soft groan of contentment before pulling away. “Tastes amazing.” he says, wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingers.

Her fingers miss his mouth, they feel cold and incomplete without him. She felt lightheaded and breathless. There’s that beat of silence again, but this time it's longer than before. She pants ever so slightly, and he notices, “You alright?” he smirks.

“Fine…breakfast is ready then,” she replies, her voice trembling with this new feeling coursing through her body. It was warm and soft, unlike anything she had ever felt before, she turned away and faced the stove again, “Go sit down, I'll fix you a plate.” refusing to make eye contact with him. They finally sit down to eat, although this time it’s different. She stares at him while he eats, trying to figure out this newfound warmth pooling in her, why everything he does makes her heart race.

“Missed your cookin’, forgot how good it was.” he says, before taking another bite. “It ain’t that good, I appreciate your kindness though.” she replies, pushing her food around with her fork. “Compared to the stuff I gotta eat, this is like society folk’s meals.” She flashes him a small smile in return, her thoughts are loud and her heart is racing, “Society folk, huh?” her voice warbles, she tries to continue the conversation, but her thoughts are clouded by him. The way he ate was almost bewitching to her, she stares at his hands and looks away trying not to get caught. Her own fingers twitch watching him take bite after bite, reminding herself of the feeling of his mouth around her.

“When you leavin’ town?” she asks, not really wanting to know the answer. The soft early morning light starts to peer through the kitchen window. The atmosphere is still, yet full of meaning. He puts the cup up to his lips to drink long enough to ponder her question, before swallowing the warm liquid and placing the cup back down. “In a couple hours, most likely. Why you askin’?”

She shrugs and continues to eat, her left hand resting on the side of her neck. Her eyes refused to meet his, scared that he might see the disappointment in them. He exhales, something is off about her, “Somethin’ botherin’ you?”. She shrugs again and stares at her food, moving it around with her fork once more, “Why you leavin’ so soon?” she asks in an exhale, worried that she might be overstepping.

He sighs, she didn’t need to know the real answer. “Work, darlin’...I’m on a...business trip,” he gestures vaguely. She doesn’t meet his eyes purposefully, trying to hide the tears in her eyes, it wasn’t fair that he made her feel things she never felt before, only to walk out and leave her forever. She prided herself to not be one of those girls that cry over boys. She always believed there were bigger and better things to fuss over–yet here she was. But what was the crime in missing someone? “Business trip…” she repeats under her breath before clearing her throat.

“What? Do you not believe me?” Arthur scoffs incredulously.

“It’s not that…you ain’t given me a reason to think otherwise but…” she pauses, trying not to overstep. “...But what?” He crosses his arms over and leans in closer against the table, the buttons of his work shirt pulling from the broad of his chest, she can’t help but pan down for a glance, her heart rate picks up at the sight of him. He was such a man– in the best ways possible. It was in his essence, his scent, the way he walked and talked, it drove her mad— it was so heavenly it agitated her.

“I don’t know, I ain't see why you gotta hightail it outta here. It’s been 4 years since you last been here and I mean for pity’s sake you just got here–”

“--And that bothers you?” he interrupts, slightly cocking his head at her.

She stammers, “I-I mean I feel like it’s not polite–”

He scoffs loudly, “Sorry I didn’t know you looked at me and saw the pinnacle of manners,” he places the cup of coffee back down,“Tell me what’s actually goin’ on,” he was starting to get to defensive. What had she heard about him that was making her so skittish?

The bantering conversation dies down and there’s a shared, intense silence between the two of them.

Oh. Oh.

He felt like a fool for not realizing it sooner–or more accurately making a wrong assumption about how she felt and potentially wrecking a beautiful friendship. He stares at her across the table as she continues to eat.

“You gon’ miss me when I’m gone?” he murmurs low, studying her face, his voice shattering the silence in the air. His words suspended in the air like a fruit ready to be plucked. “We’ll all miss you,” she replies softly, trying to avoid what he’s implying. He shakes his head and grunts loudly in response, “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout them... I’m talkin’ ‘bout you.”

She nods silently, before looking back up and meeting his gaze. For a moment, just a single, solitary moment–he forgot about the war raging in his mind of whether he was a bad person, or feeling like he wasn’t good enough for her. It was just him and the preacher’s daughter, sharing a meal and a loving silence.

“Mr. Morgan–”

“You ain’t gotta be so formal with me hon, just call me Arthur.”

“Okay, Arthur, can I ask you something?”

He perks up at her statement, his curiosity giving her permission to ask. “I know you ain’t comfortable goin’ to church and I respect that,” she pauses to search for any discomfort for where the conversation was going, there was none, so she continues, “but I was wondering’ if you’d come to our annual picnic, this week. If you’re apprehensive about it being a church event– it's not. The whole town is gonna be there. It’s a town event, but I thought you'd like a bite to eat before you leave.”

He exhales and grins, “First breakfast and now a picnic? You’re really worried I'm gonna miss a meal huh?” he jokes, but she stares back at him, searching his face for an answer. His thoughts all align and he prepares to explain his reasons as to why he can’t come and that he’ll be back on the road in a couple of hours, but his words betray him, and he hears himself say something unlike him,

“I’ll be there.” He looks at her free hand resting on the table, and gently envelops it in his.

“I’m glad, it means a lot.” she murmurs, a sparkle of joy in her eye. She stands and starts to clear the table, placing all the dishes in the sink.

There is a deep well of feeling and connection between the two of them, one could cut the chemistry with a knife. It pounds in his chest and he doesn’t know if he should act on his instincts–but dammit if he wasn’t going to at least try to do something about it.

He rises from his seat and approaches her, standing as close as he can to her. Feeling his presence, she laughs, “ain’t they ever taught you about personal space?” She looks over and he’s smiling back, but there’s a seriousness to him. She does a double take of how close he is, her smile faltering a bit, realizing he’s not kidding.

“I reckon you ain’t ever been this close to a man before, huh?” He ghosts the side of his finger against her chin. She shivers, goosebumps rise on the back of her neck and down her arms, before shaking her head.

“Why you tremblin’ doll? I ain’t gon’ hurt ya.” he murmurs.

“I know,” she pauses, trying to find the words, “I just—never been looked at in this way before.”

He scoffs playfully, “Oh you’re more naive than I originally thought,” he looks over her face and down her body once more, “Men are definitely lookin’-- they just ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ‘cause you’re the preacher’s daughter–and they have a hell of a lot of sense to not say anythin.” he leans closer to her.

“Well…what does that make you then?” she shifts against him.

“A fool–probably. But it ain’t stopped me from sayin’ anythin’ before,” he exhales and continues to gingerly stroke her chin, admiring her beauty.

His voice becomes low, “You ever think ‘bout a man lovin’ on you baby?” The question vibrates in his chest. Her heart rate quickens, a beautiful shade of crimson spreads across her cheeks at the idea of something so scandalous, “Lovin’ on me?” she repeats.

“Yeah, you know, what married people do.”

For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to say. She often would imagine in vivid detail, what she would do if she found herself in a scenario such as this. It was essentially drilled into her mind from a young age– that a man making advances was to strictly be condemned. That her purity was to be intact for her husband and only for her husband. The script of her imagination playing in her head, she’s seen it a hundred times–”sorry sir, I’m flattered but I ain’t interested”. It’s all she had to say…although for some reason she was rendered speechless, hanging onto his every word like her life depended on it.

in this moment– in some sick and twisted game of life, it was almost as if Arthur was forcing her to pick between which sin to commit– lying: claiming to not be interested in him; when in reality, the curiosity was gnawing in the pit of her stomach, or lust: throwing caution to the wind and letting him carry her bridal style to defile her in the bedroom that she grew up in.

She decides lying would weigh less on her soul.

“Mr. Morgan this ain’t proper…it’s immoral. I-I don’t entertain thoughts like that. I ain’t got a reason to.” she denies, refusing to acknowledge something so foul. It pained her to lie, she felt the guilt starting to creep in. Arthur smirks at her response, he doesn’t buy it, although her defiance and naivety makes his own pulse quicken. “Mmph, I see. So you don’t ever think about what your wedding night would be like? To finally have a man to warm your bed? Touching you all over and keepin’ you satisfied?”

Her breath hitches at the idea, never considering that a thought so filthy could have a moral loophole; but she dismisses the thought as soon as it comes, she continues to shake her head. The improperness of the conversation and her willingness to lie starts to make her feel sick with guilt. She shouldn’t be talking like this, not with a man no less. The mix of good and bad emotions swirl in her stomach like a bittersweet concoction about to boil over. As for Arthur, that insistent attitude of hers turns him on even more, and he can’t help himself to gamble how far he could go, “Oh c’mon darlin’, not even how it would feel? To have a man take his time with you and run his hands up your–”

He found her limit, she cuts him off before he can finish his sentence. “No Arthur!” she barks, “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore! You will not bring this–this debauchery in this house; especially with my Pa in the next room, have you no shame?!”

He knows he should take her seriously but the way she’s yelling at him is getting him even more worked up. He laughs a hearty chuckle, “yeah for somethin’ so repulsive to ya– ya sure are flushed!”

“Stop it Arthur it’s not funny.” She frowns, the guilt washes up in her like a shoreline. This must be what Papa was warning about on Sundays, the sin that drives a person crazy, to commit crimes and all sorts of deeds all in the name of passion. Arthur was creating new emotions she had never experienced before, the only cost of receiving it was with a backing note of remorse. Although, there was a cadence to Arthur that beckoned her to his presence. Like a siren beckons the sailor out to sea–only she was the sailor.

They gaze into each other’s eyes, unwavering and raw, “Arthur,” she exhales, leaning softly into his touch. He grunts in response, gazing lovingly back at her, his index tracing down her neck, making its way down to her collarbone, the other hand resting gently on her hip. She squeaks at the sudden weight of his hands on her, newfound warmth spreading in her. He scans her face for any hesitation, when suddenly she finds the words she’s looking for.

“I’m waitin’ til marriage…”

He figured as much. What was he even doing? He knows this already. Lightly removing his hand, his palm hovers over her hip. He treats her like glass, scared he was gonna break her if he touched her at all– what a delicate little thing gazing up at him. He blinks and clears his throat, staggering a couple steps back. “Right. I know…I don’t know what I was—I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped, miss.”

She crosses her arms and as if she is trying to warm them, her fingers finding a way to the pendant Arthur rescued for her, fidgeting with it between her fingers, “You didn’t…I’m not upset… I just– I think– it would be best for you to leave now. For both of us.” she murmurs, “I’ll give Pa your regards.” He nodded in response, pressing his lips into a fine line, “Okay” he says barely above a whisper.

“Mr. Morgan?” his heart sank at her sudden formality— a fear that he ruined everything between them began swirling behind his chest, he came to a halt at her words.

“You still coming to the picnic?”

He stands by the backdoor, loitering around the frame, before looking back over his shoulder, he exhales and gives her a small, sad, smile, “Thank you for the meal, darlin’. It was nice seeing you again.” The door hinge squeaks before he walks outside, the sound of boots shuffling against the gravel becomes quieter and quieter before it dissipates completely. She’s left with the burn of his shadow haunting the doorframe and the ghost of his touch printed permanently on her frame.

thank u sm for reading it means so much to me truly <3 hope you all enjoyed part one !!!

#this is my first full fic i’ve ever posted im so scared #i’ve proofread this 40 times i’m sick of looking at it #if i missed anything lmk!!!!#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 community #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #— rinnie writes ♡

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oatmealwrites · 4 months ago

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Catch Kira, NOT Feelings!

Masterlist

Ongoing Series (NSFW) -> regular masterlist

[Co-Worker! L Headcanons]

Synopsis: As a graduate criminology student, you're more than ecstatic to jump at your mentor's offer to join the task force chasing down Kira. Mr. Yagami has prepared you for a successful career in the law and justice system, but with the public disappointment in the police's inability to catch Kira, finding a well paying job will be difficult. But a recommendation letter from L would open doors you can't even imagine. It's simple, you just have to catch Kira... NOT feelings.

Chapters:

one

two

three (nsfw)

four (sfw but implications)

five [little steamy]

six [nsfw]

seven [suggestive]

eight [NSFW]

nine -> [NSFW]

10 -> coming soon!

more coming!

cleaning up my masterlists and want to put everything together...

don't mind the mess hehe

reblogs/comments/likes all appreciated

-oatmeal

#l x reader #ryuzaki x reader #lawliet x reader #l x reader smut #lawliet smut #lawliet x reader smut #ryuzaki x reader smut #ryuzaki smut #L smut #L death note #light yagami #death note #oatmealwordslawliet #oatmealwrites

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faeyun · 4 months ago

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BETWEEN TWILIGHT SKIES ───𝓅𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗎𝖾: 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍

in a world that’s on its dying breath, the once green and lush landscapes get buried in more and more layers of ash. the once flourishing streets that were full of magic are now a dull hum. yet, there is still hope—and it lies in the hands of you and kai, the last people to possess magic. suddenly, you remember the story of a forest that watches, and a well of life that lies deep within. you’re determined to save your bleak world in any way that you can, yet, you weren’t expecting to end up in a brand new world entirely.

pairing ⸝⸝ huening kai 𝑥 fem!reader 𓄵 𝓯eat. ꔛ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘳!𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘢 (𝘰𝘤) & 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘳!𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢 (𝘰𝘤)

genre ⋆ 📖 ⸝⸝ angst, fluff, a lot of yearning and longing (both romantic and platonic), magic, sorcerer!kai

warnings ⸝⸝ kidnapping, toxic environments and parental relationships, implied bullying, two instances of reader getting slapped, violence, death (of people & animals), depictions of gore, implied anxiety attack and abuse, hand holding & staring into each others eyes, tension filled kissing

𝓴ipo’s note ⸝⸝ the series has finally started!! now listen, listen, listen!! i know what you’re thinking, “a prologue and it’s 7.6k????” but i need you guys to STAY WITH ME!!! stay with me and lock in and after reading it all you’ll understand why it had to be this long lmao… next chapter you’ll meet yeonjun hehe~~ i hope you enjoy!!

͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ❨ 7.6k ❩ ╱ ❨ 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ❩ ╱ ❨ 𝓼𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝒎𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ❩ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ︵͡ 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 (´ε｀ʃƪ)♡

‎ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏͏ 𐦍 ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏NEXT ⤇

The world around you had begun to wither away and decay long before it had started to end. As most things do, the rot had started to creep its way in through love. It had used it as a gateway, spreading its sickness all throughout the things you touched until it was the thin wisps of ash coating your cracked fingertips. Still, you let the rot in—let it corrupt the things you loved and change them into something unrecognizable, something unimaginable—something that was now dead and gone. You just couldn’t let go of the small doses of love you were granted with—naively gulping down tasteless sips to fill that hole inside your heart left by people you never even really knew.

You cradled love like a child guards its favorite toy; with fear and hesitancy. It was clear in the way your body hunched over and you looked up at every grown-up through wet lashes. Obvious in the way your dirty clothes hung limply from gangly limbs—once a tight fit but now they seemed to be made for a child much older than you. It must’ve been what enthralled her, what made her decide to pluck a random child no older than five off the street in the middle of the night and take them home.

In a way, you guess you had to thank her for the senseless crime she committed; for it gave you a warm bed to lay your head at night and food to fill your growling belly. It didn’t bother you that it all had come at a price, in fact, you were none the wiser. But, you’d know soon enough. The mask can only stay on for so long before it starts to crack—before it starts to rot like everything else did.

Lamia, is the name she sweetly whispered next to your ear as she tucked you into a bed that was never yours that night. “But, you can call me Mom,” she said, placing a soft kiss on your forehead.

It was hard watching things change in front of your very eyes. It was never the way people described it for you. Not the slow twist of vines along a column or the grass growing taller than a fence—no. It was the whipping of wind across your face. You’d go to wipe your teary eyes and find the sunny and warm scenery was now cold and dead with glittering snow laying everywhere.

You hated it.

You wished that things could stay as they were for as long as they could. You hated watching the faces of people you’ve grown to know dip and sag with age in an instant. You hated watching the life leave their eyes in a quick blink. And you hated how life seemed to go so slow for everyone except for you.

If you could dare to wish for one thing, it would be more time.

Sweet nights and even sweeter days began to sour, and Lamia—your mother—wasn’t as kind as she used to be when you were still a child. You think that that is what hurt the most with this odd whipping of wind, that you were forced to watch the love your mother held for you leave her eyes faster than you got to grow up to the young teenager you were today.

“Welcome to the Freywolf Inn!” you heard her voice exclaim to the ringing bell of the door. It was a careful blend of welcoming and cheerful. The sound was drowned out of your ears by the incessant sound of a brush against hardwood and soap mixing with water. You sat back on your knees, throwing the brush into the soapy mess and letting it clang against the floor, sighing. You wiped the back of your wet hand across your forehead and sucked in a breath.

Your knees ached and your hands were sore and cramped. This was the worst part of your mornings. No matter how hard you scrubbed these wooden floors, it wasn’t enough for Lamia. If they didn’t shine as if freshly polished when you were done then you scrubbed them wrong and she made you clean them again. Standing up on weak legs, you looked over your shoulder at the new customers as you reached for the bucket of dirty soap water. A soft gasp left your lips and you had to hold on tight to the bucket handle with both hands to ensure its contents didn't go spilling all over the floor.

You’d recognize them anywhere—the Collective, with their hooded, light forest-green cloaks embroidered with gold filigree and its golden satin insides. You never saw a member in person before—not that you were particularly excited to. Seeing a member of the Collective, so far away from the School of Pith, could only mean one thing…

The rot was here.

Frozen like a deer caught on sacred ground, you stared wide-eyed at them as they made their way to the common room, their carefree laughs carrying in the air around them. It felt like a bad omen—a confirmation. You tried so hard to ignore the fate of the things around you, but seeing that you could no longer hide from it was like a punch to your stomach.

Strangely, you also couldn’t help but be morbidly fascinated by it all. You exhaled slowly, steadying your racing heart and stilling your shaking hands that grasped the handle of the wooden bucket. Distantly, you felt the sting of pain across the back of your hands and shut your eyes. Only when every last molecule of air was absent from your lungs did you allow yourself to gulp in more to soothe the burning—just like your mother taught you.

Your eyes fluttered back open and landed on the group of sorcerers. They playfully practiced their magic out in the open—ringlets of green floating in the air and curling around their fingers and forearms. Their hands moved in peculiar ways, a jerk here or a smooth twist of their wrist there. You couldn’t understand it, but the more you watched them perform magic in front of your very eyes, the more you wanted to.

One member stood out to you in particular. He sat off to the side, a small distance away from where the others engaged and practiced their magic at, by himself. Dark hair fell over his warm-brown eyes, but you could still see how kind they were as they watched the other members of the Collective almost fondly. His green hood was over his head and he fiddled with the seams of his white pants with pale hands. There was a ghost of a smile on his face and—unbeknownst to you—there was one on yours too.

He didn’t practice his magic like the others did. He seemed content in just watching, having no need in the selfish display of power the others showcased. It piqued your interest what set him apart from the others and already you could feel a growing favor blossom in your chest for the boy.

He had to be only a few years older than you were and your cheeks warmed at the thought. He reached his arms up and pushed the hood backwards off his head, seemingly oblivious to your staring as were the rest of them. The filtered daylight washed over his body and you saw him more clearly. Your eyes greedily scanned over the slopes of his face, desperate to take him all in as quickly as you could. You couldn’t lie, he was beautiful.

You trailed your eyes over to the wisps of the green in the air. It’s different knowing that magic exists in a world so bleak and actually seeing it in action. It made you wonder where the ash was here in your small village—the rot—so you could watch them smother it. You needed to see those ringlets of green curl around it tighter and tighter until it didn’t exist anymore. Until all of the ash was gone for good.

You wanted to know what it felt like to wield such magic. Your fingers itched to replicate their movements in hopes that green wisps of your own would emerge. Maybe then would your touch not bring about destruction.

A hand roughly grabs your shoulder and breaks you away from the trance you were under. “Stupid child! Can you not hear?”

Lamia’s wrinkled face startlingly comes into view and you feel the bite of her nails in the flesh of your arm through the fabric of the thin dress you wore. You stammered, unsure of what to say and what her previous words were, and blinked rapidly at her accusation.

Wind whipped across your face and too late did you feel prickling pain spread across your cheek. The inn fell deathly silent and your eyes started to water. You swallowed down the lump in your throat thickly, your watery eyes finding your mother’s. “When I ask you a question, you answer it. Do I have to repeat myself?” your mother asked you.

Slowly, you shook your head and willed yourself to find your voice. “N-no, mother.” Your voice came out in a quiet squeak, completely pathetic and weak.

“Good,” Lamia responded. “Dry these soap-covered floors before our customers slip. Then, I want you to ensure the rooms for them are ready.”

“Yes, mother,” you said in that same weak voice.

She looked you up and down for a moment before tsking. Then, she turned on her heel and returned back to where she was behind the counter beforehand. Smoke curled from her mouth as she leisurely flipped through the sign-in book, unaware of the way time changed around her.

You swallowed thickly again, fingers tightening and untightening around the handle of the bucket you still held. Slowly, you turned just enough to look over your shoulder at lounging customers. No longer did they smile and laugh with a carefree attitude and swirls of green in the air. Instead, they stared at you with barely disguised shock. Your gaze snapped to the boy you were spellbound with earlier to find him staring too, mouth slack and sitting at the edge of the couch like he was eager to stand. His eyes met your teary ones and you broke away from the sudden connection.

Lifting the bucket closer to your chest, you rushed off into the direction of the rooms, embarrassment weighing you down and the once unshed tears now falling down your face. You ignored the sloshing sound of the water inside of it and the way the wood hit against your stomach, spilling over the metal lip and onto the floor below, creating an even bigger mess.

Sniffling, you hid yourself in the supply room. Your tears fell freely and a large sob wracked your body. You let the bucket slip from your fingers just inches from the rocky floor without a care and with a piercing thud. Stupid, you thought to yourself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Get it together. Stop crying.

Yet, the tears wouldn't stop. You heaved in breaths of air that refused to reach your lungs. You didn’t have time for this. If the floors weren’t dry and the rooms weren’t checked on in a timely manner then you’d get worse than a slap across the face. Harshly, you dug the palms of your hands into your cheeks and wiped away the fallen tears. You compelled yourself to take a deep breath, to let the oxygen reach your lungs and not be blocked by the false closing of your throat.

Closing your eyes, you took in another deep breath, and another and another until your body no longer began to tremble. You straightened your back so you weren’t hunched over anymore and wiped your hands down the front of your damp dress. When you felt like you weren’t unravelling at the seams only then did you step out of the supply room to face the world.

Instead of the loud chattering coming from the Collective like from when they arrived, it was quiet and sparse whispers. When you got closer to where they were in the common room, the whispers grew.

You tried to drown their whispers out—opting to instead get to work on your mother’s request. Dropping to your knees, you took the clean towel and aggressively dried the wet section of hardwood floor beneath you, letting all your focus fall onto the repeated action.

Footsteps sounded behind you, but you didn’t hear them until an unfamiliar voice stunned you from your focus. “If I may?” the voice asked. You looked to the side, eyes meeting dirty brown boots whose eyelets caught in the bright sun. They trailed upwards to white pants and gold embroidered filigree onto a light, forest-green velvet fabric. Your hand halted its aggressive drying as your eyes ascended further to meet the boy from earlier’s handsome face. Your eyes widened to saucers and his seemed to be just as big as they looked down at you. “It will all go faster if I do this,” he continued, some of his words wobbling around the edges.

You remained silent, not trusting your voice to not come out raw and abrasive. The boy extended a hand out in front of him and with a twist of his wrist wisps of green emerged and wrapped around it. They swirled out around the two of you, lightly fogging across the floor. You turned to the wet floor in front of you and watched as it suddenly dried, the wood shining in the sunlight pouring in from the window. Your jaw slackened as your mouth fell open.

“It was a simple spell—you shouldn’t have to be on your hands and knees drying a floor,” the boy stated, the second part lower than the first so your mother didn’t hear. He outstretched his hand to you. Your mouth was still open as you turned back to stare blankly at his hand. An amused and warm smile pulled his cheeks upward and you suddenly came to the realization that you must’ve looked ridiculous.

“T-thank you…” you trailed off, voice barely above a whisper, still starstruck by the display of magic and the boy’s smile. You straightened your back before blinking a couple times. Clearing your throat, you accepted his outstretched hand and the boy helped you to your feet.

He chuckled and you felt your knees weaken more. His hand was still holding yours, the both of you forgetful as your gaze seared into each other. The smile slowly fell from his face, his lips parting with unspoken words as he gaped at you as if bewitched. Snickering to your side brought the two of you back to real life and you pulled your hands away from each other.

“Uh,” the boy said, clenching the hand that was just holding yours and trying to form a coherent sentence. His gaze snapped briefly to the other members of the Collective before landing on you again. “U—No worries! It was nothing, really. Kai.” He stammered over his words before his eyebrows raised. “My name. It’s–I’m, uh, Kai.”

Kai outstretched his hand again before he thought better of it and swiftly yanked it away, instead rubbing the back of his neck with it. If you weren’t so disoriented you’d laugh, but you just stare at him instead, the heat slowly creeping up your neck. You then realize how much of a mess you must look and quickly wipe your cheeks to get rid of any remaining tears. “Um,” you start, “I… I’m—”

Your name slices through the air like a knife. You jump, eyes darting over to where your mother stood behind the counter, a saccharine smile pulling her lips as she looked at the two of you. It felt as if you were watching a snake rattle its tail. Looking back to Kai, you offer him the tiniest of smiles before rushing away again, leaving him standing alone.

You’re not quite sure when the obsession with magic started. Maybe it was when you saw how carefree the Collective looked wielding it, as if it was second nature. Or, maybe it was when Kai had so graciously used it to help you out so you didn’t have to spend the remainder of the morning on your hands and knees. All you did know was that it had sunk its claws inside of you, gripping fiercely at your heart and making the hole inside of it larger.

Maybe it was when you started sneaking away from, or even downright rushing to finish, your duties so you could watch them practice magic. Maybe it was the rush you got watching their hands twist and jerk in specific movements for specific outcomes, green coils emerging from the motions.

But, you think it started when you lifted your hands into the air, daring to copy them.

At first, it was nothing, and frustration built up like a brick wall inside you. Then, that frustration turned to resentment, and that resentment into anger.

The Collective were here for a week so far and you weren't sure how long you had left before they departed. Why weren’t you born with magic like they were? If you had magic, it would change everything. No longer would everything rot around you when you could smother the rot all out—bring everything that has long been dead and gone back to life. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.

You flicked your fingers in the air angrily as green smoked around the member’s fingers and not yours. Something a mix between and groan and a growl emerged from your throat instead. But, you were determined—and you refused to give up.

Perfecting the twists of your wrists and quick jerks of your fingers, you exhaled steadily and focused on getting the same result the member of the Collective did—cracking open a single walnut without touching it. The walnut sat on the floor in front of you mockingly and you scowled at it before focusing again.

“Come on,” you whispered to yourself. “Come on, come on. Work, please.” With one final twist of your wrist, you heard the distinct cracking sound and a soft gasp pushing between your lips. Your face broke into a smile and it took everything in you not to cheer at the top of your lungs. You watched the slightest hints of green feather away around the lengths of your fingers, so fast the color was barely distinguishable. A smile spread across your face from ear to ear.

“Yes!” you proclaimed, taking care to keep your voice low. A pleased laugh left your mouth and happy tears filled your lash line, “Yes!”

Your view snapped back to that of the Collective in the dining hall. You listened to the way they joked with each other and made water spin into wine—getting themselves drunk and red-faced. As your stare analyzed them, you noticed that Kai wasn’t among them.

It was odd, you thought, but it reminded you of the first time you saw him and how he sat apart from the others. How different he seemed from them. Just from watching the Collective members interact, you already didn’t like them. Maybe Kai felt the same.

You haven’t talked to him since that day—haven’t really seen him around besides quick glimpses, either. A peculiar feeling stirred in your chest and you weren’t sure what it meant. You just hoped that your paths would cross again.

When you weren’t at Freywolf Inn, you were at the craft guild with your nose buried in a book. You were there so often that you were on a first name basis with the stationer, Althea, a sweet lady who distinctly had the look that reminded you of a barn owl. In the entirety of your small village, it seemed Althea was the only one who wasn’t victim to the rot. You felt safe being around her—and she always remarked how much you were like a daughter to her.

She let you freely borrow the books she received or binded and even let you hang out behind the counter while she dealt with artisans and people wealthier than you could ever imagine who came to see her from all over the world. You remember asking her one day why people came from all over to see her wares.

“Not that they’re bad,” you quickly added, leaning the open book onto your thighs as you looked up at her from your hiding spot underneath the counter. She threw you a witty smile over her shoulder from the press she was at, hair the color of cinnamon sticks falling over her shoulder. The two of you felt as if you were moving at the same speed—you barely realized the fact that streaks of white slowly became more prevalent in her hair. “I mean, this is just such a small village… Wouldn’t they go to communes or the King’s Roots where the school is?”

Althea’s voice was nothing like you’ve heard before despite her saying how she grew up in the village. It had a strange accent and the way she spoke was like silk against the bark of a tree. Althea turned from where she worked to meet your questioning look, leaning over and resting her elbows on her knees so she was just about eye level with you, “Not… quite. See, I offer words that you won’t find on a shelf at the School of Pith. Illustrations they wouldn’t dare to let one of their students witness.”

You sat up more underneath the counter, completely abandoning the still open book in your lap. Your eyes shined with curiosity and Althea laughed—a sound that resembled crackling fire. “What kind of words?” you asked her.

“Knowledge, my owlet. There’s much more out there than the green thumbs of Pith—the royals and the wealthy.” Althea spat out green thumbs like food stuck on her tongue. You knew she never liked the Collective, but to this day, she still never told you why.

Althea stood and walked over to one of the shelves that you never touched, but was always only open for certain customers who came inside the guild hooded and quiet. Her finger ran along the spines as her white brows drew together, “There is a forest in this world, buried deep within another.” Her brows lifted as she found the book she was looking for and she made her way back to the counter.

You crawled from beneath the counter, twisting to watch as she laid the thick book down onto it and opened it to the beginning pages. You gently discarded the book you were reading off to the side of the counter, your focus now on the twirling of words and stirring drawings. Althea’s fingers gently caressed the pages. Her face was distant and longing, like recounting a memory that happened centuries ago. “The Forest That Watches, it is called,” she continued. “It’s white-barked trees have black eyes drawn onto them by people from long ago and its drooping pink leaves kiss the sacred ground.”

For a moment, Althea was quiet. You waited patiently, decidedly taking in the open page until she was ready to speak again. You could tell that this forest was a sensitive topic for her and you didn’t want to pry. You looked up at her when she wrapped her arm around your shoulders. She regarded you with a fond smile, “The forest has never been found, though, and it remains watching—waiting. Its pink leaves hide what’s inside; the Well of Life.”

With her free arm, Althea flipped through the pages until it landed on the Forest and the Well. “Woah,” you muttered, leaning forward to get a better look at it. Even from the illustrations you could tell how beautiful it was, feel the magic that radiated from it all.

You knew why it hadn’t been found yet—why it never could be. That much power in the wrong hands would be detrimental. But, you couldn’t help but wonder how different your world would be if it had access to the magical waters Althea was telling you about.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Althea breathed wistfully. “We’ll meet there one day… under the pink leaves and drink from the Well.” She returned her gaze to yours. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Then the turning of the sun won’t seem so fast.”

You sighed to yourself as your eyes fell back to the pages. You leaned your head into Althea’s side and she wrapped her arm around you tighter. “That would be nice,” you say.

In the darkness of the night, you let the shadows listen to your deepest wishes. And how you wish that it was Althea who plucked you from the streets instead of Lamia.

You wander Althea’s shelf now, hands running along the spines. Your fingertips still buzz with the magic you emitted earlier and you swear you can feel the contents of the shelved books calling out to you. Stilling, your fingers halt onto a book. The pull was just too strong to deny and when you turn your head to read the spine you find that the lettering has been rubbed away by time. You hum in slight annoyance before pulling the book from the shelf.

You can feel how Althea’s eyes trail you, especially when you walk over to the counter to take your familiar spot under it. In the corner of your eye, you can see her head tilt. “You feel different. And you’re quiet—quieter than usual,” she says quizzically.

Looking up from your book, a corner of your mouth raises. “Magic, Althea…” Your face breaks out into full-on excitement. “I have it! At least… sparks of it…”

Althea’s face doesn’t change from its quizzical expression. She shifts in her seat in front of the press. “Green?” she asked you, accusatory. You're unsure whether her accusatory tone was towards you or not.

The excitement swiftly falls from your face and you sit up more under the counter. “I… Yeah…” you mutter, avoiding her stare.

“It can’t be,” Althea states matter-of-factly. Her white brows furrow, and she looks away from you. “Can’t be…” she quietly trails off, more to herself than to you. “Green is… can’t be, can’t be. Doesn’t make sense.”

“I think it was green…” you pipe up, voice falling flat towards the end when her piercing black eyes snap to yours. “I didn’t really see the color, it all happened too fast.” It was true, but in your heart you wished it was green. You just wanted Althea to stop acting all fidgety and looking at you the way she did. You held the book in your arms closer to your chest and Althea’s gaze dropped to the movement.

Althea’s body physically relaxed from the tense state it was in, and if you looked close enough, you thought you could see the ghost of a smile on her lips. She hummed, suddenly pleased, “Magic… how enchanting. Have I told you about the White Fawn? Or, the prophecy of Eternal Winter?”

Your brows knitted at the change in her demeanor, but you concluded that it was better to leave it be. You shook your head at her question. “What about faeries?” Althea asked.

“No,” you responded, “what are they?”

Althea slid to the ground in front of you, a grin pulling her mouth and exposing her teeth. She tapped the book you desperately clutched to your chest with an ivory finger. “Why don’t you take a look?”

You giggled to yourself, letting your arms flow in the harmony of the wind. You twirled and moved your body to the tune of nature—to the sounds of the forest’s edge behind you with its rustling leaves and chattering animals. The crown of sticks and fallen leaves fell down further onto your forehead and you laughed more. You didn’t even notice the single brilliant blue butterfly that landed on it and completed your costume.

If your mother saw you right now, she’d be furious. She had sent you out here on punishment with the intention of having you clean the stables behind the inn. Instead, you were dancing The Dance of Youth and pretending to be the Faerie Queen.

You spent all day yesterday reading Althea’s book on anything magical you could get your hands on, which mainly consisted of faeries and the realm they occupied. The books conjured up tales, legends, and myths of those more than human—people with glittering or colorful skin, wings, horns shooting from their heads, and even human-like versions of some of the animals you were already familiar with. It was completely enthralling reading about it all, and feeling all the magic pour off of the pages made you even more giddy. The magic the School of Pith had was nothing compared to the magic you had read about.

In a kingdom so sunny and full of bloom, A deadly winter approaches to cause mass doom. Drowns the kingdom in layers of snow, And becomes a place where nothing grows and no one goes.

You sang and danced around in the grass, pretending that you weren’t human at all, but faerie. That you were queen and the lands stretching from the edge of the forest to the inn was your kingdom. You wished you lived in Faerie where all the other magical creatures resided. That you and Althea could live there together, happy. Maybe even Kai could join you too. You giggled more at the wonderful thought.

Rustling in the forest drew your attention and you halted your dance. You leaned forward, listening closely and peering at the way the setting sun shined through the leaves, but then laughed at how ridiculous the notion was. Of course there was rustling, it’s a forest. You turned your attention back to the doll propped up on a rock, watching you. “Don’t look at me that way,” you say, twirling once more before making your way over to it.

The doll was a sightly thing made out of straw and sticks that Althea gave to you as a child. After all these years you still had it, and you cherished it deeply—making sure to keep it hidden from Lamia so she wouldn’t toss it out. You could hear her voice now, “A girl born in the summer of the thirteenth year of the King still playing with dolls? How preposterous!”

You hummed, bending down to retrieve the doll. “What an odd thing to say… Why should I find a man to marry in order to rule? I am the Faerie Queen. This is my kingdom, I shall rule it how I see fit!”

Too lost in your own dream-like world, you don’t notice the crunching of leaves beneath boots. “Well, all Queens need a King to stand beside them,” a voice said behind you. You spun in place, clutching the doll to your chest. Kai tilted his head at you, an easy smile playing on his lips. “Don’t you think?” he concluded.

His cloak was covered in ash. He and the other members of the Collective must have just returned from defeating the ash in the area for good. The heat immediately rushed to your face and your mind raced. Kai stood mere feet from you and you were stumbling over your own thoughts on what to say. You stood up straighter, trying to appear nonchalant, “I-I suppose…”

How embarrassing it was to be caught in such childlike endeavors—by Kai of all people! You moved the doll behind your back in an attempt to hide it, yet Kai’s gaze followed the action before flicking back up to your face. Behind him, you saw the rest of the Collective ride up on horses towards the inn, snickering at the two of you. “I see Kai has finally found someone willing to lay with him!” one shouted sarcastically.

Kai’s face soured and he looked over his shoulder at them with a glare before turning back to you. Face softening, he took a step towards you. “Ignore them,” Kai says, “They think they’re funny and they’re not.”

He stripped off his velvet green cloak and gave it a good shake away from where you stood. Ash clouded off of it in front of him, making the two of you cough a little. “Sorry,” Kai coughed, letting the cloak fall onto the rock next to him. “So… The Faerie Queen, huh? What’s that? Does that have something to do with your dance?”

You looked down to your feet in even more embarrassment. “It’s… It’s nothing.” You sat down on the rock that your doll was previously perched on. “I can’t believe you saw that…” you muttered under your breath.

“It looked like fun,” Kai laughed, and you looked up to catch the way his smile lingered as he looked down at you. “You seemed really into it, didn’t even notice me coming up behind you. You jumped like a caught baby deer.”

It was your turn to laugh. “A baby deer?” you asked and Kai nodded. “I guess you could say that, but you scared me!” Kai sat down next to you. He pointed his chin upwards, his eyes on the crown of sticks and leaves on your head. “Is that your crown, Faerie Queen?”

Biting your lip, you took the crown off and placed it in your lap. You toyed with the leaves in it. “You should make me one,” Kai says. You looked up at him. He was much closer than you originally thought he was, his shoulder brushing up against yours making you nervous. This close up you could see all the details of his face—his eyelashes that occasionally rested softly on round, smiling cheeks, and the curve of his plump, pinked lips. And his warm, brown eyes that never left your face. “You know… Queens and Kings and all of that…”

You smiled, looking away from him so he wouldn’t see how flustered he made you. “Really?” you questioned, braving his stare once again. “Yeah!” Kai exclaimed. He leaned closer to you, “Only if you see me fit, though, my queen.”

Kai took your hand in his and bent over to press his lips to the back of it, his eyes flicking up to look at you between his lashes. The action set you alight and you were so sure that Kai could feel the heat radiating off of your body. “I’ll have to put you to the test,” you mutter, barely managing to get your words out. “Only the best can rule with me by my side.”

You felt the vibrations of Kai’s laugh against your skin before he sat back up, his hand still grasping yours. His face was even closer to yours now. All it took was one of you to lean a little closer and your lips would meet. “Well, you’ll find that I am the best of the best,” Kai spoke, lowly. His eyes dropped to your lips and he swayed a little. “Nobody stands a chance against me.”

“Is that so?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Mhm,” Kai nodded. He closed the gap between the two of you and pressed his lips against yours. With the hand that wasn’t holding yours, he used it to cup your cheek and lift your chin to kiss you deeper. You melted into his touch, your lips moving in sync with his. It was perfect, and the feeling of his soft lips on yours was like heaven.

“Why don’t you show her your magic wand!” a voice behind you and Kai yelled in your direction. The two of you broke apart, yet Kai’s hand remained on your cheek. Embarrassment crept up your neck and you could tell from Kai’s red ears that he was feeling the same way. He turned to where the voice came from, brows drawing together to form another dirty glare.

The rustling in the woods was more prevalent now and both you and Kai’s head snapped to the edge of the forest. Before your ears could even pick up on the growling, a large wolf jumped out from between the trees. Both you and Kai raced to your feet and he held a hand out to guide you behind him. You hugged your doll to your chest in fear. Besides his body being tense, Kai remained relatively calm.

The wolf growled and snapped at the two of you, its sharp teeth piercing the air as spit ran down the corners of its jaw. “Awe, he can’t even handle a single wolf… the Ash is going to smoke him out!” Members of the Collective laughed behind you, but Kai paid them no mind. He guided you slowly backwards and away from the edge of the forest.

Kai quickly glanced back at you and the way you trembled, terrified. “It must be hungry,” he said, focusing back on the wolf. Green swirls of magic wrapped around the two of you. “It probably smells the meat from the nearby butcher’s.”

“It wouldn’t kill us, right?” you asked with a shaky voice, already knowing how foolish the question was before finishing it. Kai looked over his shoulder at you again, his face the most serious you’ve seen it, “Make something scared and it’ll do just about anything to get rid of the feeling.”

Just as Kai turned his head back towards the wolf, it pounced at the two of you. Behind it, more wolves prowled out of the woods, snarling. You barely registered that the harrowing scream that filled your ears was your own before you were pushed to the ground.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion for once in your entire life. The members of the Collective who were snickering and poking fun at you and Kai jumped into action, spirals of green emerging from their fingertips. More of them piled out from the inn, along with Lamia. You don’t realize that a hand is grabbing your arm and lifting you to your feet before you’re being pushed out of the crossfire.

All you see is green. At least, at first.

Then, splatters of red cover your vision. The screams and cracking of bones fill your ears and bodies fly through the air. Hot tears run down your cheeks and you close your eyes. Then, there is complete and utter silence.

The silence lasts for a moment before all sound comes rushing back to you so fast it felt like your ears were bleeding. There was screaming and crying and more cracking of bones set into place. You opened your eyes to see that the once green pasture you danced in was covered in red—red so dark it was almost black, and disfigured bodies and torn limbs were everywhere.

You stood up from the mud, eyes scanning through the green in the air in search of Kai. When you found him, tending to one of his members whose leg was missing, you breathed a sigh of relief. He was covered in blood and viscera, but it looked like he was unharmed. Barely taking a step in his direction, nails dug into your arm, bringing about a sharp sting that you were all too familiar with.

Body swinging in the opposite direction of Kai, you came face to face with your mother. Her hand reached up to roughly grab your chin. “What have you done?!” She screamed at you.

You glanced around you, never hearing her this angry before. More tears slid out of your eyes and to the dirt below and you tried to talk around the lump in your throat. You took in the destruction all around you, at the dead wolves that were now being carried towards the butcher who stood a couple feet from you. His voice caught in the air, “...a lamb, yeah.” You looked at how many lives the Collective lost in a sheer matter of minutes—and how it was all your fault. “It… I—” you started.

“You brainless child!” Your mother’s hand striked you so hard across the face that you fell back down to the mud at your feet. “Do you know how bad this is for business? Members of the Collective are dead on my soil!” You held your searing cheek with the hand that wasn’t still clutching onto your straw doll as you looked up at your mother with tearful eyes.

“I… I didn’t m—”

“Shut up. Go. I never want to see your vile face again!” Lamia screamed, her wrinkled face turning as red as the sunset behind her. She pointed a shaky finger away from the inn. You stood up on weak legs, your knees shaking. “But—but, Mom—” you cried.

“Go!”

You gave her one last pleading look before taking off, stumbling over your own feet. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t need sight for the place you were running to. You could find Althea in the dark, bound and soundless, if you had to.

You pushed open the doors of the guild and fell to the floor just in front of the counter, startling Althea and the customer she was engaging with. Your chest heaved and your tears formed a puddled at your scraped and dirty knees. “S-She… They’re all…” Your whole body shook and you couldn’t even form a coherent sentence.

Althea rushed to you, taking you into her arms and completely abandoning her customer. You caught a glimpse of them from Althea’s chest and didn’t know what you saw… Scaly skin that caught the light before a clawed hand pulled the hood further over their face, maybe? Althea shushed you and rubbed comforting circles into your back. “It’s okay, my owlet, it’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”

Love is a very wretched thing. It lets in the rot and the maggots and the ash. But, you still couldn’t help scraping off the corruption and placing it gently in your heart anyway. You couldn’t let go of the thought that maybe it could be beautiful, that it could be worth the cracked skin.

Instead of your usual hiding spot under the counter next to where Althea worked, you were hidden away between shelves at the back of the guild, alone. A book sat open in your lap, but your mind was too distracted to read any of the words in it. You heard the soft pattering of feet along the hardwood and turned to the sound.

Kai stood before you, completely distraught and still covered in blood from the wolf attack.

You waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. You moved the open book in your lap to the side as you sat up. Your lips parted as you thought of something to say. “T-Thank you,” you said finally. “You saved my life.”

Kai’s eyes weren’t the warm brown that they were earlier. Something shifts in them and you swallow thickly. They were cold, lifeless. Kai just nodded and slumped down to the floor next to you. An awkward silence filled the air and you didn’t know what to say to resolve it.

“How did you find me?” you asked in a meek voice. Kai’s eyes shifted over to you from where they looked out the window to the dark sky. “I saw you run here,” he says plainly. “Followed you.”

Silence penetrates the air before he speaks again. “They kicked me out,” Kai says, his lifeless eyes still boring into you. “They kicked me out of the School of Pith.”

Your mouth falls open in shock and you rush to apologize, saying how it was all your fault, but Kai just shakes his head and looks away from you. He’s still in his Collective uniform, but now the light, forest-green of his velvet cloak seems dull and dark. It doesn’t help that it’s now splattered with blood. “I guess it was my last chance.”

There’s no inflection in his voice, nothing to show whether the result makes him sad or angry or even annoyed. His face is expressionless. The only hint to his inner turmoil is the way his fingers pull harshly at the seams of his dirty white pants. The tips of them are reddened, like he’s been at it for a while now.

Kai turned back to you and reached a hand up to gently rub his thumb along your bruised cheek. His gaze then dipped to the book on the floor. “What are you reading?”

You hand the book to him, the page opened onto the legend of the White Fawn that Althea told you about. Kai hummed, “You don’t really believe in all that stuff, do you? This myth?”

“You don’t?” you asked incredulously. “You have magic, but don’t believe in a white deer that brings about luck and fortune?”

For the first time that night, you manage to get Kai to chuckle. “I suppose you’re right…” he trailed. “I might not be the firmest believer in myths and legends, but I do know a lot about them. We learned about them at the school—more things than you’ll read about in any book.”

Kai glances at you and catches the way your eyes light up. A smile pulls at the corner of his lips. The light still isn't back in his eyes—and his smile doesn't reach them either—but, it’s a start. You look at him as if he just hung all the stars in the pitch black sky.

“You want me to teach you?” Kai asks, and you desperately nod your head.

[ kipo’s note . . . ] wow… a lot happened… you see why it had to be almost 8k words now?? lmaoo i had to set everything up! but tell me how you feel about it all!! what do you think about the faerie realm, or the myths of the forest that watches and the well of life? the white fawn and the prophecy of eternal winter??? lemme know all your thoughts, don’t be shy!!! (∩˃o˂∩)♡

𖥦 ﴾ 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 . . . 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗺.𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 , 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 , 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ﴿ ︵͡ 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 (´ε｀ʃƪ)♡

🏷️﹙ 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍? 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 ﹚ @jjunberry @gothgyuu @gyuuberries @hyukascampfire @xylatox @ghstzzn @izzyy-stuff @sunoosgfv @jihyokat @whosserina @jellymochii @innocygnet @sumsumtingz @riribelle @yeoningz @minaateez @beombunni @jiryunn @lvrs-street2mmorrow @everythingvirgoes @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @usuallyunlikelyfox @blossommi @tinycatharsis

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hoseoksluna · 11 months ago

Text

CHERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: soon-to-be-boyfriend!hobi x oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk)

genre: heavy, heavy, obnoxious smut

word count: 12.7k

summary: you don't know how he does it, but hobi makes you forget about the life you led before him, using his tongue.

playlist: hobi's playlist ; hobi's the weeknd playlist

pinterest board: cherries / taglist: join

warnings: oh my god—dd/lg but differently, businessman!hobi, dominant and emotional and fucking possessive hobi, oc is horny... a lot, praise kink, breeding kink sdflhldghfdklaxjkfghskfg, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, female and male masturbation, use of a sex toy, cum eating, ass eating, religious personification, mentions of anal sex, thigh and ass slapping fuck

note: my babies, i'm so happy to be posting PART TWO OF BERRIES for you, oh my god. i had the time of my LIFE writing this, had to take breaks every 20 mins, was horny beyond my fucking mind BECAUSE THE SMUT IN THIS? FUCK. THIS IS PURE FILTH. 12K WORDS OF FILTHY HOBI SMUT. IM DEAD. HAVE BEEN DEAD. i missed writing so much that i spewed this out in 3 days... literally how? but i'm so happy to be back. i hope you enjoy this part. make sure to let me know what you think! i'm in a severe (hehe) need of your feedback. I LOVE YOU, MY BABIES. MWAH.

side note: this part has the entirety of my being in it. from the first word to the last. it means a lot to me. very special chapter! <3

By the time you come out of the art museum, it’s storming. A sound so cacophonous that it spreads dots of gooseflesh along the perimeter of your skin underneath your silk dress and the layer of your heavy trench coat. Loud and violent like your heart’s deep drum that stills once you see Hoseok leaning against his glossy car. Arms and legs crossed in the same fashion, clothed in the coupled shade of blackness, a mop of tousled hair swept back and rippling in the unforgiving wind that flushes his cheeks with its rosy coldness and then clouds pull in, darkening his stare fixed on you.

A shower of sudden rain finishes its touch on his countenance.

Eye contact broken, Hobi’s shoulders raise as he feels the iciness of the slender raindrops falling upon him, eyes flicked up to the shadowed heavens. A heartstring of yours snaps and you don’t really know who gave the command to your aching legs to run towards him with your coat suspended over your head—whether it was that weakened heart of yours or basic human decency. Emotion versus logic.

You find soon enough the verdict of the winner.

Because when you have to stand on your tippy toes to cover him from the rain, despite the fact you’re wearing your high-heeled boots, and Hobi takes the makeshift shield from your hands and shrouds you both from the wetness, an identical flush crawls from your left cheek, upon the column of your nose right next to your other cheek, warming you up from within.

Emotion. The string that ruptured grows again to its full length during that fleeting moment and you’re aching to take him home.

No rain in sight—just him in this close proximity, in this gray cocoon, smiling down at you lopsidedly, a dimmed light flickering in his inky pools, faintly, barely, only there for you to see. To catch and cling to like his patchouli scent does to you, a whiff of dainty wildflowers leaning in and enclosing around you, forcing away the thoughts that are erect in the corners of your mind, waiting for the adequate moment to strike. Thoughts of how you sense Jungkook’s life entwining around your world again; his companion perfuming the air with petrichor, the inner turmoil she must be facing the very strength that pulled those clouds in, causing a storm to stretch across the skies. You figure each beat of her confused heart must be the grumble of the thunder, but then Hobi’s outer film of softness amidst the darkness is a force way greater, because firmness broods right underneath it, and it is an energy that keeps those thoughts pressed against the walls of your mind.

He did turn you into a locked orchard—and the threat of another declared war isn’t even a wind that brushes past your fruit trees and berry bushes.

In fact, the more you deepen your exchange of gazes and Hobi cages you in between his shirt-clothed elbows, the more you want to show him the stain of your juices upon your panties.

You’re aroused—blooming, in need to be picked. It outweighs the past and you’re glad for it, deem your newly born sexuality more important than the doomed normalcy of your life.

You sink your manicured nails into that newness, adamant on not letting it go, regretting that you agreed to see your ex-boyfriend later tonight, regretting that you grew soft at the hint of his own normalcy, even though you said to yourself that you wouldn’t. It’s one of the reasons why you dig your nails deeper, maximizing your closeness to Hobi—it’s done in an effort to erase your foolish moment of weakness, to better yourself like you encouraged yourself to do earlier when you had perceived that you misinterpreted him. You curl your lips under your teeth to stifle back a sigh, wishing you were as firm as him, as stable in your decisions and your way of living as him. Wishing your weakness wasn’t a putty you play with, leave your fingerprints of your bad decisions on that blemish until you hate yourself, until the paste hardens and there’s nothing left for you to do but to watch it. Watch the evidence of your failure, your brokenness and your imbecility like still life—the curse, the doom of your life, haunting you.

It almost slinks in, threatening yet again to desiccate your orchard, the movement akin to a wave rolling in, but then Hobi speaks. And his voice sears those thoughts to nothing. Not even their shadows are left behind.

“Did you say hi to your friend?” he murmurs, reaching behind him to open the door of the passenger side for you, the coat that’s propped on his forearm lowering until it rests back around your shoulders.

You can merely nod, your empty mind focused on the absence of your selfishness—for once again, you want to be close to him for his sake, even more so when Hobi places his palm on the top edge of his car so you don’t hurt your head.

A prince, an orchardist, and a gentleman.

You’re feeding him and sucking his dick before he goes to work—you don’t care. Hope to God he fucks your brain out of your head and plants a new one; one that isn’t so stupid.

Seated inside his car, you glimpse profoundly at the way the rain kisses the crown of his head as he rounds his vehicle, sitting right beside you and carrying inside his heavenly skin fragrance, now accentuated by the residue of petrichor that all of a sudden doesn’t have anything to do with what you just bore. No hints, no thoughts, no wars. How he does it is something you’ll never have the capability of understanding—a fracture of attention of the intimate kind and he binds you to him, erasing your still fresh past as if it never happened.

You flex and relax your hand on your lap, a gesture that depicts that you cherish it to the point that you yearn to submit to it and remain submitted. And you will. You’ll figure out a way to stay stable, even if events appear to try and revolutionize you. A way to keep your fist clenched in his presence.

Hobi lets the car warm up a little bit before he turns on the heating, angling his rear view mirror just right, from which two purple, plush dice swing back and forth, colliding once and never meeting again.

How inspiring.

And then you watch his hands. Watch them dominate the car, spur it to life as he drives through the drenched street, parting the rain like a curtain, stepping in, taking you home.

As if he sensed your thoughts, he glances at you. “My place or yours?”

A red light halts his control and Hobi uses it to tap on the screen of his dashboard, dousing the space in a sultry, wet ambiance as slow, calm music breaks the silence. While it was comfortable for you, now you feel even more at ease and you wiggle in your seat, sinking deeper into the leather.

Quite useful material for the lecherous saturation of your mind; for the lustful layer of sweat lining your skin. You feel so hot. Feel the need to be ridded of your clothes right now. Feel a certain kind of vivacity that drives you to do things you wouldn’t normally do.

You take his hand from the shift stick, cradling it with both of your own hands, a finger tracing the veins that paint a slender but a strong temple—a temple for his beauty and character, you suspect.

“My place,” you say, yearning to make him feel at home in your space; cook for him, make him come, stuff like that.

Green light blinks and Hobi doesn’t withdraw from your hold. No, he tells you what to do, quickly.

“Keep your hand on mine,” he instructs and you listen, sinking your fingers between his and gripping him like in an effort to grip onto stable submission. “Just like that.”

Your stomach flips at his choice of praise and you lick your lips, tightening your hold hard enough that he peeks at you with a smirk while he shifts the gear stick with you and speeds down the road. The heat worsens and you don’t think you can take it anymore.

That alone is the most attractive thing you ever experienced with a man.

And when he plays with your thumb, you can’t help but to squeeze your thighs together. Watch him intently sneak a glance as you do so, knowing your dress has ridden up a little, exposing your tanned thighs, swathed with the brown leather of your boots. Your position also provides him the intriguing reveal of a secret—you’re wearing knee socks underneath. They were invisible to his sight this whole time and now that he sees them, his eyes linger there for a few seconds longer before he drags his teeth along his bottom lip, flicking his gaze back to the road.

“You’re wearing knee socks under those?” he asks, his voice low and tortured. Doesn’t look at you as he does. Only shifts the gear stick again, stiffly. You imagine something else is stiff, too, and you smile, a tendril of confidence clothing you in allure and sinful, dark joy. It beckons your vivacity to drive forward.

You move his hand to let the pads of his fingers feel the smooth fabric. His body twitches, his lungs inhaling a short, soft air, mouth parted, eyes unblinking, gloomy just like the heavens above. A thunder sounds and you feel like roaring just the same.

“It matches my underwear,” you murmur and the thunder prolongs, echoing feebly. You drag his hand down your thigh with the intention to also make him feel the nylon material of your panties, but he halts your movement halfway, hand gripping your flesh, trembling ever so slightly, stirring your confidence. You almost moan at his brusqueness.

“Don’t,” he scolds, brows furrowing, chest heaving in that slow manner. His lips dry and he wets them. Doesn’t spare you a glance. Turns the wheel with that one hand as he takes a left turn, his posture slouched, thighs spread, a small tent evident in between. His arousal for you grows and it only propels you to finish the job, knowing his scolding was merely a warning, not a portrayal of his discomfort. And he proves you right with his next words. “If you do that, I’ll crash this fucking car.”

You laugh through your nose, your confidence and your own arousal fluttering in you, begging to be let out. Your favorite artist starts playing and you’re not surprised by the way your body reacts. Your thighs naturally spread and you move your pelvis forward. Feel your slick dampening your panties even more, trickling down your needy seashell just as The Weeknd begins to sing about your desire.

“I wanna fuck you slow with the lights on…”

You lick your lips, inhaling deeply and exhaling with a soft moan. Hobi digs his fingernails into your skin, coaxing another one out of you and he calls you by your name in a sterner warning. You caress the edge of his hand with the thought in mind that you’ve always loved the crescent moon, so it would only be illogical for you to not want more of it imprinted on your skin.

“You shouldn’t praise me then,” you croak out, doused in adrenaline-tinged lust, your sweat heavy upon you. You clutch your cherub necklace, needing to be touched, a habit of yours that you’ve had ever since you were a teenage girl. Your fingers graze your collarbones, lingering in the dip between them. “Besides, you’re such a good driver that I think you can handle it.”

Hobi hums out an endearing laugh, that smirk of his reappearing on his mouth. He rubs the moons he impressed into your thigh from side to side and your hips buck, asking for that movement down low where you need him the most.

“You have a praise kink?” he questions and you catch him bite his lip, catch him enjoying that information, sinking it into his flesh. You want to kiss it, bruise it, make it permanent for a little while. You revel in such a dirty, yet gentle conversation and you stop yourself from bucking your hips again.

“A severe praise kink,” you correct him, emphasizing the adjective with a bit of a bratty tone to divulge to him what he does to you and how much he needs to pay for it. And before you can go on, he catches you off guard.

“If you want me to keep praising you then rub your clit,” he negotiates with you, taking your hand and moving the gear stick, leaving it there. “And you’re wrong. I can’t handle you like this. I can’t touch you when I’m responsible for your life.”

Daddy. The title would’ve slipped out of the tip of your tongue had a moan not been first, coating the ambience with a sultriness that makes you tug at his hand in order to do as he says, in order to be praised, to be gratified. But Hobi doesn’t budge. He tightens his grip around the shift stick, clicking his tongue.

“No, baby. With your other hand,” he orders, his breath shaking and amidst the enveloping of his fatherliness around you, strengthening you and binding you with ropes of safety, girlishness and seductiveness, you scrunch up your brows, wanting his hand to be there when you make yourself feel good.

And you tell him.

“I want you to help me.”

The rain thickens, creating a sensual background noise to the next slow song playing and Hobi sighs, disliking your attitude. Your arousal grows to highs you’ve never seen before, a sweet, pleasing darkness consuming you, sprinkling you with glitters of appetite and craze.

All because your sexual chemistry is so good, so strong—so natural, despite the fact you just met and don’t know each other enough for it to be possible. It exceeds the laws of human connection and the feeling of it is heady, intoxicating you with wine of the ripest cherries. You even feel as though this is your first alcoholic drink. Feel as though you’re an unspoiled virgin on the cusp of her very first sin—the Virgin Mary with long hair, cherub necklace, tanned skin, knee socks and high-heeled boots.

Hobi erases your past life. Paints a new one with watercolors; paints you anew. You know the dulcet taste of fatherliness and manliness from Jungkook and while it was what you needed at the time, sexually that is—as it wasn’t often that he used this kind of energy day-to-day, and if he did, it was to tease you—what Hobi does runs deeper. It surpasses your need; it’s not a filling that will decompose soon enough and ask for it again. It’s something else entirely.

It’s something that falls upon you and stays. Clicks and connects with no way out. It’s another layer of skin, strands of hair growing out of your scalp, the drum of the vein upon your neck.

It began in the museum and uncoils here. It’s not worth it to juxtapose it with what you had before—it’s laughable to do so. Hobi has established his fatherliness the moment he held your coat as a heathen in a church, not taking his gaze off of your intimate prayers for even a split second. Unkinked it with his honesty and by expressing his responsibility over you, listening to the murmur of the sea of your sexual need but not diving head-first into it, knowing better. And now it is ready to bloom with flowerets, with fruits, with leaves to accompany you.

“It’s this or nothing,” Hobi decides, squeezing his fingers against yours to also emphasize the gravity of his words and you purse your lips in response, finding the ultimatum so attractive. “You live thirty minutes away, so you either rub your clit on your own or you wait. It’s up to you.”

It’s mind blowing to you how he went from being timid to now ordering you to pleasure yourself. You’re sweltering beneath your clothes and Hobi notices, looking at your body through his rear view mirror. He turns the heating up and you laugh, blush deepening, eyes crinkling at the corners. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest.

“Why didn’t you put your seatbelt on?” he mutters, letting go of your hand and giving you a mean look that makes your walls clench and your throat let out a low, almost soundless moan.

You never put a seatbelt on. As dangerous as it, you hate the way it chokes you due to your small stature and you tell him. “It chokes me, Hobi, I don’t really like it.”

Hobi doesn’t respond. He reaches over and drags down the seatbelt adjuster without taking his eyes off of the road, driving steadily. His patchouli scent hits your nostrils and you nuzzle your nose into his bicep, fingers curling around his arm, smelling him in a simple, comfortable manner. Hobi gives you a quick smile and you hear the sound of him pulling on the seatbelt, but then a pedestrian runs across the previously empty crosswalk, forcing him to stomp on the brake abruptly and your heart nearly skips out of your chest. Almost flying forward, Hobi holds you in place with his strong arm, which you cradle against your quickening chest.

Exchanging a look, you both pant in tandem and Hobi shakes his head at you. Panic lines his dark eyelashes and he immediately grabs the seatbelt and, tugging harshly, he sinks it into the buckle, placing the belt behind your back. He doesn’t acknowledge the pedestrian lifting his palm in apology and neither do you, too preoccupied with the fact he just saved your life.

“You wear a seatbelt in my car. No buts. Understand?”

Too shocked by the twist of events and too touched by the gesture and the sternness of his words, you nod. He pats your thigh, the one he marked, fondling the skin with his thumb, and it drives you to say something. “I’m sorry, Hobi. I’ll wear the seatbelt from now on.”

You mean it. This has never happened to you before as you usually take the public transport, but you do understand now how dangerous it is to not wear one. Your heartbeat calms and the aftershocks of the adrenaline come to the surface, scattering along your figure. Numbness melts and your arousal returns at full speed.

Hobi nods, smiling gently, pleased with your apology, and you feel so peculiarly gratified that you managed to do something like that to him. He sinks his fingers under your thigh and you marvel at the size of his hand because his thumb still remains there on the top of the flesh, even as he wraps his digits around you like that. Kneading just once before he lifts them and begins to tap on his screen again, shifting the energy with the voice of your favorite artist. He moves the gear, accelerating.

“Why you rushing me, baby? It’s only us, alone,” The Weeknd sings and you sigh, your body loosening up. You hike the seatbelt around your hips higher, curling lower on the leather, thighs parting until your knee taps his hand. You miss his touch and you long for it again, finding its warm ghost on your skin not enough.

“You like The Weeknd, don’t you?” Hobi says, his pinky finger brushing along your sock-clad knee, causing you to almost twitch.

You smile, relishing in the love you have for the singer. “I’ve spent ten years of my life loving him.”

Liking your answer, Hobi skims his fingers along the side of your inner thigh until he finds yours, intertwining them—this time his palm closed over the back of your hand, placing it to its former position on the stick. It’s warmed by him and you love it so much that you search for his thumb, playing with it.

“I could tell,” he breathes, his tone deepened by a heartfelt emotion that moves through you. You raise your brows in curiosity and question, wondering how that has come to be. Glancing at you to see your reaction, Hobi laughs softly, his heart evident in the sound, coated with it entirely, and you catch his thumb, holding it, on the verge of bursting. “I saw what you did when I put him on.”

You round the tip of your tongue along your top lip, recollecting well what you did when you heard him. “What did I do?”

A beat of silence between you and him, he lets the singer sing his elegy. Then, his index finger traces your manicured nail on the same digit. “You spread your legs. Made such a pretty sound that I almost stopped this fucking car and fucked you until the whole city could heard it.”

Your breath hitches in your throat and you’re too late to halt the moan from slipping out, a fire coursing down from the top of your head to your toes. You want a taste of his desire so bad that you’ll do anything for it. Even let the seatbelt choke you to death.

Hobi gives you a look, one that chills your blood this time. But it feels absolutely exhilarating.

He calls your name. “Don’t do that to me. Not here.”

Your breath trembles as you scurry to regain your composure, sliding up in your seat. Hobi, too, stops that movement by cradling your thigh, putting it back to the stick once you get the message.

Why does this feel better than if he gave in?

“What if I want to?” you challenge and Hobi rubs his eyes, slapping his hand back onto the steering wheel. Frustration, it looks so good on him. “What if I want you to fuck me here?”

He shakes his head, just once, biting his lip, reddening the pillow. “No, I don’t share.”

Fuck.

This is a point of no return. You will never be the same after what he said and you feel your attachment melting into his chest, dissolving there into leaves from your fruit trees. Your imaginary wings flit, aroused from his possessiveness.

“You know what to do,” he adds without looking at you, turning up the volume as if to subdue your incoming moans.

A cherry on the top of the fucking cake.

You don’t waste a precious second. Lifting the hem of your dress, you expose your drenched panties, a large wet spot in the center darkening the black fabric. Hobi doesn’t spare you a glance. No, he takes your intertwined hands and fixes his rear view mirror, tipping it down. Dangerous, but smart. Responsible.

It’s those glimmering flecks of his character that drive your fingers to pull your panties to the side, but Hobi, once again, stops you.

With words, this time.

“Do you want me to die?” he rasps, tortured—horribly tortured and you cup your femininity, coaxing a groan out of him. “Do it over your panties, baby. Please.”

He begged. You don’t think you ever heard that word come out of a man’s mouth in your life and you break, whimpering, pulling your panties back in their place over your pussy, dragging the tip of your middle finger up and down your dripping slit, sighing. Adding your index, you put pressure to the sides of your clit as you slide your digits in the same direction, over and over, teasing yourself, breathing out little moans that make him grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

Hobi glances once at what you’re doing and swears. “Fuck, rub your clit. Don’t tease yourself, baby. Make yourself feel good.”

With a mewl, you stick your fingers together and begin a series of circles, doing as he says. Your eyes roll back, head knocking back into the leather, satisfaction seizing your body and sweetening it. The material of your panties is so flimsy that it feels as though your fingers are stroking your bare flesh and when you tug the fabric to your hole to wet it and rub your clit harder, your moans gain volume, mingling with The Weeknd’s poetry seamlessly and magnificently, dethroning the rain.

And then Hobi shifts the gear stick with your hand and drives so fast that your pleasure deepens, thrill rushing in your veins. You match your circles to that speed, your sounds becoming obnoxious, whiny squeaks when you look at him to see his jaw clenched, chest heaving and the tent in his pants larger than you last checked it.

Hobi skims his fingers along your forearm, back and forth, cradling it. Senses your stare and reciprocates it, catching you at your best when you find your spot and buck your hips, furrowing your brows. He moans, clutching your thigh.

“So good. Such a good girl, rubbing her clit for me to get praised. Fuck, baby. You’re doing so good.”

You lift your fingers in order not to come, the aftershocks of your ripped away orgasm quivering throughout your whole body and you squeeze his hand, letting go—wrapping it around his tent, instead. You figure he deserves it for praising you like that.

He finds your lidded, mischievous eyes in the rear view mirror and he flattens his lips, a brutal expression on his face that should make you scared, but it doesn’t. It only spurs you on. You graze your palm on him, causing his breath to quicken, and you whimper when you search and search for the tip of his cock. He’s slender, but big and your mouth dries.

“You almost made me come with what you said,” you say, truthfully, retracing your path down his length, his breath, now hardened, wafting over you. You love the way he focuses on the road with every fiber of his being as you’re toying with him. Love watching him grit his teeth, narrow his eyes; love watching sweat adorn his flushed chest and neck. You ache to bite him there.

And you would—had he not buckled you in place.

You don’t notice you’ve arrived at your apartment until he stops the car and turns to face you, leaning his elbow on the center console. Nobody could gaslight you into believing that ride took thirty minutes. Nobody.

Hobi made that fifteen. Ferally. For you.

You can see it in his shining face—his need for you, his desire, the fact he sped down the road because you’re so horny. And you ache to kiss him.

“You really do have a praise kink,” he says, mutedly. Must be thinking the same because his gaze flicks to your lips. You lick them for him, encouraging him to do it. “Almost coming from me praising you. Such a good girl.”

You hiss, the drum in your clit returning, stealing your attention. Hoseok grins, pleased to be proven right, pleased that you make it so easy for him. You squeeze his length and he makes the same sound, gritting his teeth briefly before he pouts.

“What’s this?” he asks, speaking of your hand placement. “When did I allow you to do this?”

You breathe heavily, descending your fingers to his full balls, feeling them perfectly due to the silky fabric of his dress pants. You knead them and he moans, the sound traveling right to your yet again needy bundle of nerves. Your hand automatically flies to it, rubbing it, and Hobi curses, eyes narrowing, fixed on the movement of your fingers.

“It’s asking for me, isn’t it?” you murmur, sliding your hand back to his manhood and his pools almost go cross, head tilting back. Your pleasure from your motions expands, your nerve endings burning.

“I’m so hard for you,” he agrees, his hand clasping over yours, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows with great difficulty, the column of his throat such a thing of beauty for you that it forces you to unclip your seatbelt. You’re about to crawl onto his lap, but one darkened look from him makes you decide against it. “Show me that pussy, baby.”

Your moan has a certain elation to it, giddy at the fact you get to expose such an intimate part of you to him, giddy that he’s taking this to another level.

You slide your drenched panties to the side and at the sight of your glistening pussy Hobi groans deeply.

“Lean against the door,” he commands, wiping at his mouth and you tremble all over, more than delighted that he’s reacting to you this way.

You swivel, propping your back against the leather of his door and Hobi lifts your legs, spreading them. You hook one of them around the back of his headrest while the other dangles in his hold. His gaze zeroes in on your pussy and as he bites his lip, he acknowledges himself with her by tracing the flesh with his thumb. Your clit, your lips before he circles your gushing hole, groaning, bettering the song you barely can hear. Your confidence and your allure skyrockets and you follow his digit, riding it, begging for more of his touch. He plays chase with you until both of you and him can’t take it anymore and when his thumb is completely soaked, he lifts it to your mouth—only to fuck with you, though, because he plunges it inside his, leaving your own parted for nothing.

You’re embarrassed, but he likes it. Whimpers around his finger. Pushes your knee to your shoulders and dives right in.

You yelp, grabbing a hold of his hair as he licks over your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking until your eyes roll back, until all your still parted mouth knows is his name and your thick heel digs into his shoulder.

But you moan the wrong variation and he’s quick to correct you with a dripping chin, his hands on either side of you, face merely inches away from yours. “That’s Hoseok for you, not Hobi.”

Red all over, you can only moan in response, gripping his hair until he hisses in pain. He strums your clit without breaking eye contact, so slippery and swollen from his attack. The orchard in you grows, brims with fruit that is on the cusp of bursting, the berries in you big and full. His eyes narrow furthermore, pupils dilated, causing his gaze to darken in ways you’ve never thought could be possible.

“Moan my name, baby. Show me how good I’m making you feel.”

The wrong variation slips again, all due to the mind numbing pleasure he’s giving you. He adds more pressure to his fingers for a second before he withdraws and slaps your thigh. And slaps it again.

“I can’t praise you if you don’t learn well, can I?” he mutters and you whine so loudly that his eyes round, body growing boneless. “Fuck, baby, if you keep making sounds like that I’m gonna come in my pants.”

You scramble your words, find it the most difficult thing in the world. And he doesn’t help you. Not when he sinks a long finger inside your heat, fucking you slowly until you can take him. You lose your mind altogether.

“You’re making me feel too-too good,” you breathe out, hiccuping as he adds a second finger in, silencing you when he gives you long strokes. You follow his gaze down and perceive that he’s watching you soak his digits. He twists them, moaning, a litany of mad, mad curses falling out of his mouth in a hushed tone.

“So wet just from me praising you, oh my God,” Hobi comments and you squeeze your eyes shut, taking it as he begins to pound you to the hilt, his arm bulging, his whole body moving. “Eyes on me. What do you call me when I make you feel this good, hm? I already told you. Just remember.”

You know which variation he means and wants to hear, but your tongue curls, aching to utter a different name that he deserves to be called by.

And you say it, opening your eyes and boring them into his. “Daddy.”

And you don’t stop saying it. Not when he closes his eyes for a split second, agonized by such saccharinity. Not when he undoes the button of his pants and pulls himself out while thumbing your clit. You gasp, legs quivering, what you touched brought to reality and your orgasm nears, especially when he fist-fucks his length.

Hoseok draws back down to your clit, licking it over, nuzzling his face in it as he drinks your nectar right from the source, his wet fingers from you making squeaky sounds around his girth, causing you to scream, the intensity of the moment running so deep and you’re too weak to take it, overwhelmed by his arousal.

He lifts his head for a moment. “I want you to call me Daddy when you come on my tongue,” he rasps amidst his growls, never stopping the movement around his cock, and you nod your head, vehemently, willing to do anything for him.

“I’m so close.”

Hoseok pouts. “That’s so good, baby. You know what to do?”

You swallow. “I’m gonna call you Daddy when I come.”

He grins at you and the expression breaks when he fucks his tip, his brows casting a shadow on his face. You break along with it, shuddering—pleasured from watching him pleasure himself. And you break again when he praises you for your good answer. “Such a good girl. You’re gonna come hard for me?”

You don’t get to say your yes because when he sucks your clit into his mouth and groans against it as he flicks it with his tongue, he’s a witness to it himself. The fruits in your orchard explode and he drinks their juices, running the muscle all over your pussy, his mouth smacking, enjoying every drop. You squeal the title, forcing pleased growls out of him that deepen when you swear, repeating the name over and over again until your orgasm smooths down the perimeters of your body, slowly dwindling away.

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t see. White dots flood your vision and the only thing that grounds you is Hobi taking your hand in his. The dots swim away, revealing him on the verge of his own orgasm as he tugs on his length, rapidly now.

“That was so good, baby. You came so well for me. Called me Daddy like I wanted. Good girl,” he praises and your moans are an endless stream, enveloping around his cock, which he guides your hand towards. The weight of it, his warmth, the protruding veins, you could come again just from the feel of him. “Jerk off your Daddy. He’s close, too, from the way you came for him.”

The third person, fuck. You bite your lip, focusing on his tip as you grip him, twisting your wrist. His skin is sticky from your nectar and you spit onto your hand, earning a praise from him that makes your mind spin, even though you heard those two words plenty of times throughout your sinful date.

It will never get old—it will only make your femininity wetter for him.

And his growls, the same could be applied to them. They propel you to fuck him faster while your fingers sneak over to your sensitive clit that he provokes, rubbing circles that cloud your vision with a mist, painting him to be an angel—like the one you saw in the museum.

And when he comes, he grows a pair of glorious wings. Black, with hints of rose gold and pinks. His body doubles over, hands propped on the dashboard and the passenger seat as he spills for you, ropes of cum painting your stomach in that eternal ivory color that serves as skin for those sculptures. In a way you become them once he praises you for making him come, his breaths a legato rivulet that gives you life, his hips snapping, fucking your hand.

He smears his cum on your tanned stomach, fingers dipping below the waistband of your panties to discover a lighter shade of skin, marveling at the difference. Light passes through his eyes before he covers your pussy with the fabric, opening the glove department to fetch some tissues, cleaning you up, dragging down your dress and helping you sit up.

It’s at this moment, as he’s kneeling—towering over you and you’re sitting on your bum with your hands folded on your lap like the good girl he made you into, that he clutches the back of your neck and smashes his mouth into yours, moving it against you with such strength and vigor that you struggle to devour him in the same manner. It causes you to claw at his sides, to long to see his body in its full, bare beauty. His imaginary wings wrap around you, sealing the resplendence of your orgasm profoundly inside your skin and when he tastes you, his growls traveling down your throat are the raindrops that the orchard inside you needs in order to grow. You help him by moaning back, the aftertaste of you the sunlight.

Piercing his gaze into yours, he caresses your hair, messes up your diligently fixed updo. Catches your ribbon as it falls, wrapping it around his hand, the wisps dangling from his fingers like your leg was just a few moments ago.

You’re so satisfied that you could cry.

You don’t even understand what just happened and how it came to be. Don’t remember what occurred before you sat down in his car—Hobi has completely and wholly erased it.

And it’s him who notices that your hand still carries the remnants of him. You don’t care to look—you can’t rip your gaze away from the shine on his face, from the gratification smoothing out his features, from the pink flush decorating the perfect redness of his swollen lips. But Hobi forces you to, in the tenderest of ways. Looks lovingly at your palm, cooing, shooting that look into your eyes, where it unfolds, creates something new that you never experienced before. And when he grins, your stomach flips, winged creatures intoxicated with madness inside.

“You see what you did?” he whispers, the love in his eyes expanding, growing warmer, burning you faintly. “I want you to lick it up. You deserve every drop.” The breath you let out causes him to tremble and you cradle the fabric of his shirt in your fist. Hobi kisses your fingers, looking at you through them, his smile quivering. “Stick out your tongue for me, baby.”

You do and he slides your palm over it, his salty nectar the sea that swam against your body a week ago in your healing time and you moan, devouring his taste like he devoured your mouth, licking it up, collecting it until there’s nothing left. You show him your tongue, then, and Hobi plays with it, using his thumb, your ribbon wrapped around his hand tickling your chin. He rubs it on the muscle, playing chase with you again until he tells you to suck it. And the sound that descends from his lips once you do makes you squeeze your thighs together, your own wetness dripping out of you.

To end it, Hobi kisses your forehead, lingering there for a few seconds longer. Caresses your mouth, tracing each line, tracing your cupid’s bow, making you glisten with your own saliva. A shining, lively angel—just like him. You whimper.

“Swallow it, baby.”

You do, showing him the evidence that you obeyed after.

“Good girl.”

You take the underside of him, semi hard, into your hand, giggling, heart thumping. “You just made me horny all over again.”

Hobi hums, brushing his ribbon-clad fingers through your hair from the crown of your head. You want him to do that once you suck him off. “And you’re gonna make me hard all over again if you touch me like that.”

You mimic the noise he made, squeezing him. Hobi curses, delighting you. “Let’s go inside. I owe you that breakfast, don’t I?”

He kisses you, softly, with a hint of harshness that causes your nipples to harden painfully against your bra. You almost rub your clit again, so fucking out of it, crazed.

“You do, baby.”

You got everything you wanted in such a small amount of time that your vision twirls. Hobi is holding your hand as you’re leading him to your apartment, your ribbon still hanging from yours and his intertwinement, and your heart hasn’t stopped beating feverishly in your chest. Not even once.

You’re facing the inevitable as you watch Hobi unlace his dress shoes on his knee, his cock stiff and uncomfortable in his pants. You’re brazenly falling for him. You know your hormones swirling your system from the lustfulness you indulged in aren’t to blame—if there’s anyone to blame, then it’s Hobi himself. You consider him to be such a beautiful person that you would be absolutely stupid, blind and deaf not to fall for him. And what’s more, you sense your decline to be safe. Stable. A leverage that won’t ever break. A ribbon that won’t fray.

It’s as strange as it is inviting and your submission comes naturally to you. And this time, you don’t fear it won’t last. Don’t fear you’ll let up. There’s a sense vibrating in you that assures you that Hobi will take care of it. Put it back where it belongs if it ever strays. You don’t have to monitor it. You don’t have to do shit.

You were wrong about one more thing. Hobi isn’t Daddy.

He’s Father.

It’s this thought that drives you to take off your dress and leave it in the middle of the floor that leads to your kitchen. You’re barren down to your soaked underwear, bra and knee socks, your feet basking in the way they don’t have to ache in your boots anymore. Pulling a plate of eggs out of the refrigerator, you set it on the counter, preparing a pan by oiling it on the stove. You hear Hobi’s feet pad on the floor as you pop some bread in the toaster and you turn your head, seeing only his dark silhouette standing behind you, your dress and your ribbon in his hands.

Your heart quickens, abnormally.

“How do you like your eggs?” you ask, resuming your cooking as you break the shell of an egg on the lip of the pan, spilling the delight into the bubbling oil.

Hobi crosses the distance and you can only feel the softness of your ribbon when he places his hands on your hips, letting them travel until they stumble across the pooch of your lower belly. He groans, holding you there, pressing his hard, silk-clad cock against your nearly bare bum.

Self-consciousness creeps in as he kneads one of your insecurities and you quiver, clasping your hand over his, your confidence wavering.

“However you like them is how I like them,” Hobi flirts and you laugh through your nose, shaking your head, waiting for the egg white to fade into that milky color he painted your stomach with.

Sunny side up it is.

“Hobi, your game is out of this world,” you flirt back, sliding your spatula under the egg to check if it’s done before you can flip it.

Hobi lowers himself onto his knees and you gasp, soundlessly. He begins to scatter violent kisses along the dots upon the flesh of your bum, sucking it into his mouth as if it were an orange he was sinking his teeth into. You have to grip the counter in order not to fall over, willing strength into your weakened legs.

He bites the supple roundness of your ass cheek, smoothing out the pain with a flick of his tongue and kisses, gentle ones this time around. Hums. “Is it?”

He glides his nose along the inner of your thigh, rooting right in the center of your pussy, burying his face there. You turn around halfway, arching your back, latching onto his hair that you’ve ruined, egg long forgotten.

“Your thighs are wet again, fuck,” he whispers, mouthing your clit before he descends once again to them, licking them over, drinking your nectar that he’s created. Trails his tongue back up and, sliding your panties to the side, he takes you into his mouth, growling as he sucks onto your lips, playing with them using his tongue, hands spreading your ass cheeks, so he can have more space to make you absolutely lose yourself in him.

And it’s working. Even more so when he begins to swirl his tongue around that other, tiny hole, causing your eyes to go cross before they roll back. Your head dips into a dreamy daze, where time doesn’t exist as he switches between flicking your clit and eating your ass and it isn’t until a certain burning smell suffuses your nostrils that you snap out of it.

You’ve burned his egg, its edges black like the feathers of his imaginary wings, and you yelp, turning off the stove, pushing the pan away.

“Hobi, I burned your egg,” you exclaim and he bends you over the counter while still remaining on his knees for you, sucking your clit with all the strength he possesses. Your climax pinches you in warning, lovingly, promising to melt over you like rain soon, so very soon.

Hobi doesn’t give a fuck about his egg, it seems.

“Just a little more, please,” he begs, moving his flat tongue from side to side on your bud, hands descending down your wet thighs until he reaches your knee socks, stopping there. Whimpers.

That would’ve thrown you over the edge had he not pulled away, fingers wrapping around your knees.

You turn around and the sight of him on his knees with his glazed nose, mouth and chin, with his cock pitifully erect in his pants, creating a print that makes you salivate, absolutely and irrevocably breaks you. You can still hear his plea ring in your mind, begging you to give him a few more seconds of your pussy, and your brain malfunctions. Numbness tightens around your fingers when you cradle his face and it feels so real when you do so—the fact that you’re wanted, desired; the fact that Hobi is the one in submission to you, dominant yet attentive to you to the point that he would never want do anything you wouldn’t. He listens to you, carves his life around you… and he hasn’t even known you for a month.

You messed up his hair—and when you run your fingers through his strands, you feel your powerful ruination sifting through them, feel your seduction and your confidence, alive and breathing in that thick, dark brown mop of his. And now you crave to mess up his skin. Bruise it. Stain it with the pinks you can see in his imaginary wings. Watch them turn yellow like the rose gold in their flecks over the following days.

You’re not letting go of him.

Not when he looks at you like you’re Virgin Mary and he’s a sinner.

You pull him up by the collars of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric, adding to the ruination, and it’s electrifying. He’s the cleanest sinner you’ve ever had the grace to see and you want to stain him. Beyond the stickiness of your juices. And when he towers over you and cages you in between his buff body and the counter, hands on either side of you upon the marble, his patchouli scent making you bloodthirsty, you don’t kiss him. No, you go straight for his neck.

He didn’t expect it, groaning when you lick a stripe over his vein, sucking the skin inside your mouth. Over and over again until the sucking noises make him twitch and fist the ends of your hair, pressing his cock against your stomach. You’re feral, you’re inhuman, scattering kisses along that column like you’ve never had a man in your hands before. And it’s true. You never have. It was always you who had been in men’s hands. Never the other way around.

Your fingers gain feeling when you undo the buttons of his shirt, ripping some of them, secretly preventing him from going to work after you’re finished with him. Unless you plaster your correcting concealers on him, he really can’t step a foot outside. The bruise you left on his column is huge, purply red, and the only thing it’s missing is bite marks. A joy rotates in you, rooting from the fact that you’re changing his plans, that you have an effect on him, and you unfold that emotion when you tug that shirt down his broad shoulders and press a kiss in the middle of his chest.

But then Hobi grips your hair on the crown on your head, making you look at him.

And you can’t explain it to yourself, why you like being manhandled like that, despite the freedom you just experienced. Like a child, whose father let her run free before he scolded her and told her to stop, for she ran for too long and it’s getting cold.

“What are you doing?” he asks, lowly, and the tone etches itself onto your own throat because your answer is ready on the tip of your tongue, unabashed, dirty, throbbing.

“I need you to fuck me.”

Hobi blinks, his brows rising, a light like a comet shooting past his irises before an unbounded, starless night shrouds them.

You’ve done it. You’ve stained him. Now he needs to come all over you. Make a mess. Paint you again.

He slackens his hold on your hair. Runs his hand down the length. “If I fuck you, I’ll breed you.” Curls his hand around your throat, where those words form a new necklace, plated with that rose gold. Your mouth parts, a moan falling past, your nectar in tandem, mind dizzy from the idea of being stuffed full of his cum. He flattens his palm over your sternum, hooks his fingers over the band of your bra in the middle of your breasts. You hope he chisels the lines of his hand into your skin. You want to wear him. “Are you on birth control?”

You stopped taking it the moment you were broken up with. Didn’t think you’d need it so soon. Didn’t think you’d have a man in your life again, let alone sleep with him.

Your body desires to please Hoseok so resolutely that a wisp of your regret swathes around his wrist—regret that you threw away those pills that are the driving force in his sexuality. He might have been okay with not taking this any further, but you’re not. You’re far, far from okay.

You want to be bred. You want to be bred so much that you could cry.

Your mouth pouts, but your sadness doesn’t touch your seduction. It merely heightens it.

“You have a breeding kink?” you ask, mimicking his former words, causing him to drag his tongue over his lips slowly, divulging his arousal. It’s another tree that begins to grow in your orchard, planted by your bare hands. A cherry tree, its pink flowerets the flush that spreads across his prominent pecs. You want to make them shiny with your tongue.

And you do.

You place wet kisses over the underside of his left pec, nibbling on the skin, your small stature making it easy for you. Hobi inhales a sharp breath, sneaking his fingers under the cup of your bra, grasping your breast, squeezing until you whimper.

“A severe breeding kink,” Hoseok corrects you, just like you did in his car. He pulls down your bra straps, his hand quick to undo the clasp on your back, disposing you of the undergarment, dropping it onto the ground. Gooseflesh spreads across your skin and you let him feel it, let him feel the effect he has on you by pressing yourself against him, twisting your arms around his torso.

A tender hug, in the middle of a bonding moment. You’d be so happy, you’d laugh, you’d skip, if you had never thrown away those pills.

You wonder if he feels the drum of your heart, if he feels how it’s creating a brand new music that no human, no celestial being has ever heard before.

“I stopped taking birth control several weeks ago, Hobi,” you say, your regret and your sadness lowering your tone. Hobi coos and it makes you want to sob. “Did you bring a condom?”

He caresses your bare back, your hair a stream of a waterfall that he parts with his hand. “No, I didn’t expect this to happen.”

You do the same for him, burying your face deeper into his chest, perceiving that you’re embracing a pure angel. You engrave patterns into his skin, feathers of wings that are dripping with the fire of stars. Even though you’re dying to get fucked, this tenderness is, little by little, appeasing your darkness in a way you don’t really understand.

“We don’t have to do anything. I can make you come with my mouth again,” Hobi says, drifting his nails along the perimeter of your shoulder blade while his other hand grips your waist. The memory of the moons to the sky you paint on his back.

You lift your head. Meet the gray clouds in his eyes. “You want to breed me that bad?”

A smile curls one end of his mouth. “It’s what you deserve.”

The same smile finds a way to your mouth, then blossoms into a grin, your heart a heavy music, and you press it into the middle of his chest. Bite him there, his growls another instrument in the song. He clutches the hair at the nape of your neck, coaxing out a similar sound, your darkness a wave that ebbs to and fro.

“Put it in my ass, then.”

Hobi calls you by your name, sternly.

“What?”

He sighs. “You want to get fucked in your ass on the first date?”

You don’t know what part of his sentence makes you hiccup. Whether it’s his purity, the fact that such an angel voiced out that lewd desire of yours and didn’t jump head-first into its sea—or whether he acknowledged, once again, that this is a date. Hobi laughs, endearingly, and you blush. He kisses your cheek, lifting your chin, placing a chaste kiss onto your lips and you could die right now and know you’ll be entering the pearly gates. He’s saved a spot for you there, negotiated with God that you’ll spend your eternity there like the businessman he is.

It’s what propels you to get on your knees.

“Baby.”

And it’s him stopping you each time you want more that makes you fall for him harder.

“You’re so good to me, Hoseok, I can’t help it. I want to give back to you as much as I can.”

He utters a low, deep curse, tipping up his chin as he cradles your face in both hands. Helps you stand to your feet, kisses you with something that doesn’t resemble the chastity of before and you moan into his mouth, digging moons into his back. You press your pelvis against his thighs, frustrated that you can’t reach his manhood and Hobi hears you, lifts you up and you wrap your legs around him, grinding your femininity against his manliness, squeaking the same curses down his throat.

“Fuck, baby, grind that pussy on me like that. Just like that, yes. You learn well, don’t you? You’re such a good girl, you just need to get fucked, don’t you, baby?”

You agree with every word, your expression of pleasure saying the words for you, and Hobi moans, pushing your hips down on him while he meets you each time.

“Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“Down the hall. First door to the right.”

You suck on his neck as he takes you there, plopping you down onto the edge of your bed. You watch your hands undo the button of his pants, but then he accidentally kicks into something and you know exactly what it is.

An orange Nike box filled with the two toys you own.

And Hobi wouldn’t have crouched to get it had you not started giggling.

How thrilling it is—to see him holding something so private, something no one has ever seen before.

He palms his cock once he discovers what’s inside, rolling his eyes back. He throws the box next to you on the mattress, pushing you back and ripping your panties out of your body in a split second. Your giggles die, replaced by whimpers, replaced by the beat of your clit and his vulgarities as he pins your knees down, gazing, lovingly, at the way your nectar trickles down to your other hole. He bends to lick it up and you die, too.

“Naughty fucking girl. How can you be so naughty and so good at the same time? You’re making me lose my mind,” Hobi snarls, putting his entire weight into the back of your knees and you gush for him, gasping, not able to take his praise, your hips instinctually raising for more of his tongue, which he slaps your thigh for. Once, twice, three times, four times until you whimper so loudly that there’s nothing else left for him to do but let up, grab your pink hitachi and lay down on his back, guide you to sit on his face.

It’s now that he takes the time to ogle your body. His night-tinged eyes glide along your tan lines, his fingers tracing them, making you shudder and rotate your hips above his mouth that he wets and keeps wetting as if it’s not enough to quench his thirst.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he chokes out, brushing the pads of his fingers along your stiffened nipples. Fireworks shoot out above your orchard, casting a rainbow of colors upon the trees and bushes. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you to have you like this. You belong to that museum, baby, but I’d die if someone were to look at you in my place.”

His possessiveness coated with so much affection and admiration for you elongate your imaginary wings. And you can’t halt the rounding of your mouth, the pool of tears that line your eyes, the cracking of your heart as you take in his precious words. You feel like flying; you feel like soaring free with the knowledge that with the two beats of his own wings he’ll catch up to you, fly with you like two doves.

You want to kiss him. Pay your gratitude that way and when you begin to crawl down his body, he stops you by grabbing your waist, immobilizing you above his face.

“Stay where you are. You’re not sitting on my cock until you come on my tongue. Is that what you want? Ride Daddy’s cock until he covers you with his cum?”

You can’t take it anymore. You simply can’t.

Hobi turns the vibrator to life and its buzzing sound makes you quiver. You lower yourself onto his mouth that he quickly opens for you, darting out his tongue. He lets you ride the muscle, guiding your hips to twirl in circles, and you hold onto your breasts for emotional support as you sense yourself slowly disappearing in him, in the pleasure he gives you, in his warm, dark aura.

Your mouth has no lock, no force to stop it from speaking.

“I was wrong, Hoseok,” you start, changing the direction—swinging your hips back and forth as you grab onto his hair with one hand while the other stimulates your nipple, making you pant, whine and so terribly out of it. “It’s not your game that’s out of this world. It’s your fucking dirty talk.”

Hobi hums, flicking your hand away and pinching your nipple, causing you to tip your head back and pour more vigor into your movement, his mouth too busy to respond.

“If you ever talk to anyone like this that’s not me, I’ll kill her, you hear me? She won’t live to see the next day.”

It’s Hobi now that can’t seem to take it anymore.

Holding you steady by the waist, he sits up, sucking on your clit with so much strength that you scream, your body shuttering so violently that you completely lose yourself. He throws you onto your pillows, raises your hips until they’re at level with his mouth and finishes his fucking job. Alternates between sucking and licking, stars flooding your vision, the ones you traced on his beautiful, broad back.

You come and you don’t stop.

Hobi spits on your clit and presses down the hitachi on it, moving it from side to side, your orgasm prolonging, reaching highs beyond the heavenly kind and all you can see is him, doused in colors that glimmer and his name, the right variation of it this time, falls from your lips like a prayer. Right variation, right prayer.

Virgin Mary that is looking at her God.

Setting the toy and your bum on the bed, he takes both of your hands into his fist as you’re still convulsing, in the middle of your undying orgasm. He lines his cock at your entrance, changes his mind last minute, and glides it along your sensitive pussy, holding himself at the base. Back and forth, the ebb and the flow of the sea. The sight does anything but calm you down. It supports the continuation of your orgasm.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he whispers, lowering your hands to his manhood until they wrap around him. “This cock has been yours the moment you came out of this fucking building to meet me outside. Every ridge, every fucking vein is yours.” He squeezes your hold against him, moving it up and down in an agonizing way that makes him shudder just the same. God at a very breaking point. “And these—” He groans as he uses your hands to cup his balls. “These fucking kids are all yours. Yours to swallow. Yours to decorate this beautiful body with. Yours to stuff your little hole with.” Your chest doesn’t rise with any inhalation of breath. You’re motionless, bloodless, paralyzed through and through. Scorching to the touch. Horny beyond your senses. Hobi pins your hands above your head, lining himself up, at last, at your entrance. Sinks inside you in one swift, but vigorous motion until he’s buried in deep to the hilt and he consumes your scream, kissing you so hard that he sucks every last drop of life you had in you. Then, he nudges his nose against yours, kissing its tip as well. “So don’t think for a second that these eyes are for anyone else but you.” A brutal thrust. A yelp. A loss of time and surroundings. “I’m yours, pup. I’m fucking yours.” A mad, mad laughter. “I’ve known you for a week. Ate your pussy first before I kissed you. And you touched yourself in my fucking car because you got horny from the way I praised you in that museum. How could I not be yours?”

The pet name, the magnificence of his sonnet, the stillness of his cock as you clench around him—the very cozy feeling of him being at home, being at the mountain of Athos that you blessed. You feel so small beneath him, so taken care of—and you’re at loss for words, though only one remains in your otherwise erased vocabulary, and from the top of your lungs, you utter it.

“Daddy.”

His imaginary wings flutter, the pink swelling over the black, and he growls, letting go of your hands and folding you in half, leaning his weight on the back of your thighs. Props an overlapped pillow beneath your bum, so you’re at the perfect level for him to start fucking you properly.

And he does, coaxing out your screams, causing your legs to shake on either side of his shoulders.

“That’s right, pup. I’m your Daddy. You’re doing so good, screaming for me the way I like it.”

Hobi pounds into you, giving you a half of his length that’s more than enough. Bends at the waist to scatter wet kisses along the back of your thigh, filling you to the hilt as he does so, your juices squelching around him, making such a serene, glorious sound that forces him to bite down hard onto your flesh. No alleviation after, just long and ruthless strokes while he stares down at you, eating you with his eyes. The ghost of the pain lingers, adding to the experience, adding volume to your whiny noises.

“You’re taking it so well. You’re a good pup, aren’t you?”

You sob, the pressure gyrating deep in your lower tummy, the pet name the thing that will throw you over the edge if he calls you by it again. “Yes, Daddy. I love it when you call me that.”

A hum. “Oh, yeah?”

There he fucking goes again.

A dam rushes to break and you’re defenseless.

“Yeah, I love it so much that it’s gonna make me come.”

Hobi sucks in a breath. “Tell me you’re my good little pup and I’ll let you come.” The same breath he inhaled lodges in your throat and you watch him with a blurry vision reach over for your hitachi and turn up the intensity until the vibrations are so loud that you hear them echoing within your headspace.

He fucks you faster, ridding you of any chance to speak. Teases you with the toy by placing it, barely, on your stiffened nipple, leaning over to moisten it with his tongue before doing it again. And you can’t stop it and neither can he, the way your orgasm overtakes your whole being. It’s at this moment, when he thrusts become sloppy, that you manage to croak out the words he wanted you to say.

“I’m your good little pup, Hoseok, oh fuck, yes, yes,” you whisper, your sentence blending into an efflux of legato moans—and this, this is his very undoing.

And Hobi does something you didn’t expect him to do.

As colors burst in your perspective and your orgasm drags you under, he stimulates your clit with the toy, pulling out of you and pressing his tip against its vibrating side, growling so deeply that it forces your juices out of you, sprinkling him with its iridescent drops as he tugs at his length. He paints your stomach, paints the hitachi, his nectar so enormous that it lands upon your breasts, even as far as on your neck. His body glistens in sweat and now your essence—and looking at him with your hazy vision, another orgasm rolls in.

You thrash your body so hard he has to pin you down, ripping the pillow out from behind you, laying down his weight on you. He kisses you and the lip lock lasts, seemingly, for a century. He moves his mouth against yours, basking in the feel of your puffy mouth as he alters between kissing you harshly and kissing you gently, getting to know you this way.

And when he lets up to breathe, he brushes your hair away, flings the vibrator out until it falls off the bed.

“Say it again,” Hobi says, affection flashing in his now rounded eyes, its warmth thumping. “Louder, for me.”

Your throat is dry, but you manage to do it with a sleepy smile. Think you would do anything to please him. “I’m your good little pup.”

Cupping your face, he kisses you with such tenderness that you begin to cry. Your tears soak his cheeks and he whimpers into your mouth, moved just the same by the depth, the vibrancy of the energy thickening between you.

And when he looks at you, his own tears rush in his waterline.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, pausing for a second. “What have you done to me?”

When afternoon rolls in, Hobi is still tangled up in your sheets. You brought him breakfast to bed, one you didn’t burn this time, while he rested, naked and gratified, still flushed in pink, but clean from your shower. His patchouli scent intermingled with your body wash, cinnamon and lemon, concocting something intoxicating in you that made you see him with a halo above his head. He became a saint by giving in to his desires, by coming so hard that you still feel his hot ropes of cum singeing all those sensitive, intimate parts of your body. Hobi took his time tracing and smearing each and every drop, rubbing it deep in you as if he was digging a grave for your past. And you watched him do it, with tear-stained cheeks, acknowledging yourself, just as intimately, with the information that this is something Hobi likes to do.

You plan to put that into practice the next time you get to touch him.

He’s grazing his fingers along your arm as you’re laying halfway on your side, halfway on him, your leg in between his. Seems to be lost in thought, seems to be searching for his words when he widens his travel across your body, going as far as to the peaks of your shoulder blades before returning back. You feel an inkling to help him, feel like it’s the least you can do.

“What are you thinking about?” you try, dragging a finger across his collarbone. Hobi sighs, so terribly reactive to your touch, your head lifting in such a calming manner as he breathes in and out.

“Did I scare you with what I said?”

His heart under your ear begins to hammer and right away you understand the gravity of his question. He’s lost himself in a flashback of today’s sinful events, but stumbled across a high, overpowering mountain of his bared emotions—the blessed mountain of Athos. And it seems as though he’s forgotten the way back, the trees around him growing dense, the trees of panic that whisper to him that, maybe, he made a mistake.

You hope, with every fiber of your being, that he doesn’t regret those words of beauty that have come to live under your skin like planets in the universe that you and he have created.

That would ruin you. That would break you—and not in the pleasant kind that you like. That universe would drop upon you and you don’t think you’re strong enough to pick up your own half of your creation, shake it off and learn to live again.

You straddle him and he covers you with your duvet. Not your naked breasts, but your torso, inviting you into that island. You thought he did to prevent distraction from weakening his focus, but he doesn’t regard your body like that—doesn’t regard it as an instrument of lust. Something about that moves you, enough for you to take his hands, your thumbs in the middle of his palms, and spatter your soft kisses on them. On his fingers, his knuckles. And when you reach the back of his hand, you halt, boring your gaze into his, catching that comet flying past his eyes again and staying this time, staying in the glint that appears as his brown pools wet.

“Your words mean a lot to me. I carry them in my heart. You know that poem?”

Hobi shakes his head, flattening his lips, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

You don’t mind. You’re delighted to enlighten him.

“I carry your heart with me,” you recite, keeping the heel of his palm against your lips. “I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling,” you finish the first stanza of the poem that has not left your bloodstream ever since you were a teenage girl. Sharing that with him brings out a sea of feelings you remember your past self invariably longed to swim in. Tenderness, closeness, passion. Having it now feels as though you’ve passed a milestone. Hobi’s halo flashes with a rosy pink hue and your softened heart constricts. “The things you said were my doing, Hobi.”

He caresses your side, starting from your armpit, going down the side of your breast, your waist until he arrives at the fleshy part of your hip, which he grasps. His chin quivers as he opens his mouth to speak and a lump forms in your throat.

“You’re a poem, pup,” he whispers, circling his thumb over your tummy. “You don’t mind that I said those things?”

You kiss his hands again, upon the same places to make your affection last longer on his skin. Your clit awakens at the pet name and naturally, you scooch over until you’re sat on his soft manhood over the duvet and you begin to move your hips back and forth. Hobi hisses, but doesn’t stop you this time. Lets you do what you want in the safety you conjured around him.

“Say them again.”

You speed up your movement.

Hobi moans. Pauses. Swallows. Thinks. “I’m yours.”

You grind harder in reward, moaning with him, feeling him stiffen under your clit, feeling him comprehend that you love those declarations.

“My cock is yours,” he breathes out, his other hand joining the other and gripping your hip, digging in his nails. Another half moons, another beauty, intensifying the pleasure. You lick your fingertips and pinch your nipples. Hobi shudders, visibly, underneath you. “If you keep this up, I’m gonna have to cancel my work meeting.”

You laugh, meekly but seductively, prolonging your thrusts, slowing them down, coaxing pained groans out of him. A delight. “Who said I wanted you to go?”

Hobi curses, switching places with you on a whim that surprises you, bends you over, arches your back by lifting your bum in the air. The duvet falls, sadly, off of the mattress—and your soul, for him, falls equivalently.

He slaps the side of your thigh. One, twice, thrice. “Who’s pussy is this?”

You long to see him, your soul begs for it. Whispers to you to grab your phone and you do, swiping your finger on the screen and angling it so your camera has a blissful view of him. Of him fixed, darkly, on your ass and your femininity in the middle.

Curious to know what’s taking you so long to answer, his brows rise as he discovers what you’re doing and he bites his lip, pulls on your legs to straighten them and you plop down on the mattress with a loosened breath. He gets in the same position. Licks over the swell of your ass cheek.

“Film it. Film yourself telling me who’s pussy this is,” Hoseok commands and in a millisecond, without a thought spared, you click on the red button, excitement tingling your nerves.

“My pussy is yours, Hoseok.”

His eyes flick to the camera, meeting your stare, and your breath hitches, the view so attractive as he mouths that skin, marking it. He sneaks a hand to your clit, lifting his body a little, and spanks the spot he bruised. You gasp, elated, humming in a high-pitched tone, causing him to smirk.

“Ride my hand. Whose pussy is this, baby, hm?”

You snap your hips, furrowing your brows at the faint pleasure, at the desperation that courses through your veins.

“Yours, Hoseok, ah, fuck. I want you inside me, please.”

And he takes you, right there on camera, from behind—immortalizing your inside joke as you and him mention it and laugh about it together, immortalizing the way he paints your wings that ivory color and the way he rubs it in, sinking it deep within its membrane.

And when you’re so spent that you can’t keep your eyes open and Hobi is drifting his mouth over your breasts, he tells you to send it to him. And with one cracked open, you do.

It’s later in the evening that you find out that it wasn’t Hobi you sent that video to and your blood freezes.

Your phone rings and Jungkook’s picture fills the screen.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah, @fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth

BACK to masterlist | READ part one

#hobi smut #jhope smut #jhope x reader #jung hoseok #hoseok x oc #hoseok x yn #hoseok x y/n #hoseok smut #jungkook x oc #jungkook x yn #jungkook smut #hoseok fanfic #btscreatorscorner #btswritersclub #btswriterscollective

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