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jeonstudios · 6 months ago

Text

fontana di trevi | 01

you seek out a vampire to help you with something.

pairing: vampire!jk x sadgirl, blood donor!reader

genre: vampire au, angst, fluff (really a sadgirl fic lol)

word count: 7.6k

warnings: blood, needles, talking about how you euthanize cows and such? suicidal thoughts (not graphic or elaborated? very straightforward?)

rating: NC-17 – Adults Only

masterlist

part 1/2

It’s a freezing cold December night when you step into the dark alleyway, your thighs having gone numb under your jeans a while ago. The sun set hours ago, and the only light present is that of a few scattered streetlights.

Your pulse quickens as you take another cautious step. Something moves further in, where the light barely reaches, and since there’s no snow yet, you hear the slight crunch of frozen fall leaves under… footsteps. From the dark, a tall figure approaches slowly in a way that would have anyone’s blood chilling.

“I have a proposition,” you state, trying to stand somewhat tall.

"A proposition?” a low voice inquires, and you have to tilt your head up to look at the face that emerges from the shadows. “I’ll fuck you, but I’m not turning you for sex.”

“That’s not what—I don’t want sex or to be turned.”

He directs his full attention to you, and in turn, you get a better glimpse of his features. He looks like a man; incredibly handsome with jet black hair, eyebrows, and eyes, but his skin is paler than anything you’ve seen, and there’s the tiniest smudge of something red tinting the corner of his mouth. Though his eyebrow is raised, he doesn’t look very entertained.

“You can have my blood. All of it, if you just take it quickly.”

He lifts his hand to slowly wipe the red from his face. The outfit he wears—a black leather jacket and black pants—looks human but is definitely too cold to wear this time of year.

“What makes you think I wouldn’t simply take it if I wanted to? Why would I need your permission?”

“I’m just saying. Take it if you want it?”

He looks at you, seemingly at least a little intrigued by the odd human in front of him. You definitely understand that most people run the other way at the sight of this big, intimidating being.

“You realize ‘all of it’ means you’ll be dead, right?”

You nod. “Do we have a deal?”

“Regardless of if I wanted to or not, I literally just… ate, so I physically can’t. Not for another week or so.”

You feel your shoulders drop slightly, and you blink, trying to improvise a plan.

“Okay, well… Do you want to meet here in a week, then?”

At that, he tilts his head. “You want to die here, in a dirty alleyway?”

“I don’t care. So yes or no?”

“If you want me to do this, give me something in return first, okay?”

You look at him in confusion. “You’re getting my blood?”

“Who's to say your blood is even good?”

Trying not to let his words discourage you, you look around, thinking. Maybe you should’ve played harder to get? At least in the sense of giving him a hunt? You don’t want to waste any time, but he might not be your best option.

“Fine, do you know if there are other vampires around here? How do I find them?”

It took you three weeks to even find this one, and maybe it was more luck than anything, so setting off on another search doesn’t sound too exciting. These creatures really do live in the shadows.

“No, listen. Whether your blood is delicious or not, it would certainly be helpful to have it. But…”

“But?”

“Let me stock up on it first. Meet me at my place and let me take some every week for two months and then I’ll take the rest.”

You look around again, unsure if you should just try to find someone else. Two months is not ideal; it’s too long, and you’re sure you could manage to find someone else in the meantime.

The vampire senses your hesitation and takes a step closer.

“You want it to be quick, which means you’re scared of pain. People around here, my kind, tend to drag it out. Pain and fear equal adrenalin, which gives the blood a certain… flavor that some enjoy. Agree to my compromise, and I’ll make it quick and practically painless.”

He gives you the smallest of smiles, barely a hint of one, but it feels wicked and makes a cold shiver run down your spine. You know he’s not trustworthy, but he’s getting a lot out of the deal, and you have nothing to lose, really.

“Okay. What’s the address?”

In the middle of the day a week later, you find yourself in front of a big two-story house. It’s nice, looks pretty expensive but… like a regular house? It’s painted white and definitely not blood-red or even black. Aligning more with your expectations is how the house is partially obscured from the road by huge, towering spruces and how it seems to lie just a little bit further from the neighboring houses. There’s a thin layer of snow on the ground now, but you’re not sure whether it’ll stick.

After confirming that no, there is no door bell, you lift your fist to knock on the door. Vampires have crazy good hearing anyway, right? You’d assume so, given the fact that they’re always portrayed as super fast, super strong, super… attractive, and with super hearing, super vision, just… super all around. The mythical creatures don’t officially exist to the world, but in your little town, everyone knows they do. And they do. You found one. So if they drink blood and are super attractive—at least this one—it’s not too weird to assume there’s more truth to their pop-culture portrayal.

You can see how the town’s vampire believers and enthusiasts shake their heads in disappointment at your relative indifference, but truth be told, you’d probably be more curious about the vampire whose home you’re about to step into if the situation was different. Or maybe you’d have some self-preservation and run the other way?

The door opens almost soundlessly, and when you look up, you meet those black, bottomless eyes. It really is his color, you think, your gaze drawn to the short-sleeve, black button-down he’s wearing, the top three buttons or so left undone. With it, he’s wearing black pants on the looser side. He looks incredibly handsome, and very effortlessly so. His hair is shiny and looks soft, and like it naturally falls into that slight side-part.

“Are you gonna come in or just stand there and ogle me?” He isn’t smiling teasingly; he just looks at you, unimpressed.

“Sorry.”

He turns to retreat back into the house, and you’re left to enter through the open door. There are no lights on inside, and when you close the door behind you, cutting off a majority of the daylight, you start to feel like you’re truly inside a vampire’s home. Still, it’s light enough for you to follow said vampire’s back after hastily removing your coat and folding it to leave over the boots you step out of. Since you assumed he needs access to the veins in your arms, you picked out a gray t-shirt and a black zip-up hoodie that’s a little too big on you, paired with jeans. Nothing fancy—you’re not there to impress him.

With quickened steps, you catch up to him as he wordlessly leads the way into his kitchen, a place you doubt he uses much. Vampires don’t actually eat, do they? Either way, the room is clean and feels almost... sterile, despite the walnut cupboards and dark gray countertops.

On the short end of a wide, matching walnut dining table, a bunch of supplies are laid out. He gestures to one of the two chairs positioned around the corner of the table, but as you sit down, he turns to leave.

“Uhm, I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, pulling the zipper of your hoodie down and slipping one arm out. “I mean, I’m sure it can’t be that complicated in… theory, but I don’t think I can do it on myself.”

“I’m just gonna wash my hands,” he explains, and there seems to be a very slight trace of emotion in his voice and on his face that you interpret as amusement. He thinks you're dumb.

Oh. Well… does it really matter if his hands are squeaky clean or not?

Water hits the sink with a familiar sound as you focus on the table, inspecting the supplies. There’s a needle with a tube attached to it, a tourniquet, some syringes, antiseptic wipes, and a few empty blood bags. A voice in your head wonders if maybe he changed his mind and will simply take everything at this moment because those bags look pretty big, and you’re not sure you can fill them and still walk out of this place.

The water stops, and you sit pretty and wait until he positions the other chair in front of you, a little to the side. You’ve never been a fan of needles or having your blood drawn, so you focus your eyes the other way, to a specific part of his kitchen window and the overcast outside. You hear the sound of paper and plastic ripping, and you feel his cold fingers place and tighten the tourniquet around your upper arm and feel for your veins before he wipes the area clean.

“Scared of needles?” he teases arrogantly, and you see how he reaches for the sharp object on the table.

“Bodily reaction. I can’t help it,” you explain before holding your breath and waiting for the poke.

It comes soon after; an uncomfortable but not too painful prick. With one hand, he moves some things around on the table, and you try to keep as still as possible, loathing the feeling of a needle jolting around in your vein.

“You’re not curious as to why I know how to do this stuff? Or worried that I don’t?” he wonders, releasing the tourniquet and seemingly fastening the needle to your skin with some tape.

“No. I guess it doesn’t surprise me; blood and vampires seem to go hand in hand.”

He surprises you by letting out a quiet chuckle before placing a red stress ball in your hand. “Squeeze this. I’ll be back to change the bag in a few minutes.”

Nodding, you watch him rise from his chair and leave the room.

Left to your own devices and with the filling blood bag taped to the chair’s armrest by its thin tube, you close your eyes.

The house is entirely silent, and you have no idea where the vampire went. After he moved the stuff around on the table, you were able to count exactly three blood bags with a printed 450 ml on them. That adds up to somewhere between one and one and half liters and around 30% of your blood volume if you’ve calculated correctly. According to your brief research, a human doesn’t typically survive losing more than 40% of their blood unless given emergency medical attention. You probably won’t feel too great after today, but you most likely won’t die. You think.

Slowly, the minutes start to tick by, but you feel okay so far. You’ve got a good rhythm going for the stress ball, squeezing, holding, releasing. Squeezing, holding, releasing. The silence has your mind wandering.

“You can stop for a bit.”

The vampire’s sudden voice has your eyes flying open. He hadn’t made a single sound, returning to the kitchen. Catching your breath, you nod, keeping the ball still in your hand. You don’t look at the needle in your arm, but you see the bag full of dark red that the vampire sits down and trades for an empty one, attaching the tubes before he fastens them in the same way to the armrest.

When he’s done, he lifts his hand, and you spot one of his fingertips covered in red. For a split second, he observes it, and then he puts the finger to his tongue. At first, it’s weird to see, and you almost want to tell him that it’s not hygienic to taste other people’s blood. That is before you remember that other people’s blood is what sustains him.

He looks to be assessing something, and suddenly, you’re worried he might not like it.

“B positive," he focuses on you, but you give him a slight, confused shrug because you have no idea what blood type you are or what it means in this context.

“Is that… okay?”

“It’s… meh. Not the most common but also not the rarest. Most of my kind prefer A or even AB, though.”

“Oh."

Of course, your blood is substandard. You nod toward the filled bag on the table. “Will you have any use for this then?”

Truly, it would be just your luck to not even have the scary creatures, who roam the night in search of victims to drain, want your blood.

“Yeah. Doesn’t matter. I can always use it as a backup if I don’t get the chance to feed in time. Squeeze.”

Per his order, you resume squeezing. The rest of the process goes relatively smoothly, although you’ve started feeling a lot… weaker by the time the second bag is full and the vampire is about to switch it for the third.

There’s a lot about blood and the human body that you don’t know, and you’re silently wondering what the recovery rate is and if you can really give him this much every week. Does he plan on taking less next time or has he not taken it into consideration?

“Why do you want to die?”

You blink at his bluntness, looking at his uncaring face. He obviously doesn’t care to hear the longer story, and you don’t care to tell it, so you settle for a shorter, more condensed version.

“There’s something wrong with me. I don’t belong here.”

“Didn’t taste like it.”

“Maybe not physically.”

He doesn’t dig further, but when your blood starts trickling into the third bag, the vampire stays seated. You still close your eyes, afraid that you’ll stare at his face otherwise, and he didn’t particularly seem to like that.

You’re not sure if it’s just the blood loss or a combination of having slept poorly for the last few weeks and being in a calm, silent environment, but you’re feeling tired. Really tired. And cold.

“Squeeze harder,” his voice instructs, void of emotion. You do your best to follow his instructions, squeezing the ball tighter even though it’s getting difficult.

“We’re done.”

You open your eyes, finding the vampire much closer than before and his fingers swiftly removing the needle from your arm.

“Okay, so… uh…” you start, finding it hard to choose words or even think of what you want to convey in the first place. “Do I come back… same time… next week?”

“No. Make it two weeks.”

You look at him, confusion written across your features, but it’s hard to focus your eyes on his face. It’s blurry, and there are dark spots infiltrating your vision.

“I took as much as I could, and while you won’t have time to replenish everything in two weeks either, I’ll at least get more out of you than in just one week.”

He smiles, and if you had the energy and maybe (mostly) the common sense, you’d be scared by the way he truly looks so wicked.

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

The vampire takes the stress ball from you and rises from the chair with the used supplies in his hands. You grip the armrests best you can, but your right hand slips, and you stumble a little, trying to stand. It’s so incredibly cold, and you feel dizzy, nauseous, and weak, putting your hoodie back on properly.

Very quietly, you hear him move around the kitchen, and while he hasn’t explicitly told you to leave, you’re very much assuming he wants nothing else. So on unsteady legs, you make your way back to the front door, where you grab your coat to haphazardly put it on, and you step into your boots, unable to bend down to tie them properly.

You’re able to make it to your old but trustworthy car that you parked on the street, but when you sit down in the driver’s seat and close the door behind you, you realize that you definitely can’t drive as it’s proving more and more difficult to even keep your eyes open. You can’t walk home, you have no one to come pick you up, and even if there probably is a bus stop somewhere around here, you don’t think you’d make it there.

So with your last burst of energy, you pull the lever under the seat to push it back a little, leaving your boots on the floor as you bring your feet and knees up. Your coat finds a new purpose as a makeshift blanket, and you cover as much of your body as you can with it. Fully knowing that as you close your eyes, you might never open them again, you don’t care that much. Dying is what you want, anyway.

Surprisingly, you do open your eyes again. It’s dark when you do, and it’s so, so cold. Your heart is beating hard as it tries to circulate blood that just isn’t there anymore, and it’s with a low groan that you move, trying to reach for the phone in the pocket of your coat.

It’s seven p.m.. You met with the vampire at two p.m., and the visit took less than an hour, which means that you got into your car at maybe a bit before three, and so you’ve been passed out for four hours. It takes you a while to come to properly, and even when you do, you feel weak, groggy, and stiff. Ideally, you shouldn’t drive, but you have no other means of getting home, so you decide on a route consisting of smaller roads with lower speed limits and less traffic.

It’s no wonder you feel like you’re on death’s doorstep because when you do some further Googling on blood donation and blood volumes at home, you calculate exactly how much someone of your size would have. And you find that the vampire took 38% of that.

Three weeks later, you’re knocking on his door again. He opens it, an eyebrow raised and looking even more unimpressed than last time.

“I’m sorry I didn’t show last week, but I was sick,” you inform, hoping he’ll accept your apology. “Didn’t think you would’ve wanted to see… that.”

“You’re right.”

That’s all he says before he turns, leaving the door open for you just like last time. Well, you take that as a sign that you’re forgiven, and so you follow him inside.

Trying to keep up with him, you’re feeling even smaller and weaker around the tall vampire than before, and truth be told, you are. Because according to those Google searches, while it takes the body only approximately 24-48 hours to replace the blood plasma, it takes four to six weeks to replenish the red blood cells and recover fully. And that’s from having one bag of 450ml donated; you left three and it’s only been three weeks since. Essentially, the vampire is taking your blood a lot faster than you can produce it.

Like last time, you sit down on the same chair in his kitchen, but since he wasn’t expecting you, he has to retrieve the supplies from elsewhere. You remain quiet while he organizes everything, stealing a few glances at him in the meantime. This time, he’s wearing a black t-shirt and black shorts, and you’re amazed at just how… ordinary he looks. In the best way possible, of course.

Without being too tight, the shirt does a very good job at showing off his physique: it hangs wonderfully off his shoulders and dips slightly between his pecs. It exposes the prominent veins stretching across both his arms and hands, and you wonder if vampires also ‘live’ in the way that he has a heart that pumps blood around his body. Or if he’s really ‘dead’ or ‘undead’ like some media describe them?

“What?” he questions, having caught you staring.

“You look very human,” you say quietly. “Like a college guy.”

An athletic college guy. The one who’s just a little too handsome to be exact.

The trace of amusement that flashes across his face is so faint that you’re not sure you didn’t simply imagine it. He doesn’t respond to your observation, only sitting down and reaching for your arm. His large hands feel a little warmer against your skin than you remember them doing last time, and you turn your head when he prepares the needle. There’s a pinch and then the immediate relief when he loosens the tourniquet.

“Here,” the red stress ball is placed into your hand again. Looking down briefly, you watch your own hand squeeze it, but the red fluid flowing through the transparent tube is too off-putting, and so you close your eyes again.

A minute or so passes while you keep squeezing the ball to some sort of rhythm tied to your breaths. It won’t be long. Soon, everything will be over.

Somewhere, you lose track of time, and to regain some sense of reality, you flutter your eyelids open. Only to see the vampire stare coldly at you. You freeze.

“I thought you left,” you admit, the surprise clear in your voice.

“I’m keeping an eye on you,” he explains, face still stoic.

You look at him dumbly. “No offense, but why? The point is to kill me, anyway?”

“No, it’s to take as much as possible,” he corrects you. “To a reasonable extent. And then kill you. Here, let me change the bag.”

You close your eyes once more as he switches the full bag to a new, empty one. The dizziness comes a lot quicker than it did three weeks ago, but then again, you’ve been feeling more or less weak and faint ever since that first donation.

“Okay, we’re done.”

You look at him, surprised. “Already? But you didn’t even fill the second bag fully?”

“I took too much last time, and like I said, I want to get as much out of you as possible.”

For the first time, you think you see a hint of a discreet fang when he gives you a blood-chilling smile.

The process of removing everything is quick, and before you know it, you’re putting your feet into your boots again. You feel faint, like your knees might buckle under you any second, but you don’t feel weak to the point of passing out for hours in your car; you do that when you’re home in bed instead.

Suffering from what you gather is immense anemia, you don’t have the energy to really do anything between your visits to the vampire besides lie on the couch and watch TV. You quit your retail job the Monday after finding him in that alleyway, confident (and correctly so) that you wouldn’t be able to handle really any job at all.

Even rotting away on the couch with your eyes glued to the screen, you can barely understand what the shows are about. Your brain struggles to place the people and remember the plot lines, and you find yourself almost daydreaming instead. Though it’s mostly just flashing images of the vampire whose name you still don’t know.

If your heart wasn’t already so strained, it would beat harder for him in some kind of fear-filled attraction. He’s absolutely gorgeous—and there’s definitely something almost drawing you to him—but he’s also so, so intimidating. If the end goal wasn’t to die, you’d for sure be running for the hills and looking over your shoulder late at night.

Next time, there’s a slight smile pulling on the vampire’s lips when he opens the door.

“Still alive?”

You chuckle quietly, looking down at your boots. “Unfortunately.”

Taking off your coat reveals another simple outfit with no other purpose than granting the vampire access to your arms while keeping your freezing body warm. This time, it’s a thick, brown cardigan over a t-shirt, paired with somewhat baggy jeans.

The contrast between your clothes is almost funny. Even indoors, you’d be freezing in the half-open thin, white dress shirt he wears messily tucked into black, also thin-looking slacks. The gap in his shirt makes you want to reach out and touch his pale chest, but of course, you keep your hands to yourself.

Once again, you follow him inside, and while you don’t need him to, he guides you to the same spot in his kitchen where the stuff is all laid out.

Sitting down, you slip your arm out of the cardigan and place it on the armrest. The vampire washes his hands and then comes to sit down in front of you, reaching for the tourniquet to position it around your bicep. With the elastic band tightened, he rips open an antiseptic wipe to clean the inside of your elbow, and then, he prepares the needle like always.

You look away, holding your breath until the pinch comes and for a few seconds after.

“The whole thing about vampires losing control around blood… I take it that’s just storytelling?”

“Depends,” he answers, and despite not looking at him, you just know he’s got one eyebrow raised and a hint of a cocky smile on his lips. “If we’re hungry and someone happens to bleed around us, yeah, it can be more… tempting. Also depends on what sort of blood we prefer.”

“And you don’t like mine,” you state, your foggy brain concluding it the reason he seems to not care about the vulnerable blood right in front of him.

He laughs this time, a really nice sound that has your strained heart almost skipping an important beat. “I changed my weekly feeding to Thursdays, so I’m still quite full. And your blood isn’t vile, it’s just not what I personally go crazy for.”

“Oh,” you let out, looking at him before something dawns on you. “Wait. You eat once a week only? How much do you eat then? Or… drink?”

He nods toward the bag he just secured to your arm. “Someone of my size typically only needs about two of these a week to survive and not maniacally hunt and kill, but to really thrive? Between two and three liters, so four to six bags. I usually go hunting Friday or Saturday night when most bars and pubs are full. It’s surprisingly easy to find a few drunks stumbling around who won’t even realize what happened the day after.”

“So you don’t… kill?”

“Not if we can help it. There’s been… an increase in vampires around here, and if people drop dead? No, it’s less suspicious and only a little more work to find a few victims instead of draining one dry.”

“Makes sense.”

“Mhm. I typically don’t have to beg women to come with me, either.”

Something ice cold travels through your body at that last sentence. You wonder whose blood was on his lips that night when you found him.

“I can’t believe you’re telling me this, though? You seem like you’d tell me to mind my own business.”

Even more, you can’t believe you asked.

He smiles. “I don’t know. Like I said, people will occasionally find out what I am, find me fascinating, and ask a thousand questions. I’ve always thought it to be incredibly annoying, and I’m not really supposed to tell them anything even if I wanted to—which I don’t—but it’s been… odd, not being questioned by you. At all. Almost boring, like I’m not interesting to you.”

His answer surprises you, and for a moment, you imagine teenage you, not bubbly per se but at least a bit more naive than the current version. Would she be the type to annoy him? You don’t think so.

“Objectively, you are interesting, but I can’t believe how brave people are? If things were different, I wouldn’t have gone out looking for a vampire in the first place. And if I somehow stumbled upon you, I would’ve run the other way because you’d terrify me.”

Slowly, he smirks at your honesty.

“I scare you?”

You’d be lying if you claimed the cold, calculating aura around him didn’t.

You’re not sure if he has any super powers like in the movies, but honestly, he wouldn’t need to be able to lift a bus to kill you. The scariest thing about him isn’t how he could end your life in a hundred different ways either way, it’s how he could drag it out and extend your suffering before doing so. Of course, your body and instincts find him scary, but in a way, your mind… doesn’t? Then again, you’re here because your mind wants him to kill you.

“I don’t know.”

“Hm,” is all he says, his eyes falling to the blood bag. “I have to change it. Hold on.”

“Okay,” you mumble, finding it hard to concentrate. Your heart beats so hard it hurts, but at the same time, your breathing is slowing down. Closing your eyes, you feel him move stuff around.

“How are you feeling?” he suddenly asks, but it doesn’t sound like he cares too much.

“Honestly? Terrible,” you admit, keeping your eyes closed.

You keep still when you feel his hands on your arm, but then you hear a little… rip.

“Fuck.”

Curiously, you open your tired eyes, seeing the vampire hold the empty bag up to inspect it.

“This was the last one I had. This brand is fucking terrible quality; how do you make blood bags so weak they rip?”

“You don’t have anything else to collect it in?”

He sighs defeatedly, “No, it needs to be in these kinds of bags so I can store and freeze it properly.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I’ll have to stock up on them and maybe take more next time.”

You nod slowly and understandingly. That will probably be the last time, then.

About a week and a half later, you find yourself on a bench downtown, your hands in the pockets of your coat to keep them warm. It’s Saturday, and on the other side of the street, a few people are standing in line to be let inside your town’s best version of a nightclub. You’re not certain what exactly brought you here, and you’re sure that if the happy, club-dressed people took the time to observe their surroundings, they’d notice you staring and look at you weirdly in turn.

“Hello?”

Registering the almost rude-sounding voice, you blink as you turn your head. It’s a guy.

“Huh?”

His face looks skeptic, and he’s got his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. He’s not wearing a jacket or coat of any kind over his white t-shirt, so you gather he’s in the middle of a night out. Probably left a bar for a smoke and spotted you.

“I asked you what your name is? Like three times?”

He’s good looking with black hair and dark eyes, but the tone of his voice is very unattractive, and you have no interest in him whatsoever, knowing he isn’t just looking to be your friend.

“Oh. Uh…”

You don’t say it. It’s not that you don’t remember your name or that you’re making a conscious effort to deny him the information, but it’s like your thoughts are at a standstill.

“Beat it.”

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. His lips didn’t move.

“And who are you?” he asks, irritation dripping from his words, and this time, his lips are moving. However, his eyes are not on you but on something behind you.

Just as you’re about to turn around, the man in front of you leaves. His steps are quick, his mission abandoned.

“What are you doing here?”

Of course. It clicks the moment the vampire comes into view, and you’re surprised you didn’t immediately recognize his deep voice. He’s wearing that same leather jacket and some black pants, an outfit still very much inappropriate for winter. Though, something about him feels… wilder, almost a little uncontained? You can’t put your finger on what exactly.

“Uh, people-watching,” you inform as he rounds the bench, sitting down next to you.

Because he’s beautiful like no other, you glance discreetly at his face. He’s so masculine, but in certain lights, you glimpse something softer. You particularly like his nose and its rounded tip. It gives him such an attractive profile, you think, gaze traveling over his features and lingering on his dark eyelashes.

“Why? Isn’t it cold as hell for you?”

“Uhm, I don’t know? And I guess?”

From looking straight ahead, he turns his head, redirecting his full attention to you. The light from the closest street lamp reflects in his dark eyes.

“Is there any truth to that whole ‘vampires are designed to lure humans in’ thing?”

He grins. “I lure you in?”

“You’re more intimidating than you are attractive, actually,” you admit earnestly, wincing a little on the inside at how it came out a bit like an insult. He’s definitely attractive, and maybe the fact that he is so attractive is part of why he’s also so intimidating. “I’m just wondering what you looked like before.”

“I’ve always looked like this,” he explains casually, once again peering out over the cold, dark street. “Vampirism doesn’t change anything besides, like, skin impurities and conditions. I would’ve shown you a picture, but there were no cameras around when I was human,” he smiles cheekily.

“Anyway, you should go home. It’s really cold and not really safe at this time either,” he encourages.

You nod, realizing that he wants to protect his backup supply. “Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll see you next week.”

“Mhm.”

You expect him to get up and leave, confused when five seconds pass and he hasn’t moved. The feeling seems to be mutual because he turns his head to look at you again.

“So, are you leaving or not?”

“I am.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

You look away, clearing your throat a bit awkwardly and realizing that you might just have to tell him, since he doesn’t seem to be leaving before you. “I don’t think I… can. I walked here, but I think I overestimated myself.”

The vampire looks you over briefly, probably just to be sure, but you both know that your main health concerns aren’t visible.

“Where do you live?”

“Oh, not that far. Like less than a ten minute walk, but I…”

“What’s your address?”

“124 Conch Street.”

“Stand up.”

“What?”

“Stand up.”

Puzzled, you follow his instructions and slowly rise to your feet. Though you’ve been sitting stranded on the bench for almost two hours, the dizziness returns the moment you stand.

But the vampire isn’t satisfied. “Get up on the bench and undo your coat up to your waist.”

This time, you give him a skeptic look.

“Just do as I say,” he holds his hand out for you.

Slowly and still confused, you take it, and with his aid, you step up onto the bench.

To your surprise, he lets go, and before you know it, he’s unzipped your coat from the bottom up to your waist, positioned himself in front of you, and grabbed your thighs. Instinctively, you place your arms around his neck as he hoists you onto his back and starts walking.

“What are you doing?” you breathe quietly.

“Taking you home in an inconspicuous way. It looks like we’re a couple, does it not?”

“Definitely an odd and unexpected couple if so, but I guess?”

“You’re a pretty girl, you know?”

Your lungs hold your breath for an extra second before slowly releasing it, and then you hum, but it’s only to actually provide him with an answer. You definitely don’t think you’re anywhere near pretty enough for someone like him. He doesn’t call you out on your vague answer.

You’re not the most common sight, couple or not, and people still watch you as you pass them. Unsure as to how to meet their curious gazes, you don’t; turning your head forward instead. When you’re so close, you inevitably catch his scent, only to find that he doesn’t smell like a whole lot. There are traces of soap, laundry detergent, and maybe a hint of cologne, but not much else. No lingering smell of sweat or anything like that.

He walks you through the city and past the alleyway where you first found him. It’s quiet, except for the muted sound of his footsteps as well as those of a man a bit ahead, evidently hurrying to get home and away from the cold.

“Are there more vampires here?” you wonder, looking around the silent street and thinking it might not be as empty as it seems.

“Yes,” he confirms casually.

It has your brain working, and the surroundings reminding you of why you’re with him in the first place.

“How are you going to kill me?”

If he’s caught off guard by your straightforward question, he does a good job of not showing it.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. But I’d rather not bleed out,” you say, body aching at the mere thought. Although you’re certain there are much worse ways to go, you really don’t like the feeling of severe blood loss.

“It’s the easiest way though,” he explains. “It’s not as easy to drain a body without a heartbeat to move the blood around.”

“Are you familiar with livestock?” you ask, thinking back to what your three-year-older cousin once told you as you biked past a field of cows one summer when you were ten. “You can kill the animal and then ‘deblood’ them by hanging the body upside down and cutting their throat. The blood will drain easily. Do you have a bathtub?”

“You’re… a person though, still,” he says, and though he doesn’t falter in his steps, you can tell your words don’t sit quite right with him. “There’s no dignity in an ending like that. And don’t you care what happens to your body?”

To say you’re surprised is an understatement. You thought vampires were all bloodthirsty monsters, only biding their time until they can rip someone new apart. The messier, the better. The vampire, who’s carrying you on his back, made no effort to appear nice either. At least not at first. Now, you don’t even know.

You shrug slightly. You’re not a spiritual person, and you’ve never believed in something like an afterlife. “It’s just meat and bones. I won’t be here anymore, and no one’s going to be looking for me, anyway. There’s no use in keeping things ‘pretty.’”

He doesn’t say anything in turn, and you wonder how much about you he knows. How much about your life he realizes.

The vampire’s smooth movement lulls you further into relaxation, and you lean your head partly against your own arm, partly against him. He doesn’t say anything.

Way sooner than if you would’ve walked with your own two legs—if you would’ve made it home at all—he puts you down in front of your apartment complex. You search your pockets, locating your keys in the left one.

“Going home now? Since you can’t enter without permission,” you joke tiredly, unlocking the front entrance with the key fob.

The vampire raises his eyebrows. “I might as well make sure you don’t somehow trip and spill all my blood on the way to your apartment,” he smirks, grabbing the door and opening it wide without breaking eye contact. “And you shouldn’t believe everything you see or read.”

The smile he’s wearing as he makes a show out of stepping inside the building is another chilling one. You can’t say that you expected him to hit an invisible wall or anything, but for some reason, it would’ve almost felt… nice if that were the case. Considering your situation, you’re not sure why.

The elevator is empty and waiting for you, and after getting inside, you press the button for floor two, the vampire coming to stand beside you.

“Is there anything that is true regarding vampires?” you ask quietly as if someone would hear you inside the elevator.

“Besides the fact that we drink blood?”

“Yeah. Are you like, immortal and stuff? Super old?”

He chuckles. “Kinda. I don’t think anything’s truly immortal, but we do have a longer life span, yes.”

“What about senses? Can you hear my heart beat right now?”

“Yes. It sounds like it’s about to burst through your chest.”

Yeah, because it’s strained to hell and back, trying to keep you alive even in the condition you’re in.

“And super speed, super strength and all that?”

“Mhm, although we’re not so fast we go blurry. Are you impressed?”

“I don’t know? What do you use it for? I can’t think of even one thing having those powers would improve in my life.”

“Tough crowd,” he chuckles, avoiding your question as he follows you out of the elevator.

You understand that being physically superior is helpful when you’re a literal predator, and yeah, maybe being able to walk a tiny bit faster to work every morning would’ve saved you some time, but what else? Oh, yeah, one time, you had to throw away a jar of pickles because you simply could not get it open. Being stronger would’ve definitely helped you then.

Reaching your door, you’re quick to unlock it and pull it open to head inside, ignoring the two envelopes lying on the floor in your hallway. The vampire stays at the door, watching as you start to remove your coat two or so steps away from him.

“Are those… bruises?”

Turning your head as you make your way to the wardrobe to put the coat away, you see the vampire looking almost worried. You look down at the skin on your arms.

“Yeah.”

“Let me look at them,” he urges, holding his hand out.

“Why? They come with anemia; why does it matter?”

“Still, I want to see. Come over here.”

Despite looking oddly insistent, he makes no effort to actually enter your apartment.

Your eyes widen as you look at him. “You really can’t come inside without an invitation, can you?”

He sighs exasperatedly. “Technically, no, I can’t step inside unless you give me permission.”

It makes you laugh a little in wonder. “Wow.”

He rolls his eyes, but you can tell it amuses him a little too.

“Listen, I’ll be fine until we meet again and if the bruises are still there, you can look at them then. I kinda don’t actually want to invite you in, is that rude of me?”

“No, it’s not. Very reasonable, actually.”

“Okay, then I’ll see you Friday?”

He nods politely and steps back. “See you.”

You watch him leave, his footsteps sounding through the hall as you bend down to pick up the envelopes you’ve been ignoring for days. They’re probably bills, and you’ll be dead soon, so who really cares if you pay them or not?

Mindlessly, you approach the door to close it, your focus on the white paper in your hands. You put your finger under the fold to rip the first envelope open, wincing when the paper cuts through your skin instead.

Holding your finger up, you inspect the damage and the little bead of red that’s forming next to the invisible cut. You look at it, furrowing your eyebrows at how you feel like something’s… missing? A moment later, you realize what it is, and your body freezes.

The footsteps have stopped.

It dawns on you, as you look at the blood, what the vampire was actually doing tonight and why he looked wilder than usual. Early Saturday night, lurking around the clubs until he found you and had to abandon his plans.

He was hunting.

Your eyes widen and your heart stops as you hear it. One footstep. Then another. And another. They’re speeding up, and soon enough running toward you.

Before you’ve had a chance to shut the door, it flies wide open. Panicked, you move farther into the apartment, but you fall backward and by pure instinct, crawl back as quickly as you can.

Despite claiming that he couldn’t enter without your permission, the vampire falls to his knees, then all fours, to reach you. You’ve never seen anything as scary as the bloodthirsty creature grasping the air, trying to get you. He moves so quickly, and his hand is just about to grab your foot when it’s like… he’s held back by something.

You're breathing heavily, trying to understand what’s happening. Why doesn’t he just move another three centimeters? He licks his lips in frustration, exposing fangs that are definitely longer than you remember. Meeting his eyes, they’re cold like never before, and he exhales angrily. He’s still reaching for you, and frozen in your spot, you look over at him, briefly wondering if his feet got stuck or something when it hits you.

He can’t step inside.

You sit there, your feet mere centimeters from his grasping hand when there’s a sound down the hall, and in a split second, the vampire seems to snap out of it. He looks at you, appearing to realize what he’s doing and somehow gaining control over himself. Looking around, he gets up, and he leaves. Quickly and without a word.

Wide-eyed and with your heart beating painfully, you remain on the floor, wondering what the hell just happened. Even when his footsteps are long gone, you’re too afraid to get up and close the door, worried that he’ll return and be able to reach you.

You’d like a very serious word with whoever established the ‘no entering without permission’ rule but also decided that the vampires could cheat it by keeping their feet outside and crawling inside.

You sleep a little uneasy the following nights, thinking a lot. Of course, your thoughts are mostly occupied by those cold, black eyes, thirsty for your blood.

<previous | next> happy halloween <3<3

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admiringlove · 2 months ago

Text

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. dumbledore, in his usual cryptic fashion, subtly nudges you and gojo toward a rather unconventional solution, leading to a daring trip to the ministry under elaborate disguises. there, amidst secrets better left undisturbed, you uncover truths that should have never been hidden in the first place—though, thankfully, the day isn’t entirely swallowed by impending doom, thanks to an unexpected moment of warmth with dobby.

➵ warnings. abusive family; neglectful family; panic attacks; mentions of vomit; mentions of blood; espionage; mentions of grooming; mentions of death; etc.

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

➵ word count. 14.9k.

➵ author's note. big thanks to @gojofile for proofreading, loml. taglist now closed. ty for reading!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

"What took you so long?"

His voice comes from somewhere in the dark, even before you make it down the ladder. A low, easy drawl—almost indifferent, except it isn’t. Not really. You can hear it beneath the words, the undercurrent of something just slightly off, something waiting.

Your boots hit the stone floor with a dull thud, breath still uneven as you straighten, eyes adjusting to the dimness. The air here is thick, stale, but not unbearable. It smells like damp earth, like dust settled too long on forgotten stone, like something old, something secret.

"Nothing," you say, too quickly.

Gojo doesn’t press, but he makes a sound—a quiet, inquisitive hum—as he slips his wand out from the folds of his coat. A flick, a muttered incantation, and the passageway flickers to life, torches along the walls sputtering into a dull orange glow. The light doesn’t do much to make the place any more welcoming. The tunnel stretches long and empty ahead of you, its walls slick with condensation, shadows stretching unnaturally against the uneven stone. It reminds you of Hogwarts’ dungeons—cold, cavernous, like something meant to keep people out.

A shiver prickles up your spine, though the temperature here isn’t particularly freezing. If anything, it’s strangely temperate, a quiet, almost undisturbed kind of chill.

Gojo steps forward, and without thinking, you follow. You don’t know why it’s easier to fall into step beside him than it is to stop and think. Maybe because he moves like he’s been here a thousand times before, like he’s done this enough for it to be muscle memory, like it’s nothing at all.

"You know," he starts, voice echoing faintly in the narrow space, "in third year, my mother didn’t bother signing my Hogsmeade permission form."

The way he says it is almost offhanded, a careless remark, like a fact about the weather. But something about it makes your brow furrow slightly.

"That’s… not nice," you murmur, tilting your head, watching him from the corner of your eye.

Gojo only shrugs, hands tucked into his coat pockets, stride easy, unhurried. "I was fine. Sneaked in a few times with my cloak. Wasn’t too hard."

You blink, glancing at him properly now. "I remember seeing you, though," you say, hesitant, as if trying to recall something just barely out of reach. "You were there, weren’t you?"

"Sometimes," he admits. "But then I left my cloak at home during the winter holidays."

A beat.

You glance at him again. "Then what?"

Gojo exhales, a short, amused sound. "Then I got to spend my first weekend back ruefully watching Shoko and Suguru leave without me, like a complete loser," he says, tilting his head as if recalling the scene with some kind of detached fondness. "Used to sit near the staircase on the third floor a lot. And there’s that statue there, you know—the old witch with the one eye." He pauses, eyes flicking toward you briefly before looking ahead again. "You tap it with your wand, say ‘Dissendium,’ and it opens right up. Leads straight to Honeydukes’ cellar. Funny, isn’t it? How no one ever really explores the sheer mysteriousness of our school?"

There’s something vaguely smug in the way he says it. You roll your eyes, though there’s no real heat to it. "Losers, the entire lot of us, right?" you say dryly.

"Exactly," he says, flashing you a grin. The tunnel seems to stretch endlessly ahead, the faint glow of the torches casting long, wavering shadows against the damp walls. The air is heavier down here, close, but not unpleasantly so. You wonder how many times he’s done this, how many times he’s walked this passage alone, how many times he’s disappeared through some secret part of the castle no one ever thought to question.

"And that’s how I found it," he continues after a pause, glancing at you with something bright in his expression, something just slightly triumphant. "The One-Eyed Witch Passageway."

You hum, low and thoughtful, the sound barely carrying over the quiet shuffle of your footsteps against the uneven stone. The air is still, thick with the scent of earth and something old.

"Makes our job a hell of a lot easier," you murmur. Gojo laughs, the sound light, easy, threaded through with something unreadable. "It does, doesn’t it?"

But then, a pause. A barely-there hesitation, quick but noticeable, just long enough for you to catch it.

"How was your date with that Zen’in bastard?"

Your brows knit together, a slow, irritated furrow, even before you turn to glance at him. "First of all," you say sharply, "he’s not a bastard."

Gojo tilts his head, entirely unbothered, the dim glow of the torches catching in his white lashes, his mouth already curving in amusement.

"And second of all," you continue, "none of your business."

"Oh, come on," he groans, dragging out the syllables like a petulant child. "I told you about how my first kiss was, didn’t I?"

There’s something deliberately casual in the way he says it, something practiced. You don’t buy it for a second.

"Once," you say flatly, eyeing him with suspicion.

Gojo shrugs, loose and nonchalant, as if it doesn’t matter at all. As if it never did. "I don’t even remember it anymore," he adds, like an afterthought.

Your eyes narrow. "A senior kissing you when you’re in third year isn’t your first kiss," you say, voice suddenly quieter, weightier, sinking beneath the easy flow of conversation like a stone dropping into still water.

Gojo doesn’t look at you right away.

The tunnel seems darker now, the shadows stretching longer, the air thicker.

"It’s called grooming," you finish.

He shrugs, easy and careless, as if brushing off dust. "At least I got bragging rights."

You make a face, gagging lightly. "You’re insufferable."

Gojo clicks his tongue, shaking his head with the exaggerated disappointment of someone appraising a particularly dull painting. "And you’re a bore," he counters. "She was beautiful, I’ll have you know. Be happy I’m a gentleman and not giving you details."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "I already know the details, you twat."

His head tilts slightly at that, like he’s waiting for you to elaborate.

"You gave me her figure details in inches, Gojo," you remind him, voice flat, unimpressed. "It was disgustingly pathetic how you knew her hips were thirty-nine inches wide."

His grin is slow, all teeth, entirely unapologetic. "Ah," he muses. "Good times."

“Ew,” you murmur under your breath as you and Gojo near the staircase at the end of the tunnel, your voice barely more than a whisper against the stone walls. The air here is thick, cool, carrying the scent of the damp earth. The flickering torchlights do little to soften the eerie stillness, the way shadows stretch long and lean against the uneven surfaces.

“Third floor, then?” you ask, your voice steady despite the unease settling in your ribs. “Near the courtyard?”

“Yes,” Gojo nods, already a step ahead of you. His voice is quieter now, more measured. “I suggest we go through the dungeons once we’re out. Just to be safe. Everyone’s at Hogsmeade anyway, except for the first and second years.”

You hum in agreement, keeping your steps light as you follow him up the spiral stairs. Dust swirls in the dim light as your boots press into the old stone, the air growing warmer the higher you climb. You blink, suddenly remembering something.

“Did you get a chance to look over my questions on that sheet?”

Gojo makes a small sound in the back of his throat, something between hesitation and acknowledgment. “Uh, yes,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual confidence slipping for just a second. He glances over his shoulder at you. “Wait a minute. Let’s not talk about this here.”

You nod, tucking the thought away for later.

He reaches for the concealed exit, pushing it open with practiced ease. And then, you slam into his back. Hard.

“Satoru, what the hell is your—” you start, irritation lacing your voice, but then you see it.

Oh.

Professor Dumbledore stands before you, waiting, as if he has been expecting the two of you all along. His presence fills the corridor, not just because of his stature, but because of something else, something harder to name—an awareness, a knowing. His long robes, a shade of deep, muted grey, shimmer faintly under the torchlight, the silver embroidery along the hem and cuffs glinting with each subtle movement. His half-moon spectacles catch the dim glow, reflecting it, making his eyes—already so bright—twinkle with something unreadable.

A mischievous smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gojo. Ms. [L/N],” he greets, voice warm, amused. The kind of amusement that feels layered, veiled, never quite revealing its source.

You swallow, stepping out fully from the passageway as the entrance seals behind you, the statue shifting back into place with a low, echoing groan. Your hands curl into your sleeves, an old habit, as you bow your head slightly. You don’t know why. The chill creeping up your spine tells you it’s better not to hold his gaze for too long.

“Worry not, Ms. [L/N], I won’t reprimand you,” Dumbledore says, his voice lilting as if this is all part of some long, elaborate joke only he is in on. And then, his attention shifts.

To Gojo. There’s a subtle change in the air. It is not unkind, but it is heavier, more deliberate.

“I received a letter from your father this morning,” Dumbledore continues, watching him carefully. “He wanted to know when your Auror applications will be going through. He says he wants them submitted a year early.”

You see it immediately—the way Gojo’s jaw tightens, the way his fingers curl into his palms. His skin, already pale, turns ghostly white before it flushes red at his knuckles, his nails pressing hard into his own skin.

It is silent. Painfully so.

Then, finally, Gojo exhales, measured and slow, like he’s forcing the tension out of himself before it can consume him.

“Sir,” he starts, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “I was hoping… if you could, that is… potentially delay my applications until next year.”

Dumbledore studies him for a moment, as if seeing through to something neither you nor Gojo can quite name.

“You don’t wish to graduate early, like your father expects,” the Headmaster states, rather than asks.

Gojo says nothing. Dumbledore nods, just once, slow and deliberate. “I’ll take care of it. Worry not.”

There is a pause. And then another shift—something quieter, something you almost miss. Dumbledore is watching you now.

You feel it before you look up. The weight of his gaze, light as a feather, sharp as a blade. And when you finally meet his eyes, something about the way he regards you makes your stomach twist. Not in fear. Not exactly.

But in anticipation.

“You know, Ms. [L/N],” he says, and his voice is light, but his words are anything but, “on the weekends, the Ministry does not keep the Head of the Auror’s Office in unless required for an emergency.”

You blink. “Sorry, sir?”

He does not answer. Not in the way you expect. Instead, he tilts his head, smiling in that knowing, infuriating way of his. “That’s almost always on-field, however, so I think you’ll be okay.”

Your brows furrow. You open your mouth to ask him what he means, but he speaks again before you can.

“I think four turns should do it, in the evening,” he muses, as if commenting on the weather. “Remember this, will you?”

And then, without another word, he turns on his heel and begins walking away, his robes billowing softly behind him. Just before he disappears around the corner, he winks.

You stand there, frozen, watching the empty space he leaves behind. Then, almost in sync, you and Gojo turn to look at each other.

Your brows pull together. “What?” you whisper, almost comically.

Gojo exhales, his entire frame unwinding slightly, as if he has been holding his breath. “My father…” he starts, voice quiet, unreadable. Then he lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “My father is the Head of the Auror’s Office.”

Your breath catches. Your stomach twists again.

“What?” you breathe, eyes widening. “But why did he tell me that?”

Neither of you have an answer. But something tells you that Dumbledore does.

The Room of Requirement molds itself around you the moment you step inside, the walls shifting, stretching, expanding into the space you need. The air is thick with the scent of parchment and candle wax, the quiet hum of magic lingering between the bookshelves and long wooden tables.

You waste no time. Stripping off your coat, you toss it onto the nearest armchair, fingers already tugging at the seams of your gloves before peeling them off. The moment they hit the table, you're moving again, weaving through the furniture with urgency, barely noticing the way Gojo lingers behind, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

"Alright," you exhale, steadying yourself as you press your palms against the longtable, eyes sweeping over the scattered notes, the books with their pages pinned open, the ink-stained parchments covered in hurried annotations. The evidence of your restlessness. "Let’s do this one by one. Dumbledore obviously knows something. He always does. But he wants us to figure it out ourselves, like some kind of twisted scavenger hunt."

"He gives me the heebie-jeebies," Gojo mutters, stepping further into the room, his hands buried in the pockets of his robes. "I get that he’s a legend, but I swear he’s worse than a ghost—always lurking, always knowing. He’s creepier than Moaning Myrtle, and that’s saying something."

"Myrtle’s actually kind when you get her to talk," you murmur absently, still scanning the mess of research before you, thoughts running ahead of you.

"She’s a banshee," Gojo deadpans, plopping himself down onto one of the chairs, his legs sprawled out in front of him. "And I don’t want you to refute that statement."

You roll your eyes, reaching for a drawer and pulling out a marker. Gojo watches the movement, his gaze flicking between you and the board, but whatever he’s thinking, he keeps to himself. The cap clicks off with a sharp sound, and you press the tip to parchment, circling names, scrawling notes in the margins.

A few names stand out. A few, Gojo disregards. He taps the table twice with the end of his index finger, a silent cue. "Let’s start with your questions. Hit me."

You fold your arms over your chest, the weight of his gaze heavier than usual. But you shake it off, letting focus take over.

"Question one: There are stories of ancient wizards who dabbled in dark magic but weren’t necessarily evil. What if we’ve just rewritten history to suit whoever was in power at the time?" You tap the parchment, narrowing your eyes at a particular passage. "So many Slytherin families, specifically purebloods, are made to look bad in these records."

"Suguru isn’t a pureblood," Gojo points out, brows knitting together. "He’s a half-blood."

"And the Ministry isn’t exactly a beacon of truth," you counter, voice sharpening. "In one of the books I skimmed through, it mentioned how the Ministry actively stopped Newt Scamander from dealing with the Obscurus in New York. That was in the twenties. Whether it's here or in America, they play by the rules they make, and those rules aren’t always for the greater good."

"We should go to the Ministry," Gojo muses, tilting his head back against the chair. "Dumbledore meant it too. I know it."

"Not yet." Your voice is firm, cutting through any room for argument. "I need to figure some things out first."

You flip through the parchment, finger tracing the ink-stained words before you press on. "Professor Fig told me blood magic was practiced for centuries. Even necromancy. But then, out of nowhere, sometime in the 1600s, it was outlawed. No reason given. Just erased from sanctioned magic. Why?"

Gojo exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "That doesn’t concern us. Blood magic isn’t being performed anymore. Trust me."

You arch a brow. "And you know this how?"

"There are… physical restrictions that come with it," he explains, slower this time, choosing his words carefully. "Suguru wouldn’t be able to withstand them. If he were performing anything remotely close to blood magic, he’d be either too frail to stand or dead. And he’s neither. Besides, at this point, only the Kamo family is officially documented for using blood magic."

"So it’s familial?" You pause, a thought creeping in. "That means you must have something too, yeah?"

He grins, insufferable as ever. "I’m one of the strongest wizards of our generation. But I can’t tell you what my techniques are just yet."

Asshole.

You resist the urge to throw the marker at him and turn back to the board instead, scanning the names again. "Alright. Next question. Grindelwald. It’s said that he created his own spells. Is that… possible? The history books only mention ‘forbidden spells’ in vague terms, nothing specific. If he was so dangerous, why isn’t there a single documented incantation of his?"

Gojo’s smirk fades, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Oh, there are records. Just not ones you can access." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "There are twenty-two spells he created, at least according to Ministry records. But they’re locked away in the restricted archives. Only higher-ups and select researchers can access them. And even then, only under extreme circumstances."

Your fingers tighten around the marker. "So the Ministry knows, but they don’t want anyone else to?"

"Pretty much," he shrugs. "But Grindelwald’s magic wasn’t about being ‘dark’ in the traditional sense. He was more political than anything—trying to make wizards the dominant race. This was all before World War II, mind you. I don’t think Suguru has anything to do with him."

You sigh, dragging the marker across the board to cross out Grindelwald’s name. But then, something clicks.

"Oh!" You turn abruptly, eyes wide. "I forgot to write this down earlier because I wasn’t sure about it. It was only mentioned in the footnotes of this ancient book I borrowed from the restricted section. Fig gave me a letter of approval, so Pince let me take it."

Gojo’s expression shifts. A flicker of something unreadable—gone before you can place it.

"Sukuna." You exhale the name, testing it on your tongue. "Sukuna Ryomen. I’ve never heard of him before. But from what I read, his entire existence revolved around one thing—killing the strongest wizards."

Gojo stills. His entire body goes rigid, his breath halting for just a fraction too long.

"Fucking hell." The words leave his lips, barely above a whisper.

You blink. "What? What is it? Does the name mean something to you?"

Gojo pushes himself up from the chair, striding toward the board, eyes dark with something bordering on disbelief. His fingers curl into his palm before flexing again, his breath coming sharper.

"Sukuna isn’t just an average dark wizard," he murmurs, almost to himself. "When he died, he didn’t just vanish. He sealed himself. Not in a body. Not in a ghost. But as something else entirely."

Your heart hammers. "What do you mean?"

Gojo turns, looking at you now. Fully. "You know about Horcruxes?"

"Only vaguely," you admit, feeling the weight of something shifting in the air.

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at the roots. "A Horcrux is an object where a dark wizard hides a fragment of their soul to become immortal. Sukuna… he didn’t make just one. Even making one is said to be one of the most difficult tasks known in the wizarding world. He made twenty."

The breath leaves your lungs.

"And no one alive is supposed to know that," Gojo mutters. "Except for a handful of people. I only know because I used to snoop through my father’s work as a kid."

A chill creeps up your spine. This—this is bigger than you thought.

“Do you think Geto… Suguru, is…” The words falter on your tongue, as if naming the thought will make it real. You look at Gojo, eyes wide, searching his face for any trace of certainty, any flicker of assurance that this is ridiculous, unfounded, impossible. But none comes. Your voice drops to something barely above a whisper. “Do you think he’s trying to contact or—”

Gojo exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. His fingers twitch against the edge of the table. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t even know how he’d come to know about him.” His voice is quiet but taut, the syllables clipped, deliberate. “Nobody knows about him.”

He pauses, glances at the board, then at you. His gaze lingers, as if weighing whether to continue. And then, as though some invisible dam breaks, he scoffs, a short, bitter laugh. “There was a time I used to think about Sukuna a lot. About how someone so deranged was never killed, never thrown into Azkaban. How none of the so-called greatest wizards of their time ever thought to just put him in a cell, like they did with Grindelwald. Y’know, after that New York thing you were talking about.”

“Maybe he was too strong,” you say, and you barely register the words as they leave your lips, spoken like an afterthought, like something not meant to be heard at all.

Gojo is watching you now. Not just looking, but watching—observing, assessing, dissecting the thought that just slipped from you so easily. His silence is heavy, but you press forward, leaning against the desk, exhaling steadily. “We should try to explore this angle, you know.”

“There is no angle.” His voice is firmer now, more clipped. “It can’t fucking be Sukuna. Suguru has no way of knowing who Sukuna even is.”

“What if he does, Satoru?” You tilt your head, sinking into the nearest chair. The weight of this conversation is suddenly unbearable. Your fingers press against the bridge of your nose, rubbing slow circles, willing away the dull ache behind your eyes. “What if he found out? He’s practicing dark magic, isn’t he? What if this is all leading to something bigger?”

Gojo exhales sharply, his irritation manifesting in the way his jaw tenses, the way his hands curl into loose fists against the table. “You do realize you’re just shooting guesses in the dark, right?” His voice is different now, lower, edged with something like anger, but not quite. Something closer to frustration, closer to something deeply personal. His nostrils flare. “Don’t speak about Suguru like that. I won’t stand for it.”

“I’m not slandering him, I’m giving you a possible explanation—”

“Okay, how about we go to the Ministry then?” Gojo straightens, a challenge in his stance, in the sharpness of his words. “Check out the official records? There should be something about Sukuna, right?”

You stare at him, then shake your head, willing your heartbeat to slow. “Tell me more about him first. Before we go running into the Ministry.” A pause. “And don’t pretend it’s not dangerous for you to step foot in that place. We both know it is.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Gojo mutters, running a hand through his hair, dragging his fingers through the white strands in frustration. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath before he turns to the board, his back facing you. His silhouette is stark against the dim candlelight, broad and tense, and when he finally turns to face you again, his eyes are unreadable. He exhales, rubbing his temple. “I shouldn’t tell you any of this. If anything, it puts your life at risk.”

“Tell me anyway.” Your voice is steady. You tilt your head, watching him. “We’re in it now. The both of us. I’d rather my life be in just as much danger as yours is.”

Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, and something flickers in his expression—unreadable, soft and fleeting before it vanishes behind a carefully placed mask of indifference. He sighs.

“Sukuna’s soul was split into twenty pieces.” The words are measured, weighted, as though each one carries something more than just meaning. “Because his body was too powerful to fully destroy. Or die.”

Something shifts in the air between you, something uneasy, something that makes the space feel smaller than it is. You swallow, listening.

“There’s an old text,” Gojo continues, rolling his shoulders back, but his voice is quieter now, like the words themselves have the power to summon something dark, something long buried. “It suggests that if one wizard absorbs enough of his Horcruxes, they could become his vessel. A host for his spirit.”

A pause.

“I only know this because I was a curious child. And because I had a habit of sneaking into places I shouldn’t be.” His voice is flat, but there’s something beneath it, something carefully restrained. “And because when my father found me reading those papers, he threw me down the stairs.”

You blink. “I’m sorry—what?”

Gojo exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Focus on the important part, Fawkes.”

“The 'important part'?” Your voice rises, incredulous. “You can’t just tell me your father threw you down the stairs like it’s some passing detail, Satoru.” You stand now, hands bracing against the desk, staring at him. “That’s not normal, and we both know it after I fixed your gash last time!”

“I know it’s not normal, but for Merlin’s sake, can we—” Gojo exhales, pressing his fingers against his temple. Then, suddenly, his shoulders drop. The frustration fades, replaced by something else. Something almost… tired. He takes a slow step toward you, then another, until there’s only a foot of space between you. His voice is softer when he speaks next. “I’ll tell you all of it. Yeah? Just… after this is over.”

You hold his gaze. He is too close now, but you don’t move away. His eyes are still unreadable, but they hold something different now—something quiet, something unspoken.

“You cleaned me up once,” he murmurs. “I might need you to do it again.”

The words hang between you, suspended in the dim light. Your breath catches, just slightly.

You swallow, nodding once. “A-alright.”

"Anyway," he says, after a moment, turning slightly, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. "We should—well, we should go to the Ministry like Dumbledore hinted. Not because you think Suguru has something to do with Sukuna, let's make that clear. But we can't just go like this."

There’s something in his voice, a sharpness beneath the casual tone, a weight to the words that makes your stomach tighten.

"What do you mean?" you ask, tilting your head.

Gojo exhales through his nose, pacing once before looking at you with something unreadable in his expression. Then, with a sudden decisiveness, he moves—shrugging on his coat, fastening the buttons with quick, practiced fingers. "Meet me by the Wooden Bridge in an hour."

You blink. "What?"

"And," he cuts in, already moving toward the door, "wear something dark. A black longcoat, if you have one. Nothing bright. No color."

Your brows furrow. "Why are you giving me fashion advice?"

A grin flickers across his face, something boyish and almost fond, but there’s an edge beneath it, a little wry. "Just do as I say." He steps backward through the door, the dim light catching in his silver hair. "This might just be the best espionage trip of our lives."

And with that, he's gone. The door swings shut behind him, leaving only the faintest trace of his presence in the air. You stand there for a moment, your pulse in your throat, staring at the space where he had just been.

Then, with a sigh, you grab your coat.

Dusk settles over the castle grounds like ink bleeding into paper, the last vestiges of light stretching thin against the horizon. The air is crisp, damp with the promise of nightfall, and the wind hums low through the wooden beams of the bridge. Below, the Black Lake glimmers in the fading light, a dark mirror swallowing the sky whole.

You stand at the edge, fingers curled over the railing, the cold seeping into your gloves. There’s something about the quiet that feels heavier than usual, pressing at your ribs, wrapping itself around your spine like a premonition. You tell yourself it’s just the wind.

Then, footsteps. Fast, deliberate.

You turn just as Gojo barrels toward you, his coat billowing behind him, hair a mess of silver and shadow. He’s breathless when he reaches you, but not from exertion—you know him too well. This is adrenaline. This is thrill biting at his heels, curling in his chest.

He catches your arm, his grip firm but not rough, and tugs. "Come along," he says, voice lower than usual, urgent. "We need to get a little farther in case anyone sees us."

You don't move just yet. "What exactly are we doing?" you ask, searching his face.

Gojo grins, and it’s that boyish, wicked thing—too sharp for something so pretty. The kind of smile that makes you brace yourself. "Time-Turner," he says, casually, like he’s talking about the weather. "You have one. We’re using it."

Your stomach drops. "I'm sorry, what?" The words come out strangled, an octave too high. "Right. Of course, Dumbledore said—"

"Four turns," he says simply, holding up four fingers before dropping his hand. "Then we Disapparate to London. Ministry of Magic."

You gape at him. "And they’re just going to let us in? Let us waltz through their bloody archives because you’re the son of the Head Auror and a pureblood?"

"No," he says, and this time his grin is something else entirely—mischief carved in moonlight, the gleam of a dagger hidden in silk.

It’s then that you notice what he’s wearing. You take a step back, looking him over. The white dress shirt, crisp beneath a waistcoat that fits just right. The tie, dark and neatly knotted. The glint of a pocket watch chain disappearing into the fabric. A briefcase, small but distinct, clutched in his free hand.

You blink. The words slip out then, half incredulous, half fascinated. "What in Merlin’s name are you wearing? Bloody hell, don't tell me we're—"

Gojo barks a laugh. "You’re quick," he muses, stepping closer, and you catch the faintest scent of cedarwood and parchment. He dips a hand into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a small glass vial filled with something murky, something viscous. "Polyjuice Potion."

Your breath leaves you in a whisper. "You’re brilliant."

He smirks. "Flattery won’t get me into your bed, Fawkes."

You roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder. "I’m surprised you even know how to Disapparate."

He winks. "I know a lot of things," he says, pressing the vial into your palm. His fingers brush yours, warm against the cold. "Here. Drink up. It'll make you look like my mum."

The wind howls through the bridge, biting at your skin. You swallow hard. Somewhere in the distance, the castle looms, but there’s no turning back now.

You grab the bottle. And you uncork it immediately, before downing the contents into your mouth.

The taste is vile. Thick and acrid, like spoiled milk curdled with copper, and it coats your tongue so thoroughly that you nearly gag on instinct. You swallow hard, forcing it down, willing it to stay down, and the moment it settles in your stomach, it begins.

It is not an instant transformation, but a slow, creeping shift, like ink spreading through water.

Your bones feel like they are stretching, skin pulling taut, reshaping itself over a frame that does not belong to you. Your hands tremble as they lengthen, the fingers too foreign, too unfamiliar. Something coils in your chest, slithering into the crevices of your ribs, a sensation of wrongness sinking into every cell of your being. It makes you nauseous, makes your head swim.

When you blink, Gojo isn’t Gojo anymore.

Well, he is, but he’s taller. Not by much, but enough to feel the difference when he looks at you. His eyes, no longer searing, electric blue, are duller now—gray, washed out, hollow in a way that makes your stomach turn. His hair, still white, is combed back neatly, stiff with gel, a too-perfect contrast to the man you know. It unsettles you.

Your breath stutters as you reach for your own hair. The strands slipping between your fingers are impossibly dark, a black so deep it swallows light. The sight of it sends something skittering through your veins—discomfort, unease, a whisper of something deeper that you refuse to name.

Gojo watches you, his expression unreadable, though you swear there is something caught in his breath, something unspoken hanging in the air between you. Then, as quickly as it lingers, it is gone.

"Okay," he says briskly, shaking off whatever had crept in. "Come here."

He moves in closer, so close that for a moment, you forget where you are. The heat of him is startling in the cold, the way his breath fans against your skin. He doesn’t touch you, not yet—his pale eyes flick down, catching the delicate gold chain around your throat. His fingers reach for it, grazing against the hollow of your collarbone before curling around the Time-Turner, pulling it toward him as if testing the weight of it between his fingers.

"Four turns," he murmurs, glancing back up at you. The space between you narrows, almost nonexistent now, but his voice is measured, deliberate. "That should be enough."

You swallow. His knuckles are against your chest now, and for a fraction of a second, his thumb brushes the side of your throat before he shifts, looping one arm around your waist—not to pull you in, not quite, but enough to steady you. "Don’t let go," he says, quieter now, something softer in his voice.

Then, without waiting for an answer, he twists the Time-Turner.

The world lurches.

A pull you've experienced way too many times before, a violent snap, and then—motion. Everything bends, warps, unspools. Time collapses inward, the fabric of it twisting, folding, rewinding. The air is thick, viscous, pressing in on you like water. A dizzying flicker of colors and shadows, moments folding over themselves, the sensation of falling in all directions at once. Your breath catches, your fingers grasp at whatever they can—his wrist, the sleeve of his coat, his waist, you don't know. The only thing you know for certain is that he is solid, unmoving, the only anchor in this storm of shifting time.

Then, as quickly as it starts, it stops. Your feet slam against the ground. The world steadies.

Gojo exhales sharply, blinking, shaking out his hands as if trying to rid himself of the sensation. His grip on you doesn’t loosen right away. You’re both breathless, rattled, as if something in you was just wrenched apart and put back together again.

Then he releases you, stepping back just enough to look at you properly.

"Alright," he says again, but slower this time, his voice a little hoarser than before. "Now, let's go."

You barely have time to process the words before his fingers wrap around your arm, and then, the sensation is immediate.

It is as if something has hooked itself behind your navel, yanking you forward, through, beyond. The world compresses, tightens, squeezes the air from your lungs until you are nothing but motion, spiraling through a space that does not exist. Your stomach twists, flips inside out, and just as suddenly as it begins, it stops.

You stumble. The bile rises instantly.

Gojo doesn’t pause. He grips your wrist and pulls you forward, through the crush of London’s morning streets, weaving effortlessly between pedestrians who pay you no mind. The sun is pale overhead, the air thick with the scent of damp pavement and petrol, and it takes all of your willpower to keep yourself from doubling over right there on the sidewalk.

"You alright?" Gojo asks, sparing you a glance, though he doesn’t slow.

You swallow hard, pressing a hand to your mouth. "I’m trying very hard not to vomit on your very expensive-looking shoes."

His mouth twitches. "Do your best. These are the only ones that fit."

The joke barely registers. You’re still reeling, still pulling yourself back into your own body when he steers you toward a grand stone building—HM Treasury. You’ve seen it before, but only from a distance. To the rest of the world, it is nothing more than a government building, its facade unassuming, its history unremarkable. But you know better.

The Ministry of Magic sits beneath it, hidden from Muggle eyes.

Your heart pounds.

Gojo leads you through the entrance, past marble columns and security desks where wizards blend seamlessly with their non-magical counterparts, their disguises impeccable. An elevator stands at the far end of the hall, and he pushes you into it without ceremony, offering the elevator boy a murmured word—something low, something clipped—but you can’t make it out.

You are still concentrating on breathing. The walls of the elevator seem too close, the floor shifting beneath your feet as it descends, deeper and deeper, into the earth. The sensation is dizzying, claustrophobic, and your throat burns with the effort of keeping everything where it belongs. You cough once, then twice, swallowing down the last remnants of nausea.

Gojo stands beside you, arms crossed, his face eerily neutral. Too neutral.

Then, with a sharp chime, the doors slide open. And there it is.

The Ministry of Magic sprawls out before you, vast and pulsing with life. The floors gleam beneath the glow of floating lanterns, and the walls stretch impossibly high, lined with enchanted windows that flicker between storm and sunshine. Wizards bustle through the halls, robes billowing as they move with purpose, their conversations a murmur of layered voices. The air is thick with ink and parchment, with the faint hum of magic woven into every stone.

For a brief moment, the entire place stills. Not in motion, but in focus.

The weight of a hundred gazes flickers toward you, sharp and fleeting. Recognition, curiosity, hesitation—all of it flashing across the faces of those who know who Gojo’s father is. Who know, perhaps, the woman beside him.

Then, as quickly as it comes, it is gone. The moment passes, and the Ministry moves again, indifferent, uncaring. You let out a slow breath. "Shit," you murmur.

Gojo’s smirk is barely there, but you catch it before he turns away. "Welcome to the Ministry," he says.

The Atrium stretches out before you, grand and gleaming, its polished floors reflecting the golden gates that guard the farthest elevator. The ceiling, impossibly high, is charmed to shimmer with a soft, otherworldly glow, casting long shadows that stretch and curl around the pillars. Wizards move in careful, calculated strides, their robes swishing as they pass, their murmured conversations lost beneath the distant hum of enchanted parchment shuffling through the air.

Gojo walks beside you, arm in arm, his posture impeccable, his expression unreadable. His hand, warm and steady, rests lightly over yours, as if it has always belonged there. A mere prop, an illusion of familiarity. Yet, the weight of it grounds you, keeps you tethered to this carefully crafted deception.

The elevator looms ahead, its gilded doors casting fractured reflections of the two of you as you step inside. It is empty.

A deliberate emptiness. No one follows. No one dares.

The moment the gates slide shut, Gojo hums softly, an idle, almost absentminded sound as he adjusts his grip on his briefcase. His fingers graze over the metal clasp, slow, deliberate. You can feel it—the shift, the careful way he molds himself into a shape that is not his own. When he speaks, his voice is lower, clipped, perfectly measured.

"Level Nine, please, Gregory."

The attendant, a thin, sallow-faced man, inclines his head immediately. "Yes, of course, Mr. Gojo, sir."

No hesitation. No second glance.

The elevator descends, the air thick with something unspoken, something heavier than just the enclosed space. Gojo is silent beside you, and you study him, study the way he moves, the way he exists within this borrowed identity. His fingers drift to his pocket, slipping out the watch. He checks it, movements languid, precise, before snapping it shut with a quiet click and tucking it away again.

You watch him. You cannot see him. You cannot see Gojo Satoru in the man beside you.

The realization unsettles you more than it should.

"Have a nice day, sir," Gregory says when the doors slide open, bowing his head slightly.

Gojo does not speak. He only nods, a simple, dismissive gesture, before stepping out, guiding you along with him.

The corridor ahead is dark.

Not dimly lit—dark.

An unnatural kind of darkness, thick and all-consuming, pressing in from all sides. The floor beneath your feet is slick, obsidian-like, divided by thin, pale lines that stretch endlessly forward, the only indication of where the ground begins and ends. If not for them, you might believe you were standing in nothingness itself.

Your grip tightens around Gojo’s arm, and he glances down at you. His gaze softens—just for a moment, just enough for you to catch it before he speaks.

"Department of Mysteries," he murmurs. His voice is quieter here, as if speaking too loudly might wake something lurking in the dark. "Every prophecy, every classified record, every secret the Ministry has buried… It’s all here."

You swallow, trying to ignore the way your pulse thrums against your ribs.

"People are killed here, too," he adds, almost absently, his eyes scanning the corridor.

"Oh." The word barely escapes your lips, and it is nothing more than a breath, a wisp of sound swallowed whole by the darkness.

Gojo hesitates. Just slightly. Just enough for you to notice. He looks left, then right. The careful surety in his steps falters. Your heart pounds louder.

"Are you…" You trail off, watching the slight furrow in his brow, the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly against your sleeve. "Are you lost?"

"Not lost," he mutters, still glancing between the paths ahead. "Just… not sure which way it is."

You exhale sharply. "That’s called being lost, dimwit."

Before he can respond, a voice cuts through the corridor, shattering whatever fragile cocoon of secrecy the two of you had woven around yourselves.

"Mrs. Gojo? I thought you were home today."

Your spine stiffens instantly, fingers twitching against Gojo’s sleeve. Slowly, carefully, you turn.

A woman stands a few feet away, walking toward you with the poised ease of someone who does not question your presence, does not suspect. Not yet.

She is young—not as young as you or Satoru, but young enough to still hold that quiet eagerness in her gaze. Late twenties, perhaps. Dark hair neatly tied back, a crisp white blouse tucked into an ironed skirt. She wears glasses, thick-framed and pastel pink, an odd contrast to the clinical formality of the rest of her attire. They suit her, oddly enough.

You try to speak, but your throat is tight. When the words finally come, they are stilted, uneven. "Y-yes, supposedly."

Your voice cracks. You clear it, forcing yourself to stand a little straighter. "I apologize. My throat is a bit sore."

The woman shakes her head, unfazed. "It’s alright," she says, adjusting her glasses. "I was hoping you’d look through my paper soon. The one I wrote. I sent a copy with my owl—"

Gojo interrupts her. Smoothly. Effortlessly.

"Dear," he says, turning to you with the air of a man who has done this a thousand times before, "I’m sorry to do this, but we really are in the middle of something urgent."

His hand finds the small of your back, his fingers curling there as if they have always rested in that space. As if they have memorized the way your body fits against his. It is a performance, and he plays it with the ease of someone who knows exactly how to make the world believe him.

"My darling is assisting me on a case," he continues, his voice calm, commanding. "I’m afraid we can’t stay to chat."

The woman stiffens, stepping back immediately. "So sorry, sir."

"I’ll see your paper soon," you add quickly, softer now, careful to maintain whatever illusion of familiarity she expects. Her eyes brighten, her lips curling into a small, pleased smile. You regret the words as soon as they leave you. She is far too delighted, far too expectant. You have just given her something you cannot give.

Gojo does not acknowledge it.

Instead, he turns his gaze toward you again, and you recognize the shift—the careful tilt of his head, the slight lift of his brow. He is setting the stage.

"Where are the archives, my dear?" he asks, voice deliberate. You know what he is doing.

And so does she. The woman is quick to interject, stepping forward again. "That way, sir. First entryway to your left."

Gojo inclines his head in acknowledgment, a satisfied glint in his gaze. "Thank you."

Then, without another word, he pulls you along.

You chance a glance over your shoulder. The woman is still watching, her expression unreadable. When she catches your eye, she waves, polite, expectant. You nod, just slightly, before disappearing into the darkness.

For a few minutes, the two of you walk in silence, the sound of your footfalls swallowed by the suffocating hush of the Department of Mysteries. The walls stretch high, black brick stacked upon black brick, endless shelves crammed with books and vials and ancient, dust-covered artifacts. There is no natural light here, only the weak glow of enchanted lanterns hanging from the ceiling, their golden flicker casting long, shifting shadows that distort as you pass beneath them. The air is heavy, thick with something old, forgotten, waiting. The corridors stretch in every direction, each turn identical to the last, a labyrinth designed to trap those who don’t belong. And yet, Gojo moves with purpose.

He walks ahead of you, his father’s long coat billowing at his ankles, his shoulders squared, his pace brisk and assured. There is no hesitation in his steps, no second-guessing. It’s unnerving, how he carries himself in this place, how he navigates the endless maze like he has walked these corridors before.

"You know where you're going?" you ask, voice hushed, brows furrowing. It doesn’t make sense—he shouldn’t know. But he does. You can tell. You can see it in the way he moves, in the way his fingers barely graze the books that jut out unevenly from the walls, in the way his head tilts slightly, listening for something only he can hear.

He doesn’t stop, only glances back at you with something like amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. "Remember when I said I have a knack for snooping?"

He smiles, soft and easy, but on his father’s face, it looks wrong. Unsettling. Like a mask stretched over the wrong bones. But then he exhales, a quiet, measured sound, and murmurs, "I have a Pensieve at home. You know, the thing you use to look at other people’s memories."

"Whose memories did you look at?" Your voice is quieter now, more careful. "Your mother?"

He hums, neither confirming nor denying, but you already know the answer. "My mother is the Head of the Research department in the Ministry," he says eventually, tone softer now, almost thoughtful. Then, when he notices your expression, he sighs. "Don’t give me that look—yes, that one. It feels like my mother is looking at me in disappointment."

"Technically," you murmur, "she is. Can't believe you never told me something that important."

He huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. "Anyway, I extracted some of her memories while she was sleeping."

There is no guilt in his voice when he says it. No shame. Just the calm, matter-of-fact tone of someone who has long accepted that certain lines will always be crossed. He tilts his head, thoughtful. "She worked on something regarding Sukuna years ago when my father required it, so it was buried deep. Hard to find. But I found one or two." There’s a glint of triumph in his eye now, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "So we can, technically, find our way to her old research."

Your breath catches, just for a second, before you mutter, "You're bloody brilliant." A pause. "Insufferable, but brilliant."

He clutches his chest in mock offense. "I don’t appreciate the insufferable part of that comment," he says, "But I’ll take it, darling."

You groan, feigning pain as you start pressing a hand to your chest to ward off nausea. "Oh, god."

He chuckles, quiet, almost genuine. But then, he stops. It takes you a second to realize why. He’s staring at you, his brows drawing together in something close to alarm. But it’s not you he’s looking at—it’s your hair.

"Shit," he breathes. "We're changing back."

Your stomach plummets.

Panic grips you, quick and unrelenting, and your breath stumbles, your chest tightening, filling too much, your limbs growing heavy with the weight of something you can’t control. Your fingers tremble at your sides. You blink rapidly, feeling the shift—bones reshaping themselves, skin warming, hair changing, pooling into its natural color. You feel it happen, but you can’t stop it.

He moves before you can react.

A hand around your wrist, firm, steady, pulling you towards the nearest shelf. The press of his body against yours, the heavy fabric of his father’s coat between you. He smells clean, crisp—something sharp, like winter air, something sweet, like honey. His grip tightens, anchoring you, steadying you. "We're here," he murmurs, low and careful. "Don’t worry. We're inside. We can Disapparate out. It's illegal, yes, but they won't know it was us."

"But they saw us come in—"

"They won’t know it was us." His voice is calm, but insistent. Your cries calm under the tone of his voice, as you try to breathe. "They won’t know it was two kids from Hogwarts impersonating two of the most important people at the Ministry of Magic."

His eyes change first. The dull, washed-out gray of his father’s gaze sharpens back into that impossible blue, that staggering, summer-sky brilliance. His cheekbones fill out, his jawline softens, the deep hollows under his eyes lift slightly. You watch it all happen in real time, like something unraveling, undoing itself.

You nod, swallowing down the remnants of panic. "Okay. Yes. We’re fine."

"We’re fine," he echoes, quieter now. His hands fall away from you, slow, reluctant. He looks past you, and you follow his gaze.

"Alright," he murmurs. "It’s just... through those doors."

He glances toward the shelves, his gaze landing on the double doors tucked into the shadows. They are deep blue, so dark they could be black, their surfaces smooth and cold-looking, as if the very material resists light. Wood or metal, you cannot tell. The air around them hums with something just beyond perception, something that makes the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. When Gojo takes a step forward, you follow without thinking, as if drawn in by the same invisible current.

He reaches for the doors, his fingers barely brushing the handles before hesitating. You both know better than to rush—Ministry doors, especially ones in the Archives, are not to be trusted. The moment stretches, silent and heavy, before he finally presses his palm against the surface and pushes. The doors give way with a near-soundless shift, swinging inward, revealing the yawning darkness beyond. You step through together, breath held, waiting for something to snap, for a hex to ignite the air, for something unseen to wrap around your ankles and pull you under.

But nothing comes.

Instead, the darkness swallows you whole.

The corridor outside was dim, but this—this is suffocating. The blackness is thick, pressing in at the edges of your vision, and for a moment, you feel like you've stepped into something alive, something that might close its mouth around you and never let go. Then, slowly, the room begins to take shape. The first thing you see is the glow.

It is in the center of the room. Soft at first, then impossibly bright, an eerie silver light spilling from a single, shallow stone basin. A Pensieve. Its glow reaches out, licking at the towering shelves lining the circular walls, illuminating their contents in thin, wavering light. Books—tomes so thick and ancient they look more like relics than texts—stand in orderly rows, their spines cracked and weathered. But it is not the books that pull at you. It is the shelves of glass vials, dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, each one filled with swirling memories suspended in liquid silver. A breath catches in your throat.

“Are Pensieves supposed to glow like that?” your voice barely rises above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the unnatural light.

Gojo’s frown deepens. “No,” he says, his voice low, careful. “This wasn’t in the memory.” His eyes dart around the room, gaze flickering over the shelves, over the countless memories sealed away in glass. “This room was supposed to have records. Archives on dark wizards.”

You turn to him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“It’s been changed.” There’s something raw in his voice, something tight in the way he says it. “I was stupid to think it would be the same after all these years.”

“No, wait.” You reach for his arm before he can retreat into that dangerous space in his mind, the one where he shuts everything out. Your grip tightens as your eyes settle on the glass cases surrounding the Pensieve. Rows upon rows of memories, cataloged and stored. Vials lined neatly in place. The room is wrong, but the purpose remains the same. Information is here, waiting to be found. “Come with me.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move, only watches you, uncertain. Then he exhales, nods once, and follows.

The closer you get to the shelves, the more you notice the details. The labels on the vials, each one scrawled in a hand you don’t recognize. Some date back decades. Others, centuries. You skim the shelves, fingers ghosting over the glass, scanning names and dates, heart thrumming in your chest.

Then you see it.

“Look.” You reach upward, pointing to a vial perched near the top. It looks newer than the others. Unsettlingly recent.

Gojo steps closer, rising onto the balls of his feet to retrieve it. The glass is cool in his palm, the memory inside swirling restlessly as if aware it is being watched. His jaw tightens. “It’s from last week.”

You swallow. “What do you think?”

“We’re here anyway, aren’t we?” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Might as well.”

But you hesitate. Something in your chest constricts. “Wait,” you say, watching him carefully. “We don’t even know whose memory this is.”

His grip on the vial tightens slightly. “My mother’s the only one who spends this much time in the Archives. It has to be hers.”

“Or someone else’s.” Your voice is firmer now. Your mind is already moving ahead of you, calculating, predicting. If it isn’t his mother’s, it could be someone dangerous. Someone who might not want their memories seen. You reach forward and take the vial from his hand. “I’ll do it.”

He blinks. “What?” His expression shifts, his posture straightening, eyes narrowing. “Absolutely not.”

“Shut up,” you say, rolling the vial between your fingers. “You and I both know that if there’s something in here—something important—you won’t tell me everything.” You don’t phrase it like a question. You already know the answer. He will keep secrets. He always does. “So I’ll do it for us. Both of us.”

His mouth parts slightly, but he says nothing. You take it as permission.

Before he can stop you, you unstopper the vial and tip its contents into the Pensieve. The silver liquid spills and twists into its depths, and as the glow intensifies, you step forward.

His voice is tight. “Fawkes—”

“I know what I’m doing, Satoru,” you say, glancing back at him one last time before turning to face the swirling light. “I’ll tell you everything I find. I promise.”

The promise lingers between you, unspoken things coiling beneath it. You swallow, forcing down the weight of it, and then, you plunge your head into the water.

When you open your eyes, the darkness remains. It is thick, pressing in at the edges, refusing to recede even as you blink, as if light itself has no place here. The air is dense, heavy with something unseen, something remembered only in fragments. A presence lingers. You are not alone.

Ahead of you, a woman walks. Her figure is long, draped in a suit that is precise, expensive, tailored to fit the exact dimensions of her power. A long black coat flows behind her, weightless, unbothered by the movements of the air. She is tall—taller than you by an inch, maybe two. But it is not her height that makes her imposing. It is the way she moves. Each step is deliberate, unhurried. A woman who has never known the need to rush.

It is only when she turns slightly, just enough for the dim light to catch the strands of her hair, that you know for certain.

Gojo’s mother.

Her hair is darker than the void you’ve stepped into, so black it seems to swallow the faintest glow. It absorbs rather than reflects, as if made of something beyond human, beyond earthly. It is a kind of darkness that does not allow itself to be seen—it simply exists.

You follow her, though the memory resists you. The edges of it blur, flickering in and out like an old film reel. There is something fractured about it, something incomplete. As if even as she bottled this memory, she had not wanted to hold onto it fully.

You recognize the walls around you now, even through the haze. The archives. The same halls you had infiltrated not long ago, walking through them as if you belonged. But here, now, in the past, they are different. The same walls, the same sterile air, but the feeling is heavier. The moment is thick with something unsaid.

She steps out of the hallway and approaches a desk. The woman seated there—you recognize her from before, the one with the forgettable name. She glances up, hesitates, and then asks something. A question about research, perhaps, though the words slip from memory as soon as they are spoken.

Gojo’s mother does not answer. She does not pause. She does not acknowledge anything outside the path she has already decided for herself. A dismissal, barely a breath, and she moves forward.

The elevator doors slide open. She steps in. You follow, slipping inside just before they shut.

And then, for the first time, you are beside her.

She is standing still, facing forward, the way all people do in elevators. And yet, she does not look like anyone you have ever seen. She is impossible.

Her face is sharp, unreadable. Her eyes, when you dare to glance up at them, are endless. The same color as Gojo’s, but not the same at all. His eyes are full of something reckless, something alive, something dangerous. Hers are cold. Deep. The kind of ocean one does not swim in but drowns.

The elevator stops. She steps forward without hesitation, walking through you as if you are nothing, as if you do not exist.

And you run after her.

The space outside the elevator is unlike the rest of the Ministry. Here, the sterility fades. Color bleeds into the walls, accents of something warmer, something lived-in. A hallway lined with framed documents, quiet conversations murmuring behind closed doors. It is almost ordinary. Almost.

She does not stop to take any of it in.

People scatter as she passes, moving out of her way before she has to ask. Someone hands her a file. Another whispers something, a confirmation, a verification. She does not break stride. She flips the file open, scanning it with an expression so impassive that it may as well have been carved from stone. Her mouth tightens, only slightly, before she speaks.

“I want to meet this woman,” she says.

And then she is moving again, pushing open the door before her.

You expect a meeting room. A cold, lifeless space. Instead, you find something else entirely.

It is an office. Her office. And it is beautiful.

Mahogany shelves line the walls, filled with books that are worn from use rather than neglect. The desk is dark wood, heavy, ornate, carved by hands that understood the weight of the things that would rest upon it. Ivory accents run through the room, small and deliberate, a careful contrast against the dark. There are plants, impossibly green, their leaves stretching towards the light that filters in through the single high window. It is unexpected. It is not at all what you thought it would be.

And yet, none of it holds your attention for long.

Because she is not alone.

A woman sits across from her.

She is old. So old that the word itself feels insufficient. Her skin is pale, stretched too thin, the color of parchment left too long in the sun. She is brittle, you think, the kind of frail that suggests a single wrong movement might shatter her entirely. Her hair is silver, frayed, tangled into something that does not care for vanity. Her breath is uneven. She does not fidget, does not tremble, but she is not still in the way Gojo’s mother is. Her stillness is something different. Something waiting.

And then she looks at you.

No—through you. Past you. Or maybe into you.

It is a gaze that does not belong to someone of this world.

Her eyes are hollow and endless, the remnants of something that once saw more than human eyes were meant to. There is a flicker, a recognition that does not make sense, a knowing that does not belong to this moment. You feel it. A thing surfacing. A memory, lost and found all at once.

And then, without looking away, Gojo's mother speaks.

“Tell me what you know.”

Her voice is cracked, but steady. A whisper woven from something ancient. Something fragile. She steps forward. Her hands drop the file onto the desk. A sharp sound against the polished wood.

“Tell it to me,” she says. Her voice is quiet, but absolute. “In as much detail as you possibly can.”

A pause. A breath. And then, “Seer.”

You gasp, the sound sharp, swallowed instantly by the thick, stifling air of the room. It is too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses in, that weighs on your skin like wet wool. A silence that is not truly empty, but filled with something waiting. Watching. It coils around your throat, settles in the hollow of your chest, latches onto your ribs and refuses to let go. Seers are rare—so rare that they might as well not exist. True Seers, that is. And if this woman is one, if she is truly about to speak, then whatever spills from her lips will be more than knowledge. Her words will be law. Unstoppable. Absolute.

You step forward.

The memory shifts around you, edges curling in like parchment held too close to an open flame. The air warps, thickens, unsteady, like it might come apart at the seams. It feels like standing inside a living thing, a great beast breathing slow and shallow, waiting for the moment it will decide to wake. The light overhead flickers. The oil lamps on the walls dim, their glow eaten away by the shadows pooling in the corners of the office.

It is dark. But you see her, still.

Gojo's mother stands at the desk, straight-backed, utterly still, only the slight rise and fall of her chest betraying life beneath her skin. Her suit is pressed and sharp, her long black coat hanging open at her sides. She looks every bit the authority she holds, power stitched into the very way she breathes, the way people in the hallway had scattered before her like birds startled from a wire.

She is not afraid.

But the way she looks at the old woman across from her, the way her fingers press against the file on the desk, just barely—not enough to be called hesitation, but enough for you to see it—makes something twist inside you.

The Seer draws in a slow breath, her lips parting slightly. You can feel the shift in the air. It is almost unbearable, the tension, the sheer weight of the moment stretching so tight you fear it might snap.

But she does not speak.

“I mustn’t, Mirai,” she rasps at last, and her voice is like brittle paper, like old wood splitting beneath too much pressure. “I can’t.”

Your pulse stutters. Not because of her words, but because of the way Gojo’s mother reacts to her own name.

She straightens—not much, just a fraction—but enough that you notice the sharp inhale through her nose, the way the line of her jaw sets just a little tighter. She is unreadable. Utterly, terrifyingly still. But the weight of her presence alone is enough to strangle the last of the air from the room.

“Tell it to me,” she says. Her voice is even. Cold, but steady. “Or I will make sure there is no proof you ever existed.”

Something passes over the old woman’s face. Not quite fear. Something quieter. More tired. Her fingers tremble against the fabric of her dress, curling weakly before falling still.

For a moment, she does nothing. Then, slowly, she exhales.

“There is a prophecy.”

A chill sweeps down your spine.

The words are spoken so plainly, so simply, that it takes a moment for them to sink into your skin. But the second they do, the room feels smaller, as if the walls are pressing in, as if the air has grown thicker, harder to pull into your lungs.

The woman at the desk does not react. She does not move. But you do.

Your hands brace against the desk, knuckles white. You cannot look away, cannot breathe properly. Your heart is hammering in your chest, but you do not dare make a sound.

“Tell it to me,” she repeats.

There is a change in her voice. Subtle. But it is there. A shift so slight that no one else might have noticed, but you do. A thread of something not quite unshaken. A barely-there slip in the steel of her words.

The Seer’s gaze drops to her lap. She is quiet for so long you begin to wonder if she has lost herself again, if she has retreated into the fog of whatever place her mind resides in.

But then, she speaks.

“It will begin again,” she murmurs. “The war that was buried, the name that was feared. A name forgotten only by those foolish enough to believe it could be silenced forever.”

A slow exhale. The shift of fabric as the woman standing at the desk—Mirai—settles, barely, almost imperceptibly.

“The Dark Lord waits,” the Seer continues, her voice no longer quite hers. It slips into something older, something distant. “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. He does not yet know what he carries, what it will demand of him, what it will make him become. But he will.”

Something in Mirai changes. Not in a way you can see—not yet—but you feel it. A quiet stillness, a shift in the air around her. The way her fingers press slightly against the desk, her nails barely digging into the wood.

Then, at last, she speaks. “What do you mean by ‘your son’? Is it my son?”

The Seer does not stop.

“Your son will know of it soon,” she says. “He will stand at the precipice, and he will try. He will try to save what has already begun to unravel. He will try to turn him back before he is too far gone. But the choice is not his to make.”

The room cracks. Not physically. But it feels like something has. The tension splinters, breaking wide open, and suddenly Mirai is moving before you can register it.

The chair scrapes against the floor. Her hands slam onto the desk.

She leans in. And her face, once so impassive, so eerily calm, is burning. Her nostrils flare, her shoulders squared, her glare searing into the old woman as if she could force the prophecy back into silence, as if she could take the words and bury them before they have a chance to root themselves into reality.

But the Seer does not flinch. She does not react at all. She simply breathes out, slow and steady, as if she has already seen this before.

“This war can be stalled,” she says, “but not undone. In a decade, it will come. The halls will burn. The towers will fall. And the old name, the one not spoken, will rise again, wearing the faces of the dead.”

The memory shudders. A slow, unnatural ripple, like the air itself is gasping, like the walls have begun to exhale. Then, without warning, it splits apart.

The wooden panels of the office tremble, thin fractures crawling up their surface, splitting like ice under pressure. The lamps flicker once, twice—then die, swallowed by the growing dark. The ground beneath you is no longer solid; it pulses, shifts, wavers between existence and something else entirely. A slow, sickening pull coils around your ribs, as if the world itself is unspooling thread by thread.

“No,” you whisper. It barely carries over the thick, suffocating silence.

Then the desk collapses inward, disappearing into nothingness. The chair follows. The Seer does not scream when she vanishes. She simply ceases to be. It rattles you.

Your breath catches. A sharp, painful inhale that never reaches your lungs.

“No,” you say again, louder this time, desperate now, scrambling forward even as the floor beneath you begins to break apart like shattered glass, splintering at your feet. The void swallows everything in its path—books, shelves, papers floating momentarily in the air before they, too, are claimed by the abyss yawning below.

You try to move, but your legs don’t feel real. Your fingers reach out, desperate, aching, grasping at nothing but air. The world is slipping through your hands.

“No, no, no, no,” you choke, reaching for the old woman, for the place where she once was. The void has taken half the room now. The walls are no longer walls. They are ribbons of white, unraveling, curling, dissolving into the nothingness that waits just beyond. The prophecy still rings in your ears. Your son will know of it soon.

“I need to know more,” you gasp. Your voice is raw, frantic, the words tumbling out as you reach for something, anything—something solid, real. “Wait, please—I need to know more!”

The darkness does not listen. It is faster now, tearing through the floor beneath you, and then you are falling.

A weightless, terrible sensation. Your stomach lurching, your arms flailing. The air is rushing past your ears, deafening, roaring, a howling void that swallows every sound but your own strangled scream. Your body twists, your vision blurs—everything is wrong, everything is slipping away.

And then, there are hands on you. Warm. Solid. Your eyes snap open.

You gasp, sucking in air so fast it burns. Your chest heaves, but your lungs—your lungs won’t work, they won’t expand, won’t take in enough, and the pressure is unbearable, crushing, as if something has its hands wrapped around your ribs and is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. The world is still spinning. Still dark.

"Fawkes." A voice.

You can’t focus. Can’t breathe.

"Fawkes, I’m so sorry, but we’ve got to go," Gojo says, his voice urgent, panting lightly as he shakes you. "Breathe, please. Breathe."

But you can’t.

Your hands clutch at him, fingers twisting into the fabric of his robes, grounding yourself in the only thing still here, still real. You can still hear it—faint and slipping away—the prophecy, the Seer’s voice, the war that is coming.

Gojo’s grip tightens.

"Come on," he urges, voice softer now, but no less desperate. "Breathe."

You cup his face, your fingers trembling against the sharp lines of his jaw, your breath still uneven, still shuddering, still not enough. His skin is warm beneath your palms, solid, real, but it is not enough to ground you, not enough to stop the panic climbing up your throat. The memory, the prophecy, everything still clings to you, curling its fingers into the edges of your mind, refusing to let go.

“Satoru,” Your voice cracks. You shake your head, gasping, swallowing down the terror threatening to consume you whole. “I can’t. You can’t. You're not safe, something’s coming, and—”

His hands tighten around your arms, anchoring you to him. His eyes—brilliant, searing, endless—watch you carefully, tracing every flicker of fear in your expression, but he says nothing. Just nods. Once. Twice. Vigorously.

And then, footsteps.

The sound is distant at first, muffled by thick wooden walls, but it is growing louder, closer, steady, purposeful. Someone is coming.

Your breath stutters.

Gojo’s gaze flickers to the deep blue doors. You can hear it in his silence, the way his body tenses—he’s calculating, thinking, planning. Your fingers tighten in his robes, knuckles white.

“Fuck’s sake,” you choke out, voice barely above a whisper. “This cannot be happening.”

Your heart is hammering, your pulse a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs. You can feel his heartbeat too, steady but quick beneath your touch. He isn’t afraid. He never is. But you?

“Satoru,” you gasp, your words tumbling out too fast, too panicked. “What do we—”

But he moves before you can finish. His arms lock around you in an instant, and then—

A hook behind your navel. A violent yank. Again. You feel like screaming.

The world is gone. Or maybe you are.

Everything crushes inward, impossibly tight, impossibly fast, the pressure suffocating, wringing the breath from your lungs as the air folds in on itself. Your body is not your own; you are nothing but motion, spiraling through a space that does not exist, stretched too thin and compressed all at once. There is no sound, no breath, no thought—only the unbearable weight of being nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Your stomach twists violently. Again.

Impact.

The world slams back into place so suddenly that your body does not know how to catch up. You are moving before you realize it, stumbling backward, legs giving out beneath you. The nausea rises in a sickening wave, bile burning at the back of your throat.

There's softness, then. A bed.

You don’t know when you collapse onto it, but you are there now, hands clenching at the sheets, lungs heaving as you force down the overwhelming dizziness still clawing at you. The room is spinning. Or maybe you are.

Gojo is already moving. Already there. His hands press against your shoulders, firm, grounding.

“Wait here,” he says, breathless but certain. “I’ll get you water. And perhaps a bucket.”

You barely process his words, still too caught between then and now, between what was and what is.

He exhales sharply, shakes you—gently, but enough to make you look at him. His face is too close, his eyes too sharp, too searching. His hands are steady on you, unyielding.

“You’re safe,” he says, quieter this time. A declaration. A promise. His grip tightens, just for a second. “Yes? You’re safe. Breathe.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You aren’t sure it would be true.

“I’m getting you water,” he says again, as if repeating it will make it real. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Dobby? Get me a glass of water, please?” Gojo’s voice cuts through the stillness, loud. A sharp contrast to the way your own breath comes in uneven and shallow gasps. He is already standing, glancing toward the door, his presence too solid for the space you are in. Your fingers tighten in the sheets beneath you, still trembling, still trying to catch up with everything that has just happened.

Your heart is racing. You force yourself to look around, to make sense of where you are.

The room is unfamiliar, but it doesn't feel that way.

Soft blue walls surround you, the kind of blue that belongs to open skies and endless horizons, the kind that should make you feel free but only makes you feel impossibly small. The air is still, warm, carrying the faint scent of something clean, something comforting—linen and citrus and something you can’t quite name.

And then you see it.

A tall, polished cabinet against the far wall, its glass doors gleaming in the dim light. Inside, gold glints in neat rows—Quidditch trophies, awards, accolades, too many to count. And next to them, stacked high on the shelves, books—worn, dog-eared, well-loved. Not just schoolbooks, but novels, too. Fiction. Poetry. Some you recognize, some you don’t.

Then, the photographs.

Frames are scattered across the walls, the shelves, the nightstand beside the bed. A younger Gojo grins back at you from behind the glass, his arm slung around Geto’s shoulders. Another frame holds the two of them again, but this time, Shoko is there too, laughing, mid-motion, her head thrown back.

Your breath catches, then. You see it. The entire group.

It’s another photo from Hogsmeade, from years ago. The first time you had all gone together, when things were simple, when things were whole. You remember that day. You remember the warmth of it, the laughter, the way the snow had clung to your robes, the way Gojo had stolen your butterbeer and refused to give it back until you hexed him into a snowbank.

It is the kind of memory that should feel distant, blurred at the edges with time. But standing here, looking at it, it feels closer than ever.

Too close. Your throat tightens.

And then Gojo is there again, crouching in front of you, his hands firm on your shoulders, steadying you, grounding you. His touch is careful, not hesitant, just sure. Like he has done this before. Like he has steadied you before.

“You’re safe,” he says, voice quieter now, more certain. “You’re at my house. We’re still in London.”

London.

You swallow hard, nodding quickly, too quickly. You force yourself to meet his gaze, and for a moment, you think you see something there—concern, maybe, but it's unspoken. Before you can place it, the door creaks open.

A small figure scurries in, and your breath hitches.

The House Elf is tiny, barely reaching Gojo’s waist, his ears too large for his head, his eyes impossibly big, impossibly round. He's kind of adorable as he carries a tray with careful hands, the glass of water balanced perfectly on top.

“Dobby did not know Master Satoru was to come home today,” the Elf says, his voice quick and light. “Or Dobby would have prepared Master Satoru’s favorite snacks—oh.” His gaze flickers to you. “Master Satoru has brought a guest.”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his hair before reaching for the glass. He picks it up with easy familiarity, then turns back to you, pressing it into your hands.

“Here,” he says. “Drink this.”

You don’t realize how parched you are until the cool glass touches your skin. You wrap your fingers around it, still unsteady, still unsure, but you drink.

Gojo turns back to Dobby.

“Dobby, this is [Y/N].” He glances at you once before looking back at the Elf. “She’s my friend.”

Dobby hesitates at the threshold, his large, round eyes darting between you and Gojo, his spindly fingers curling at his sides. His ears twitch, flattening slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he is allowed to step closer.

You manage a small, unsteady smile. “H-Hello.”

The Elf blinks. Then, with a quick, precise nod, he bows his head. “Hello,” he says softly. His voice is high-pitched, almost musical, but there is something careful in the way he speaks. “Are you alright? Would you like something to eat?”

You shake your head, glancing at Gojo beside you. The dizziness is fading now, but the weight of what just happened still sits thick in your chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. The room no longer spins, but your limbs feel unsteady, your stomach churning from the disapparation.

“My stomach feels like it’s being turned inside out,” you murmur, pressing a hand to your ribs. “I hate disapparation.”

“I got used to it after a while.” Gojo tries to smile, but it’s a pale, uncertain thing, barely there before it vanishes. Then, turning to Dobby, his expression sharpens. “Dobby, where are my parents?”

The Elf shifts on his feet, ears twitching again. “Master went to the Ministry of Magic,” he says quickly. “There was an alarm. People who looked exactly like Master Satoru’s parents were spotted at the Ministry. Both of them left in a hurry. They looked very worried. Very nervous.” He hesitates, his voice growing small. “It made Dobby scared.”

A chill creeps down your spine.

“So they know,” you whisper. “They know.”

You don’t even realize you’ve said it out loud until Gojo exhales, low and sharp.

“We’re so fucked,” you finish.

Dobby’s ears perk up at that, and his large eyes widen as he looks between you both. “Was it the two of you?”

Gojo stiffens. “Dobby—”

“If Master Gojo asks, I can’t refuse—”

“You mustn’t tell him,” Gojo interrupts, turning to face the Elf fully now. His voice is quiet, urgent. “You can’t.”

Dobby wrings his hands, shifting nervously. “But Master Gojo is my master.”

“And so am I,” Satoru presses. His voice is a whisper now, low, pleading. “Please. You can’t.”

You reach for him without thinking, your fingers brushing over his shoulder. He’s tense, his muscles drawn tight beneath your palm. You turn back to the Elf, your voice softer but just as steady.

“Dobby,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze. “Think of it as hiding the truth. You’re not lying. You’re just helping us.”

Dobby fidgets, his long fingers twisting together, his small frame visibly trembling with the weight of the decision. The silence stretches, thick and uncertain.

Then, a nod. It’s small, hesitant, but it’s a nod.

The tension in your chest eases just slightly, and you exhale, long and slow.

“See?” you manage, offering the Elf a weary smile. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Dobby nods, his enormous eyes flitting between you and Gojo, his long fingers wringing together. “Dobby should make Master Satoru something to eat. Master Satoru mustn’t leave home without food.”

“Dobby, it’s really alright—”

“Dobby won’t take no for an answer, Master Satoru,” the elf insists, shaking his head with a quiet sort of finality. Then, turning to you, his expression softens into something almost warm. “I will pack something for Miss [Y/N] as well. She must eat later, or she will still feel sick.”

You don’t argue. There’s no use. You know better than to fight against the unwavering resolve of a house-elf. Instead, you offer him a small, tired smile, watching as he scurries toward the door, his little feet making no noise against the floor.

The moment he’s gone, Gojo moves. Swift and deliberate, he steps to the door, pressing it shut until it clicks into place. He lingers there for a moment, his hand still resting on the wood, his shoulders drawn tight. When he turns back to you, there’s something unreadable in his face.

“We have some time,” he says, glancing toward the clock mounted on the far wall. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge beneath it, a tension coiled so tightly it might snap at any second. “Tell me what you saw.”

Your fingers twist at the hem of your coat, fumbling over the fabric, the nerves settling deep in your stomach. “It’s a lot. I can’t—”

“Take your time,” he says, stepping toward you, his voice lowering. He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee barely brushing against yours. “But you’re telling me all of it. You promised. It’s why I let you do it, anyway.”

You sigh, shaky and uneven. The memory is still raw in your mind, lingering like the afterimage of something you weren’t meant to see. The weight of it presses down on you, but Gojo is close, so close, and when you lift your eyes, he’s already watching you. His face is inches from yours, his gaze piercing, expectant.

You nod. You accept it.

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, caught in the stillness. You focus on the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the feel of solid ground beneath your feet, as if grounding yourself will somehow make this easier. And then, finally, you speak.

“The memory wasn’t stable,” you begin, voice quieter than you mean for it to be. “I could tell from the very start. It was your mother’s memory.”

Gojo’s brow furrows slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it wasn’t stable,” you repeat. “Something was off. There was fog around the edges of it, like… like the memory itself was resisting me. Like she wasn’t ready for it. Like she didn’t want it to be real.”

He hums, thoughtful, before nodding for you to continue.

You swallow. “I followed her to her office. There was an old woman there with her. Really, really old. As old as Dumbledore, maybe even older. And she was a Seer.”

Gojo’s interest sharpens instantly. His head tilts, his ears practically perking up. “That’s surprising. Seers are rare. Real ones, anyway. Go on.”

“There was a prophecy.” The words feel heavy on your tongue, like saying them out loud makes them more real, more dangerous. Your hands curl into fists, pressing into your lap. “About everything that’s supposed to happen. I-I don’t know if I can—”

“You have to,” Gojo interrupts, his voice firm, cutting through your hesitation like a blade.

For a second, your spine stiffens, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. But then, slowly, he reaches out, pressing a warm hand over yours. The tension eases, just a little.

“You have to tell me,” he says again, quieter now, his grip steady, grounding. “We have to stop it.”

You exhale. Then, slowly, you begin.

“It will begin again. The war that was buried. The name that was feared.” Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “A name forgotten only by those foolish enough to believe it could be silenced forever.”

Gojo pulls away. He stands abruptly, his hand slipping from yours, his back going rigid.

“Sukuna. You were right. It's true,” he breathes.

You nod, your throat tightening. “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.”

The air in the room shifts, thickens. Gojo doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. His entire body has gone eerily still, and for a moment, it’s as if he’s frozen in time.

Your pulse pounds as you force yourself to say it.

“He does not yet know what he carries, what it will demand of him, what it will make him become.” You swallow. “But he will.”

Gojo turns then, sharply, his gaze locking onto yours. There’s something wild in his expression—something bordering on horror.

“Suguru,” he murmurs.

Your breath shudders. You nod. “There’s more.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt. You take another breath, steadying yourself before you continue.

“Your son will know of it soon. He will stand at the precipice, and he will try. He will try to save what has already begun to unravel. He will try to turn him back before he is too far gone.” Your voice drops lower. “But the choice is not his to make.”

The words linger. You know they do.

“This war can be stalled,” you continue, softer now, “but not undone. In a decade, it will come. The halls will burn. The towers will fall. And the old name, the one not spoken, will rise again, wearing the faces of the dead.”

Silence.

Gojo blinks at you, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhales. A quiet, breathless sound.

“Holy fuck.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Now you know.”

Gojo drags a hand down his face, rubbing at the space where stubble would be if he ever let it grow. “There’s going to be a war.” The weight of it settles into his voice. “And I’m going to be at the center of it.”

“Looks like it,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, laughing softly—except it’s not real laughter, not really. Just disbelief, hollow and dry. He looks at you again, eyes sharp, assessing. “But we can stop Suguru.”

You nod, gripping onto that one certainty, that one sliver of hope. “Somehow. It’s possible. That’s all we need to know, right?”

Gojo stares at you for a long moment, then exhales, nodding once.

“That’s all we need to know.”

235 notes · View notes

masorciereviolette · 20 days ago

Note

hello, can i request an angst & comfort agatha x gf reader who is considerably young — they have been dating for over six months and the day to meet the reader’s parents arrives. however, at a certain point in the night, the mother says something totally mean to her daughter and agatha doesn't like it (although she isn't being treated well either). she also begins to notice how the reader's parents treat her very badly compared to her brothers — agatha gets "angry" at the reader for not telling her that she was treated with such disdain by her parents. they fight, but apologize after a few days.

I couldn't think of anything about what to do with the parents, if you have any ideas, I'd appreciate it.

thank you so much, stay well 🫶

You Should Have Told Me

Pairing: AU Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings: Miscommunication, Hurt, Toxic Family, Soft Angst, Comfort, Reassurance, Happy Ending.

Word count: 6k

A/N: Thank you for this request, truly it was amazing to write.

Link to Masterlist

You know it’s been coming.

Eight months is a long time to avoid the inevitable—especially with the way your mother’s texts have gone from “we miss you!” to thinly veiled guilt-trips, laced with passive-aggressive barbs about how “family used to mean something.” Your father isn’t much better—three calls this week, all under the guise of checking in, though each ends with the same loaded question “So… when are you bringing her home?”

You’d dodged it with tight smiles and vague promises for months, using work, distance, and “timing” as excuses. But even your youngest brother texted you last night, asking if your new girlfriend was actually real or just an elaborate lie to keep your family at arm’s length.

So, you cave. Not because you’re ready. Not because it feels right. But because you’re tired of the weight sitting on your chest every time your phone lights up with their names.

You find Agatha in the kitchen, barefoot, reading something on her tablet while sipping from the mug you bought her last Christmas. You hesitate in the doorway, watching her for a second—tucked into the soft, slow rhythm of your shared morning. She looks peaceful.

You don’t want to ruin that. But you shift your weight, and the sound draws her attention. She glances up, taking in your expression, and immediately puts her mug down. “What is it?” she asks gently, the way she always does when you look like you’re carrying something too heavy.

You fidget with the strap of your bag, fingers curling around the frayed edge like it might anchor you. “So… my parents want to do a dinner,” you say, not quite meeting her eyes. “They’ve been asking. A lot.”

She tilts her head. “You don’t have to go if you’re not ready.”

“I know,” you reply quickly, then hesitate. “But I think it’s time. I just… I don’t want it to be a thing.”

Her gaze softens. She doesn’t push. She never does. Just steps forward and kisses your temple, lingering there like she knows you need more than words. “If that’s what you want,” she murmurs against your skin.

You nod and lie through your teeth. The drive into Westview is quiet. Not awkward, not tense—just the kind of quiet that settles when you both sense there’s something heavy in the air, but neither wants to touch it yet.

You queue up your softest playlist and lean your head against the window, watching the trees blur past as Agatha drives. Her hand finds your thigh for a few moments at a time, then returns to the wheel. She doesn’t speak much, giving you space in the way she always does when she knows you’re bracing for something.

You pretend the knots in your stomach are excitement. That the nervous flutter in your chest is anticipation and not dread. You pretend a lot on the way there.

She wears all black, of course—always sleek, always elegant—but she softened the look today with a deep navy blazer, one you told her months ago made her eyes look like the sky right before a storm. A simple gold chain to complement it all. You catch a glimpse of her in the reflection of the window and quietly say, “You look beautiful.”

She glances over at you, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You think so?”

“I know so.” Agatha reaches across the console, her fingers lacing with yours. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles once, twice.

“You’re sure about this?” she asks softly.

You hold her gaze for a second too long before turning back to the road ahead.

“Yeah,” you lie again. She doesn’t see the way your hand tightens just slightly in hers.

She has no idea what’s waiting for her on the other side of town. No idea how much you’ve buried. How much you’ve endured. How deep the scars go when it comes to the people who raised you. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be looked at like a disappointment, even as you bend yourself into something you barely recognize just to keep the peace.

Not yet.

But she will.

And when she does—it’ll break something open in both of you. The houses on your childhood street haven’t changed. Still painfully identical, still manicured to the point of suffocation. You can already feel the weight of it pressing into your chest the moment Agatha pulls into the driveway, her car far too sleek, too dark, too her for a neighborhood like this.

You see the curtains twitch before you’re even out of the car. “They’re watching,” you murmur.

Agatha glances at the window, then at you. “Let them.”

You almost smile. Almost. She helps you out of the car anyway, her hand warm and steady against your lower back. It should be comforting. It is, for a second—until the front door swings open and your mother appears with that perfectly pinched smile you’ve known since you were old enough to understand fake. “You’re late,” she says before anything else.

“Nice to see you too, Mom,” you reply with a practiced edge in your voice. Your father lingers in the doorway behind her, nodding stiffly. “We started dinner prep without you.”

Your mother’s gaze flicks to Agatha. The smile tightens further. “You must be Agatha.”

Agatha steps forward, extending a hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Y/L/N .”

She accepts it with that awkward air of someone unsure whether to shake or sanitize after. “Well. You’re older than I expected,” she says with a light laugh. You freeze.

Agatha doesn’t hesitate “Only by twenty-one years,” she says smoothly. “It’s a pleasure.” Your mother blinks, clearly not expecting her to be direct. You wish the floor would swallow you whole. Inside, it’s worse. The scent of roasted vegetables and over-seasoned meat hangs thick in the air. Your brothers are already sitting in the living room, half-watching a game and pretending not to notice the tension bleeding into the room with your entrance.

“Whoa,” your younger brother says, looking Agatha up and down. “Didn’t think you were serious when you said she was… y’know. Older.”

“Please,” your other brother snorts, “I thought you were just trying to make Mom mad.” You keep your mouth shut and smile tightly. Agatha’s hand finds yours as you sit down at the table. The dinner starts off… fine.

Your parents are polite in that overly rehearsed way, their voices dipped in artificial sweetness. Your brothers continue with their usual jokes, but tonight the jabs are sharper, more pointed. Agatha doesn’t say much at first. Her hand stays on your thigh beneath the table, grounding you each time your father talks over you or your mother redirects the conversation anytime you speak.

Her smile is warm but reserved—the kind she wears when she’s observing, reading the room like a script only she can see. You know that look. She’s not impressed. The conversation circles around jobs, promotions, your brothers’ lives. Your achievements are brushed aside like passing clouds.

Then your mother turns her attention to you mid-way through passing the bread, voice casual and careless “Well, some of us gave up our silly little dreams and actually did something practical. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Your fork slips and clinks against the plate.

Your brothers laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all week. Your father doesn’t even blink. Agatha does. Her hand stiffens on your leg. She turns to your mother slowly, brows raised. “Interesting definition of support.”

The silence is instant and searing. You push your chair back slightly. “I’m just gonna… get some water.” Agatha watches you leave, eyes unreadable. You return a few minutes later, cheeks flushed from trying not to cry in the bathroom. Agatha is sitting very still, her wine untouched, her jaw tight.

Your mother is smiling like she just won a game no one else was playing. You sit. Say nothing. But you can feel it. Something has shifted. Your father continues speaking—about how your brother got a bonus for a job he half-assed. He cuts you off twice mid-sentence. Your younger brother leans back and makes a joke about how you always “overreact.”

Agatha clocks it all. And you can feel her restraint fraying with every second. Then it happens. Your brother looks between you and Agatha and laughs, “Still can’t believe someone like you pulled her. Thought she’d go for someone more… accomplished.”

The words are meant to be playful. They land like a gut punch. Agatha’s smile vanishes. She sets her wine glass down with precision and turns to your brother, her tone smooth but dangerously calm. “It’s fascinating how easily you all dismiss the most extraordinary person at this table.”

Silence. Not a stunned one. Not apologetic. Just awkward. Your mother exhales a short laugh. “Well, I suppose love makes people overlook certain things, doesn’t it?”

And that’s it. Agatha turns to you. Her expression softens, just for you, only for you. But her voice is firm. “We’re leaving.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. You grab your bag with shaking hands and follow her to the door. Your family doesn’t stop you. But the moment the door shuts behind you, she stops walking. “You didn’t tell me.”

Her voice is low, not cruel—but sharp. A truth you weren’t ready to face. You blink at her. “What?”

Her eyes flash—not with anger, but hurt. “You didn’t tell me they talk to you like that. That they treat you like you’re some kind of burden. That you’ve been letting them tear you apart like that for years.”

“I didn’t know it would be like that—”

“Yes,” she interrupts, voice trembling now. “You did.” You flinch like she’s slapped you.

Agatha looks away, breath hitching. “I would’ve protected you. I would’ve gladly walked through fire for you—but instead, you just let me walk into that house blind.”

You can’t take it anymore. Your throat is tight. Your chest aches “Maybe I just didn’t want you to see how pathetic they make me feel.” Her expression cracks. Just slightly.

You shake your head, overwhelmed. “You should go. Just go back without me. I’ll find my own way back home tonight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“I said go!” You snapped. She stares at you.

And then, for the first time in your relationship, Agatha turns and walks away. You hear the car door close. The engine starts. Then it fades down the street until it’s gone. You stand there on the curb, blinking hard against the cold bite of the air.

Your hands are shaking. Your heart won’t settle.It’s too quiet now. The kind of quiet that presses in from all sides—familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist. You’ve stood here before, haven’t you? Right in this very spot. After fights. After disappointment. After every time your parents reminded you, in a thousand subtle ways, that you’d never quite be enough. But this time, it’s different. This time… she actually walked away and that breaks something in you.

The breath you were holding crumbles out of your lungs like it’s been ripped free, and your knees buckle before you can stop them. You sink down right there on the sidewalk, hands clutching your jacket, your head bowed and you cry.

Hard.

Messy.

Not the quiet, controlled kind you’ve mastered over the years, but the real kind. The kind that comes from somewhere deep, buried, forgotten. The kind that doesn’t care who sees or hears or judges. You bury your face in your hands and sob until your chest aches, until the world feels too loud, until everything you’ve spent years holding together finally slips through your fingers.

They always do this to you. And now Agatha’s gone too. You don’t know how long you sit there, shaking and broken in front of the house that never felt like home. But by the time the porch light flicks off behind you, your tears have soaked into your sleeves, and your heart feels like it might never stop hurting.

Maybe twenty minutes have passed. Maybe more. You aren’t sure. Time has been bending in strange ways since the moment she drove off. You’re still sitting on the curb, arms wrapped tight around yourself, phone gripped uselessly in one hand. You haven’t called anyone. Won’t. Can’t. Pride anchors you where you are, even as your entire body trembles from the cold and the weight in your chest.

You try to breathe, but it’s like your ribs are caving in, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. You wipe your cheeks, but the tears keep falling anyway. Silently now. Tired. Defeated. Your parents’ porch light flicked off a while ago. They didn’t come out to check on you. Not even once.

You pull your knees up and rest your forehead against them, trying to steady yourself, trying to pretend you’re not breaking apart in the middle of the sidewalk like you’re seventeen again and just got told, yet again, that your feelings were “too much.”

The truth is, Agatha didn’t get far. She barely made it halfway out of the neighborhood—two turns down, past the faded welcome sign and the house with the sagging porch swing—before her hands started shaking too hard to keep them on the wheel.

Her foot hovered over the brake for longer than she’d admit. The fury was still there, burning just beneath her skin—at your parents, at your brothers, at you, even, for not warning her, for letting her walk into that house blind. She was angry. Hurt. She hadn’t expected to feel so unwanted. Not just by them—but by you, in some impossible, hidden way. Like you’d chosen to protect them from her instead of protecting her from them.

But then she pictured you standing there alone. Right in front of that house. Shoulders drawn up. Trying to hold yourself together while everything around you pulled you apart. And just like that—the anger cracked. Not disappeared. Not forgiven. Not forgotten. But cracked. Because whatever mess this was, whatever heartbreak you’d both just stepped into together, she could not leave you in it alone.

So she turned the car around. Whipped it around so fast the tires skidded against the pavement. She cursed under her breath the whole way back, dragging her fingers through her curls, heart pounding against her ribs. “Fucking stupid,” she muttered. “So stupid to leave her there.”

But even as she said it, her foot pressed harder on the gas. By the time she saw you again—curled on the curb like some forgotten version of yourself—something in her chest caved in completely.

The soft crunch of tires rolling back into the driveway makes your stomach twist. You lift your head. It’s her. Agatha’s car screeches slightly as she parks at an angle across the driveway, engine still humming when the driver’s side door flies open. She storms toward you, curls wind-tossed and wild, her blouse wrinkled from where she clearly yanked her seatbelt off too fast.

You rise partway—confused, hopeful, afraid all at once—but you don’t say a word. You don’t get the chance. She reaches you in seconds and grabs your arm—not rough, never rough—just firm enough to get your feet under you. “You’re coming with me—” she mutters, voice low, laced with emotion she doesn’t let show too much of yet.

Your lips part, your mind scrambling to push out some kind of protest, something defensive, something anything—but it doesn’t come. You want to argue. You do. Because maybe it would be easier than letting yourself lean into her. Easier than admitting how much it wrecked you to watch her leave.

But the truth? You’re exhausted. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones and dulls everything else. The kind of tired that makes you feel like a child again. Small. Raw. And you missed her the second the taillights disappeared down the street. So you nod. You let her lead you by the hand, back to the car, back to safety, back to her.

The ride is silent. Not the soft, comfortable kind you’re used to sharing with her—but a tight, brittle silence. A quiet so sharp it feels like it might crack if either of you breathes too deeply. You stare out your window, blinking hard. Trying to swallow the guilt. Trying to un-hear everything your mother said. Trying to forget the look on Agatha’s face when she realized what you’d kept from her.

Her hands are on the steering wheel, white-knuckled. Her jaw clenched tight. You want to reach out. But your fingers twitch uselessly in your lap instead. Words gather in the back of your throat, desperate to escape—but they stay there. Heavy. Unsafe. Unspoken. She doesn’t look at you and you can’t look at her. Not yet. Because you’re both afraid that if one of you opens your mouth, all of it will come pouring out. And you’re not ready to fall apart again.

Not yet.

Two days have passed. A long. Slow. Ache-filled. Two days. You sleep in separate rooms. She takes the guest room, the one you never bothered decorating because you never thought it would matter. Now it does.

You still hear her moving around in the mornings—her usual routine unchanged, down to the exact rhythm of cupboard doors opening and the soft whistle of the kettle. But when you shuffle into the kitchen, eyes tired, arms crossed over your chest, there’s only one mug on the counter. Hers. You start leaving her notes. Little things. Barely a sentence.

“Left your book on the nightstand.”

“Dinner’s in the fridge.”

“Hope work went okay.”

She doesn’t respond. She reads them. You know she does. They disappear from where you leave them, folded into corners of quiet hope. But no words come back. It’s not anger. Not anymore. It’s something colder. Something more unbearable. A kind of quiet grief that settles between you like fog. She walks through the apartment like a ghost now, present but unreachable, and it leaves you hollow.

You catch her staring at you once—from the hallway, as you’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, pretending to focus. The moment your eyes meet, she looks away, fast. As if she wasn’t looking at all. You cry once, in the shower, forehead against the tile, letting the hot water scald the pain out of your body. You don’t think she hears. You hope she doesn’t.

On the third day, late into the evening, you find her sitting on the couch. Lights low. The TV off. No book in her lap, no phone in hand. Just… sitting. Staring at nothing. You pause in the doorway, watching the way her fingers twitch against her thigh, the way her eyes are fixed on something that isn’t there.

You walk over without saying a word. Taking a seat beside her, leaving a respectful inch of space between you, though every bone in your body aches to close it. She doesn’t turn. Neither of you speak for a while. The silence is different now. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just tired. Shared. Her voice comes out rough when she finally breaks it.

“I wasn’t angry at you.” Your heart clenches. You keep your gaze on your knees.

“I was angry that you’ve been treated like that your whole life and thought it was normal. That you let them do it. That you thought you had to hide it from me.”

You nod faintly, throat tightening. “I’ve hurt people before. Gods know I’ve done things I’ll never be proud of. But if I’d known they were hurting you…” she muttered softly “I would’ve scorched the damn earth.”

You laugh softly—broken and wet and not really a laugh at all. Your eyes burn. “I didn’t want you to see me like that,” you whisper. “Weak. Small. Fucking pathetic….”

She turns to face you, slow and deliberate. Her hand comes up, fingers so gentle as they guide your chin upward until you’re looking at her. There’s so much in her eyes. Anger, yes. But not at you. Never at you. Only pain. And love. So much of it that it nearly unravels you. “You’re not weak,” she says, like it’s gospel. “And you’re never small. Not to me.”

You close your eyes against the weight of her voice, her touch, her truth. “I shouldn’t have told you to go,” you say quietly, voice cracking.

Her hand slips into yours, threading your fingers together like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I shouldn’t even gotten inside the car, let alone have left.”

Your breath catches. And then you nod. There’s nothing left to fight about. Nothing to throw like a weapon. No words left to defend. Just grief. Just truth. Just the quiet aftermath of love surviving something sharp. You lean into her, slow at first. Unsure if it’s okay. But she opens her arms without hesitation, and you go willingly—curled against her chest like she’s the only thing holding you together.

And when the tears come again, they’re softer this time. Slower. Her hand moves up and down your back. Her lips press to your hair. “I’ve got you,” she whispers. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” And she does. More than anyone ever has.

Agatha doesn’t move when the tears start. Not even when your shoulders jerk, when your entire body folds into her like your bones forgot how to hold you up. She doesn’t flinch when the first choked sob escapes you—sharp, raw, a sound dragged straight from the center of your chest like something’s finally cracked open. She just holds you tighter.

Arms firm but gentle, her body shifting to cradle yours without hesitation. One hand strokes your back in long, grounding passes, while the other rises to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling protectively through your hair. She guides you down against her until your cheek is pressed to her collarbone, her pulse steady under your skin like the one thing in the world that hasn’t betrayed you.

You try to pull back. To hide your face, to offer some messy apology for unraveling so completely. But she won’t let you. Her grip only tightens. Not hard—just enough to tell you she’s not going anywhere. “Shh, sweetheart,” she whispers, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’ve got you. It’s alright. Just let it out.”

And gods—you do. It comes out all at once. Loud, ugly sobs that shake your whole frame, no longer soft or restrained. Not like the first day, when you’d cried into your own sleeves. Not like the second, when you bit your lip and blinked the tears back until your head hurt. This is something else. Something deeper. Like a damn breaking.

Like every year you spent being silenced, minimized, dismissed—every year you convinced yourself you weren’t worth fighting for—is tearing its way out of your throat in ragged gasps and apologies that won’t form into words. Agatha holds you through it.

Her sweater is soaked within minutes, the fabric bunched in your fists where you’ve clung to her like she might disappear again if you let go. But she doesn’t seem to care. She only presses her cheek to the top of your head, murmuring soft, steady things into your hair. “You don’t have to be strong with me,” she says, barely louder than a breath. “You don’t have to pretend. Not here. Not with me.”

You clutch at her like you’re drowning and she’s the only solid thing left. Your hands fist in the material of her shirt, and she shifts to wrap herself around you completely—arms curling around your back, her body tucking you in like you’re something sacred that’s been broken.

And it hits you—how much you missed this.

Not just her voice. Her warmth. But touch.

Two days of avoiding each other. Two days of cold looks and empty hallways and passing like strangers in the home you built together. It wore on you. On her, too.

You can feel it now, in the way her hands tremble slightly when they move down your spine, the way her breathing hitches when you whimper into her collar. “You didn’t deserve that,” she whispers. “Any of it. They don’t see you—but I do. I see everything.”

Her lips graze your temple, slow and soft, as if kissing you there might seal the fracture “You’re brilliant. And kind. And fierce when you want to be. You shine, baby. You shine even when they try to dim you.”

You’re still shaking. Still gasping between sobs. But her words wrap around you like a blanket, anchoring you with every syllable. Her voice is warm. Steady. A tether in the storm. “I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you from that. But I will next time,” she murmurs. “If there’s ever a next time. If you want there to be.”

Your breath hitches. You pull back just enough to look at her, eyes swollen and red, lashes wet, bottom lip trembling uncontrollably “Why would you want there to be a next time after that?”

She doesn’t hesitate. Her hands rise to your cheeks, cupping them gently. Her thumbs wipe at the tears still spilling freely down your face. “Because I love you and to have you means to accept that—accept them” It doesn’t feel forced. Doesn’t feel like some grand confession meant to make you feel better in the moment. It’s soft. Quiet. True.

A truth spoken through everything else—through pain, through distance, through the ache in her eyes and the tremor in her hands. Like the sun peeking through after three days of unrelenting storm. Your mouth parts. You don’t know what you expected. Maybe not that. Maybe not something so beautiful in the middle of something so heavy.

“I love you too,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

And then she exhales. Like she’s been holding that breath since the second she walked out and regretted it. She doesn’t speak again—just pulls you into her arms and lets you melt against her. Her cheek rests against your head. Her hand slips into yours, fingers threading through with practiced ease.

The silence stretches again. But this time, it’s different. Softer. Safer. “You’re not alone anymore,” she says quietly. “You never have to be.” You squeeze her hand, still shaking—but just a little less now. And for the first time in days—maybe longer—you finally believe that might be true.

Her fingers are still laced with yours when you lean in. It’s not rushed. Not desperate. But it’s everything. You move slow enough that she can see it all—the way your bottom lip trembles, the way your breath hitches, the way your eyes scan hers like you’re still trying to find proof she’s really here. That she didn’t leave for good. That after everything, she still wants to be this close.

Your face tilts slightly, seeking hers like you’ve done a thousand times before. But this time, the weight behind it is different. Heavier. Like you’re trying to say all the things you still don’t know how to voice. When your lips meet hers, it isn’t perfect.

Your breath is uneven. Your skin is still flushed from crying, still damp in places where her touch hasn’t yet reached. But Agatha melts into it like it’s the only thing she’s been waiting for since she walked out that door—and realized she couldn’t stay gone.

She doesn’t rush you. Her hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye as her mouth moves with yours in soft, reverent strokes. It’s not heated. Not yet. It’s needed. Desperately so.

You kiss her again. And again. Short, quiet kisses between shallow breaths like you’re trying to stitch something back together piece by piece.

Like if you stop, you’ll come undone all over again. “You still want me,” you whimpered between kisses, your voice trembling like it barely made it out. “Even after all that. Even with them.”

She pauses just enough to rest her forehead against yours, her breath warm on your lips, her voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“Of course I do. Always.”

You press your mouth to hers again—longer this time. Deeper. Until the ache in your chest cracks wide open and spills between you. She’s breathing harder now, arms sliding around your waist like she can feel the ground slipping beneath your feet. And then she moves. She pulls you gently, but firmly, into her lap.

You don’t fight it. Your legs shift, one knee on either side of her thighs as you straddle her, arms wrapping around her shoulders. She steadies you by the hips, guiding you down until your weight settles into her, until your chest is pressed to hers and the space between you is gone.

Your hands tangle into the fabric of her shirt, bunching it into your fists, needing the pressure, the feel of her, the proof of her.

“I’m so glad you didn’t leave me baby” you whisper into her mouth, your voice cracking in the middle of the sentence—so quiet it’s barely there, but you feel the way her breath stutters against your lips. She freezes. For a heartbeat, she’s absolutely still.

You don’t notice it at first. You’re too close, too wrapped in the rhythm of her touch and the warm, shaky exhales against your cheek. But then she pulls back—just enough to look at you. Just enough to see you. And something in her face crumbles. Her eyes go glassy in an instant, mouth parting as if the air’s been knocked from her lungs.

“Sweetheart…” she breathes, like your words just broke something in her.

Your heart lurches. “I—I didn’t mean to say that.” But she’s already shaking her head, her hands coming up to cradle your face with both palms, thumbs gently brushing away the tears you didn’t realize had started again.

“You thought I was going to leave you.” It’s not a question. It’s grief. You try to look away, but she won’t let you.

“I don’t know,” you admit in a whisper. “I wouldn’t have blamed you.” And that’s what undoes her. Completely. She leans in and kisses you everywhere she can reach—your forehead, your cheeks, the corners of your lips—murmuring your name between each kiss like it’s a prayer, a vow, a promise she’s scared to break.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers, voice thick. “Not ever. You couldn’t push me away if you tried.” You clutch at her shirt again, trying to breathe around the lump in your throat.

“I’m just so scared,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. “That you’ll realize I’m not worth all this.”

She stills—just for a moment. And then her arms tighten around you like she can feel you slipping through the cracks again. Like she won’t let you. “Don’t you ever say that again,” she murmurs fiercely. Not cruel. Not angry. Just wrecked. “—ever again.”

You let out a quiet, broken sob and bury your face into her shoulder. “I don’t know how to believe it,” you whisper.

Agatha’s hands cradle your face again, lifting it just enough to meet her eyes. She kisses you softly—so gently, it almost hurts. Her lips linger over yours, not demanding, not possessive. Just there. Anchoring you.

“Then I’ll keep showing you,” she promises. “As long as it takes.”

You fall into her again, curling into her lap like something precious that’s been worn thin from too much use. You press your face into her neck, feel the brush of her lips against your temple. And when her arms wrap around you this time, it’s not just comfort.

It’s a promise.

A shield.

A beginning

You’re still in her lap, chest pressed tightly to hers, when her hands shift—one sliding to your lower back, the other gliding beneath your thighs. You barely have time to breathe before she’s rising to her feet in one smooth motion, with you still clinging to her.

Your arms wrap instinctively around her neck as she lifts you, and your legs lock around her waist without hesitation, like your body knows exactly where it belongs.

You bury your face into the crook of her neck, eyes fluttering closed. Her skin is warm. Her heartbeat is steady, deep under your cheek. She smells like home—lavender, skin, safety.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, breathless but grounded, her arms secure around your waist as she carries you through the hallway. “Always.” You don’t say a word. You can’t. Your throat is thick again. Your body’s too tired. And truthfully, you don’t want to break the moment. You don’t want to let go.

She kicks open the bedroom door gently and crosses to the bed. She doesn’t lay you down immediately. Instead, she stays standing for a moment, just holding you. Your bodies pressed so close it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, the words brushing warm against your temple. “For leaving you to sleep alone. For walking away when you needed me.”

You tighten your legs around her waist just slightly. Your fingers press into the soft hair at the base of her neck. “You didn’t deserve to cry by yourself. Not in this house. Not in that one either.”

You open your mouth to say something, but it gets lost when she tilts her head and presses the softest kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs. “You hear me? I’m not leaving you—not when you need me, not when it gets hard, not even when you’re scared I will.”

You nod into her, your voice barely a whisper “I believe you.” She exhales like she’s been holding that breath for days. Carefully, she kneels onto the mattress with you still wrapped around her, then lowers you both into the bed—your legs staying wrapped around her as you sink into the sheets together. Her hand rubs slow circles over your back as she adjusts you, coaxing your body to loosen, to rest against her.

“I’m here now,” she says softly, pulling the blankets up around your bodies, still holding you. “And you’re safe.”

Her lips find your shoulder. Then your jaw. Her hand slips into your hair again, fingertips tender against your scalp as she whispers, “Sleep, my love. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in days, you believe it. For the first time, you let yourself rest. Because her body is wrapped around yours like a shield. Her arms are locked around you like a vow. And you fall asleep that night not as someone broken—but as someone being held back together by the one person who chose you. Always.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x reader #kathryn hahn x reader #kathryn hahn #comfort #reassurance

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

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Death Wish 12

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, violence/abuse and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Bucky Barnes

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you’re desperate for a way out of your life and you ask a powerful man for help (plus!reader)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Photo Inspo

"Hm, not that one. Dear, I think the last one was it. Perfectly traditional, without being stuffy," Winnifred insists.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. Your pick is everything you prefer. Simple and easy. Not uncomfortable. Not fussy laces or elaborate beading and endless skirts. Just a dress.

Of course, it wouldn't be good enough for a king. Nor his mother. You temper your disappointment. You assume that will need to become a habit. Your opinion, as always, is secondary.

"I suppose it it a bit plain," you agree, "sure. We can go with the last one."

"Are you sure?" Kitty pushes her shoulders up as she slides to the edge of the seat.

"Yes, it's fine," you assure her.

"Congratulations," the associate steps forward. "Shall we get you back in it?"

"No, you can just put in the order," you say. You are in no rush to have her ream on those laces again.

"Of course, you've had a long day," she agrees sheepishly, if not with a hint of surprise. Eight hours is a long day. Too long to spend in a shop. "You should ring the bell. Since you found your dress."

"The bell?" You question then glance over at the other women. "Okay."

The associate flits off and you stand listless in the dress you'll mourn with your previous life. When she returns, she has a big golden bell. She gives you a speech about your happy day and hands it over. You give it a jingle then just as quickly give it back.

"You sure you don't want to try it on again?" Winnifred asks.

You shake your head, "sorry, it's been a long few days."

"Oh, yes, our condolences," Rebecca intones. "Mother, I think Bucky might already have a few words for us for keeping his bride so long already."

"Yes, despite my best efforts, he can be a greedy little boy," Winnifred laughs.

You attempt a smile. You can imagine it's more of a quiver in your lips. Winnifred stands, the other women as well, your sisters hesitant. The three of you are cautiouslt wading through this new world. One where you're no long insignificant. The threat of your father's disapproval has been replaced by a greater one.

You did this. You and your selfish impulsivity. You could excuse yourself for fear or desperation, but you can blame yourself just as much for not thinking out the consequences. Not that you could ever guess they would involve a white gown and diamond ring.

There is some chatter as you are taken back to the lobby. Winnifred attends to the payment as you retreat in embarrassment. Your sisters exchange a none-so-subtle look of concern.

"Well then, girls," the matriarch turns with an accomplished sigh, "allow us to escort you love bridesmaids home." She declares, "I believe you," she stops in front of you and takes your hand, "are due to meet your beloved. Do tell my son I send my tidings. Certainly it won't be long until I might do so myself."

Your sisters stir nervously. You glance at them and nod. Just do what you're told. It's always been the best strategy.

"That's very kind of you,, Winnifred," Kitty speaks first.

"Ah not at all, I should like to see your side of town. I am painfully nosy, though I might paint it as curiousity," she lets you go. "And you might give me some insight into my future daughter. She is rather enigmatic thus far."

You wince. Of course, it all methodical. You claim your jackets and emerge outside. Wanda, Rebecca, and Natasha claim one car, your sisters and Winnifred the next, and another idles as you approach.

The driver comes around and pulls open the door. You hate that. It feels as if you are a puppet on strings. You move to the tugs and tweaks of Barnes' all reaching hand.

You lower yourself onto the seat, peering on ahead of you, and hesitate before you slide in. You don't expect him to be waiting for you there. The door closes as you shift further in. Barnes' takes your hand before you can settle and kisses your knuckle above the ostentatious stone setting.

"Doll," he purrs.

"Barnes," you greet plaintively.

"Ah, you don't gotta be like that," he drawls as he clings to your hand, his thumb feeling the stones.

"Sorry," you nibble your lip. "I'm only tired."

"Yes, I hope you found something," he says. "Ladies and their dresses."

"Mm, yes," you affirm.

He tuts, "you don't sound very excited."

"Not sure I'm fit to wear white..." you mutter.

"Doesn't bother me, doll. We've both lived lives before we met--"

"Not that," you interject, surprisingly yourself at your curtness. "You know why."

He inhales deeply and sighs, "he got all he had coming. We both know that."

"Yes, but it was me...." you trail off and shrug.

You sense him watching you. You stare ahead and swallow down all those confusing emotions. "It's done, I suppose."

"I respect the apathy, doll, but you don't gotta play cool with me," he insists.

"I don't give-- I don't care about him."

He nods and gives a thoughtful im, "your sisters. Have I not proven myself to you? I told you I'd see to them, I'm a man of my word.”

“I believe it,” you resign. “It's… a lot. I don't think I'm what you think. I don't think I can do this.” You slump in defeat. “I'm not what you're looking for. You've made a bad choice.”

“Hmph,” he scoffs. “That you even got the guts to tell me so shows me you're wrong. You don't know how right you are for me, doll.”

He snakes his arm behind you and pulls you close. “Now you're not gonna roll over and show your belly. Not if you're my woman.”

“I'm not…”

“We were both in that warehouse,” he lowers his voice as his fingertips curl into your hip. His other hand brushes over your lap. “You did what needed to be done. Just like today. Just like yesterday. Every step of the way You've shown me exactly what you say you're not.”

“Bucky, I just wanted to be free,” you latch onto his forearm. “That's all–”

“You're free. And safe. You know what I'd do for you, doll? What I'll do to keep you safe? Happy? To keep you mine.” He leans in to nuzzle your cheek, “that's the one thing about me you haven't figured out. I'm stubborn. I put my mind to something and I do it. Exactly what you did when you showed up battered and begging–”

“Please,” you rasp and his nose tickles down your cheek and he dips down to kiss your neck. His lips and beard send a tingle through you.

“On my honour, you'll never look like that again. You'll never be bruised and the hand that dares to lay a single blemish on you will be cut off,” he nips your skin.

The tenor of his voice brooks no doubt nor the tight grip his keeps on your thigh. His hot breath blooms around your neck and he growls. You made a deal with the devil and now he's come to collect.

#bucky Barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #series #death wish #drabble #mob au #au #marvel #mcu #avengers #winter soldier #captain america

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newmoonlover009 · 3 months ago

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Distracted - Charlie Swan

“Just kiss me.”

Charlie Swan x Fem!Reader

Summary - Bella tasks you to keep Charlie distracted as she battles her new "sickness." You do as she says. In more ways than one.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: 18+, sexual content, age gap (reader is 23), lying, subtle angst, quickie, fast-paced, kissing, slight grinding/dry humping, neck kissing, unprotected piv sex, a bit of cock warming, cream pie, the use of the words "cunt" and "cock," and the pet name "baby."

(Let me know if I missed any.)

Disclaimer: Apologies for any potential spelling errors or grammar mistakes. Twilight au—details won’t be accurate to the films or books—they are rewritten to fit the story.

a/n - yippee, my first post on my multi-fandom account. In all honesty, I did not proofread this one shot as thoroughly as I usually do. So, apologies in advance if it seems rushed. Enjoy <3

Truth be told, you know of Bella’s… “condition.”

Why she entrusts you with her secret—you don’t know. You’ve only known Bella briefly, having moved to Forks just a year before her return. When word spread that she’d be coming home, Charlie asked you personally to become her friend—a mentor of sorts, even. With long hours at the station, Charlie didn’t have the time to hover, even when he really wanted to.

Bella liked to think Charlie didn’t hover, but he did. Even now.

“Good morning, Chief Swan!” You yelled from your porch, greeting the Chief like you did every chance you got. The two of you had been neighbors for quite some time now since you moved in right across the street into the smallest house in the neighborhood with your mom.

“Mornin’.” Charlie’s gruff voice carried across the street. Usually, he’d disappear into his lonesome house, and only leave when he was called to the station. This time, however, he paused at his door in thought. You watched curiously as he turned around, immediately locking eyes with you, and cautiously approaching your quaint porch.

“I hear your daughter is coming to town, Chief. That’s big news.” You offered conversation, still curious as to why he was purposely approaching you. Charlie was a kind man, and sometimes even friendly to outsiders, but he was still closed off. Perhaps it was your age that prompted him to maintain his distance—two decades is a large difference. Younger people probably freaked him out, you figured.

“Yeah, I’m real excited.” Though, his unenthusiastic tone said otherwise. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk about.”

“Oh, okay.” You remained an open mind, waiting for an elaboration of sorts. “What about?”

“In all honesty, I need you to do me a favor.” His tone was serious, not asking, but rather telling. You would’ve agreed either way.

“Of course, what’s up?” It seemed as though he struggled to find the words to ask, his brows furrowed as he thought intently.

“Bella hasn’t lived here since, well, a long time. She visits, sure, but other than that, she doesn’t know anyone here.” That didn’t surprise you, especially since you hadn’t seen her once since living there. What he said next, however, did surprise you. “I need you to keep an eye on her for me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but you’re close in age, right? Maybe you can provide some… input in her life that I can’t.” Well, not quite close in age. She was 17. You were 21.

“Oh, Chief Swan, I—”

“Charlie.” He corrected you.

“Charlie.” You repeated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Bella doesn’t know me, and quite frankly, I don’t know her. You do, though.”

“Please?” He looked defeated—embarrassed that he had to enlist the help of his neighbor to welcome his teenage daughter. After seeing the silently begging look on his face, you couldn’t say no.

So, when she called you once the plane landed, returning from her short-lived honeymoon with Edward, your vision blurred and hearing rang as she whimpered the words “vampire” and “pregnant.” She informed you that tensions were high between the Cullens; debating whether she should keep it or… “get rid of it.” Alice, Edward, and Jacob strongly advocated for the latter. You, however, only knew that Bella needed a friend.

It kills you to keep a secret of this magnitude from Charlie—who’s been pacing back and forth since you arrived. Bella asked you to keep an eye on him—a trend in the Swan family, it seems—and to keep him distracted so he wouldn’t drive to the Cullen house himself and demand answers.

“Charlie, please—”

“What do you mean I can’t see her? Is she okay?” His tone is frantic; worried.

“She’s fine. She just contracted a virus and didn’t want to worry you. Clearly, it’s not working.”

“So why can’t she call me? Why are you the one telling me?” Because he’ll know something is wrong by the sound of her voice.

“Because she wanted the information given in person. She thought you deserved more than a phone call.” You deserve the truth, you think to yourself, but you’ve made a promise to Bella.

“Where’s this medical facility? I’ll go there myself–” There is no medical facility. She’s shacked up at the Cullen house just miles away.

“No, Charlie, you can’t. She didn’t even tell me, so there’s no way of you knowing.” You hate how the lies roll off your tongue with ease. He huffs in frustration at your answer, finally taking a seat on the couch while you stand just feet away in front of the television. Sorrow settles like a brick in your gut, so you sit in the empty spot just beside him, your hand landing on his shoulder to offer support. “I’m really sorry, Charlie, but you know she’s in the best hands. Edward–or Carlisle–won’t let anything bad happen to her.”

“I know…” His voice trails off, uncertainty clear in his tone. He knows you’re right, but you also know that the protective dad in him can’t sit idly by. Your heart aches to see the way his eyes glaze over, his brows in a perpetual frown since Bella left for her honeymoon. The poor man hasn’t been the same since the wedding.

His house is empty again and his routine has fallen back into what it was before she came home; working every chance he gets and ordering takeout every night. His incessant sullen gaze has returned; his eyes are no longer softer like they were when Bella was here. You feel her absence as well. The house is eerily quiet–colder than usual–and the smaller things that accumulated in their shared spaces have been packed away and moved. Alice took the liberty of packing Bella’s things.

Your relationship–or rather acquaintance–with Charlie has nearly withered since her departure. There’s no need to speak to him unless it’s to relay a message, like the unfortunate one you’re delivering now. Still, you greet him with a good morning, afternoon, and evening when you see him; which is rare. You quite enjoyed being a part of Charlie’s life, even if it was through Bella, and you felt as though you had finally cracked the man who would hardly speak to you since you moved in.

“She’ll be okay. I promise.” It’s a stupid promise to make when you’re unsure of the outcome yourself.

“I guess you’re right.” He lets out a heavy sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his face falling into his hands.

You gently nod to yourself, taking that as your sign to leave. You’ve done all that you can at the moment; told him of Bella’s “sickness,” given him peace of mind, and ensured that he wouldn’t attempt to see her in person. All things Bella instructed you to do. You feel terrible knowing Charlie’s original plan was for you to watch over Bella, and now it’s been completely flipped in the opposite direction.

“I should get going.” You announce, patting his shoulder and grabbing his attention once more. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything else from her.”

Charlie nods, his warm eyes finding yours. He lifts himself from the couch with a gentle huff and stands to walk you to the door, as he always does. As you mirror his movements, the two of you face each other, subtle awkwardness creeping into the space between you. He’s decently taller than you, forcing your head to tilt back as you match his gaze. His eyes are masking a million different emotions, just screaming to be let out, so you provide the only form of comfort you can think of. Lifting your arms from your sides to reach toward him, his watchful eyes observe your actions as you lazily wrap them around his waist.

His body freezes, stunned by your affection, as you rest your head against his broad chest. Your cheek lays against his cotton T-shirt, saturated in his warm scent—woodsy, cinnamon, and smoky–as if he had just built a fire to combat the slowly approaching frost. A beat passes before you feel his arms wrap around your shoulders, his head craning down to rest his scruffed cheek on the top of your head. His heart is pounding in his chest, the muffled sound knocking against your ear. As if to absorb his hurt, you hug him more firmly, your hands interlocking behind him as you adjust your grip.

“Thank you for coming over.” His defeated voice finally speaks above you, and a hand soothingly rubs your shoulder. “It was nice seeing you again.”

The feeling's mutual. The last real conversation you had with him was the wedding night. It hurt your feelings a bit; further confirming that Charlie was only interested in talking to you about Bella, nothing more. Sure, that was the deal, but you had hoped for more. Whatever “more” was, you still aren’t sure.

“Of course.” You breathe out, leaning back to look up at him, your arms still wrapped around him. “I hope to see you again soon. Under better circumstances.”

“Me too.” He lets out a defeated chuckle, the humor absent. “Let me walk you out.”

Although, neither of you moves. His hands stay spread on the expanse of your back as his conflicted gaze bores into yours. An unspoken magnetic pull lures you to him, his eyes locking yours in a curious trance. Your stomach flips when he swiftly leans in, capturing your lips in a chaste kiss. Mere milliseconds pass before his lips are ripped away; just as quickly as they had come.

Your eyes widen and the grip you have on him releases as you take a precautionary step back. Jaw falling slack, your lips part in utter shock, and your eyes blink rapidly as if you’re in a haze. Your face has surely turned crimson, the heat creeping up your neck and settling in the peaks of your cheeks. The look on his face, however, is just as shocked as you are–like he couldn’t believe he did that. He looks… ashamed. It’s almost visible on his face–the way his thoughts race–his voice catching in his throat as if to offer an explanation.

“Charlie…”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“Kiss me again.” You rush out, “Please.”

“Are you sure–”

“Just kiss me.” You nearly groan. Unable to wait a moment longer, you step forward to close the short distance between you two, your arms finding their way around his neck and feet standing on their tippy-toes. Your lips crash onto his, your eyes fluttering close as his hands snake around your waist, desperately gripping at your clothed skin. A low hum purrs from his throat while he deepens the kiss, dipping his head lower to accommodate you and satisfy his fast-growing hunger. His mustache and the stubble on his chin rub against you, adding to the pleasurable sensation pooling in your gut.

This was not what you intended when you were tasked with keeping him distracted, but you can’t find a part of you willing to stop. Not when he pulls you in closer by the waist, his fingers digging deeper into your heated flesh, grasping at you so you can’t pull away–like you ever would.

Taking the initiative, your tongue darts from your parted lips, swiping along his bottom lip and eliciting a groan from Charlie. The sound is like music to your ears, only fueling you further when your hands find his loose waves, gripping gently and tugging at the roots. Following your lead, his tongue combats yours, invading your senses with his taste, his smell, him.

Without breaking the persisting kiss, Charlie moves you both and pulls you with him as he lands on the couch in a seated position. Instinctually, your legs straddle him–your skirt lifting and bunching at your hips–and you finally lean away from him to catch your breath, your chest heaving in response. Through parted lips, Charlie lets out quick huffs, his back slowly leaning against the couch to allow his eyes to rake over your appearance; flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, and hooded eyes that silently beg for more.

The sight of him is ungodly; sitting man-spread, hands now lazily resting against your hips, and eyes that flood with lust–the chocolatey irises being swallowed by dilated pupils. You need more of him.

Slouching slightly, you lean into him as your lips connect with his neck, leaving sloppy open-mouth kisses along the sensitive skin. His head tilts to the side to grant better access as a strained noise collects on the tip of his tongue. Your hips absently move against him and a surprised sound comes from you when the bulge of his jeans lines up with your aching core. The dull sensation urges you to seek more friction, making Charlie’s hands grip your hips to assist in your efforts.

Soft, satisfied sighs brush past your lips as you continue your work on his exposed neck, pulling small grunts from him and subtle jerks of his hips.

“Are you sure you want this?” His drawn voice calls to you, letting you know you can stop while you’re ahead. The thing is, you don’t want to.

“So sure.” You mumble against his skin. “Are you?” Asking sincerely, you stop what you’re doing to catch his gaze.

He only nods, his eyes darting to your lips and hands absently squeezing, encouraging you to continue. Slowly, you roll your hips against him, building the previous friction back up. The feeling is deliciously teasing, only reaching a certain level of fulfillment before it becomes unbearable. You hold his line of sight, watching as his face gently contorts into a frustrated frown, needing more as much as you do. His brows furrow, creasing the skin between them, and a low grumble gathers in his chest as his legs shift restlessly beneath you.

Releasing your grip from his hair, your hands lay flat as they palm at his shoulders, spread across his chest, and travel down his abdomen, pausing just above the waistband of his jeans. You halt your hip movements, letting your fingers tease at the zipper before asking, “Can I?”

“Please.”

It’s the only word he can muster before you undo the zipper at a tantalizing pace, the soft noise only adding to the fluttering feeling gathering in your lower belly. You quickly unfasten the jeans button, folding the rough denim fabric over to expose his boxers beneath. His jaw clenches when you tug the waistband of his jeans down just enough to reach into the stretchy material and firmly grip him. His stomach visibly tightens through his shirt, a low grunt exiting with a shaky breath as you free his hardened cock. Impressive.

Your closed fist works up and down his length a few times, admiring the way precum leaks from the reddened tip, pouring over onto your hand. Charlie struggles to show restraint as his hips shift upward to match your rhythm. You’re eager as well, feeling wetness gather and soak into the cotton fabric of your underwear.

Impatience gets the better of you when you release him, smirking at the sound of protest from him as your hands find the bottom hem of your skirt and tug the clothing item upward to gather around your waist. His mouth clamps shut when your soaked underwear comes into view, exposing the absolute arousal he elicits from you. Usually, you’d opt for more foreplay, but you need him–you need him now.

Unwilling to waste time, you pull your underwear to the side, using your other hand to grasp Charlie once more. With a little maneuvering, you scoot closer to him, lifting yourself slightly to align him with your cunt. He sucks in a sharp breath when you run the tip through your velvety folds, gathering every ounce of arousal before stopping at your dripping entrance.

Slowly, you lower yourself, allowing your hips to sink onto him and inch his way into you. Neither of you dares to breathe as your walls stretch around him, welcoming him and swallowing every inch until you’ve sunken completely. Both of you gasp–for air, and because of the way his cock twitches and your walls squeeze around him. He’s filled you entirely and you bite back the moan that begs to release. Without even moving, the feeling itself is euphoric.

“I need a minute.” He admits, his voice gravelly and forcing self-control.

“Me too.” You breathe out, your hands resting against his waist for support.

Staying put, you lean forward, capturing his lips in a leisurely kiss. The moments leading up to this one have gone by in a blur, having happened so fast. You savor him, enjoying the way he can’t control the soft groans you swallow as your lips work against his, your walls pulsing in response.

Your hands travel from below you, your fingertips ghosting over his lower stomach, his ribs, and his chest before settling on the sides of his face. His stubble scratches the surface of your palms as you deepen the kiss, humming in satisfaction when he invades your mouth with his tongue. Growing impatient, you feel Charlie’s hands grip tighter, urging you to lift your hips.

The kiss is unbreaking as you follow his lead, letting him raise your hips and pull you back down onto his length. You moan into his mouth as he repeats this action a few more times before you decide to take over. Heavy breaths blow through his nose as you speed up, creating a steady rhythm that satisfies the both of you. You’re unsure how long you’ll last given the coil that’s been wound up tight since grinding against him fully clothed, which technically, you still are.

With your breath picking up, you break the kiss to focus solely on lifting and lowering your hips. The pace is growing quicker, and you notice Charlie’s hips moving to match your efforts. Resting your forehead against his, you lock eyes as you allow an uncontrollable string of moans to push past your plump lips, your eyebrows scrunching in pure pleasure.

“I’m so close.” You confess, feeling your walls flutter around him in that familiar rhythmic pattern.

“Keep going, baby.” His encouragement and use of the pet name through clenched teeth signals that his climax is nearing as well.

Preserving energy and seeking release, you grind your hips instead, and you nearly cry out when your swollen clit rubs against him. It’s enough to bring you to the edge, your climax teetering and waiting to be pushed over. With a few more passes of your grinding hips, it doesn’t take long, and your head flies back to let out a drawn-out moan.

“Oh god, Charlie.” Your voice points to the ceiling as your eyes squeeze shut, your hips sputtering against him. Your cunt pulses frantically around him as you continue your movements, riding out your crashing orgasm and urging Charlie to do the same.

From the force of your climax, Charlie isn’t far behind. His name leaves your lips in an exasperated whimper, being repeated like a mantra. When your head falls forward, and your spent stare captures his, it’s enough to send him over the edge. With a choked groan, you feel his cock twitch inside you, coating your walls with hot cum as he stares deeply into you. Determined to wring out his orgasm, your hips move languidly despite the overwhelming sensation it creates for you, watching as his stomach flexes sporadically.

He lets out a choked noise when he’s finished, the grip on your hips loosening and prompting you to slow to a stop. The mixture of your releases drips out of you, pooling at the base of his cock. Both of you breathe heavily, your chests heaving in harmony as your eyes bore into each other.

You expect a feeling of regret to wash over you, but it never comes.

Instead, Charlie’s hands slide to your waist and pull you closer, his lips peppering gentle kisses along your jaw, hairline, and lips. He reaches over beside him, grabbing a flannel he left draped over the back of the couch. Carefully, he drapes the patterned material over your shoulders, and your hands drop from his face, letting you lean forward and rest your head against his chest. You aren’t necessarily cold, but having shared an intimate moment with him, Charlie feels the need to cover you–to make you feel less exposed and to provide care.

“We should get cleaned up.” You mumble against him, feeling him soften inside of you.

“Okay…” His voice trails off, as if deep in thought. A beat passes before he speaks again, his gruff voice rumbling against your cheek from deep within his chest. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

You smile, genuinely in what feels like forever, “I’d love to.”

Tags:

#charlie swan x reader #charlie swan smut #charlie swan #twilight saga #twilight #the twilight saga #charlie swan fanfiction #charlie swan fic #charlie swan fanfic

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guiltyasdave · 1 month ago

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if only

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

summary: Dave loses the one person he ever cared about. (kind of a John Wick AU if you squint)

word count: 1k

tags/warnings: dark content!!! so much angst, death, grief, violence, murder, suicide, alcohol consumption, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n, no carol or daughters in this, i call him david in this because i wanted to

a/n: @almostfoxglove said let's write some angst and i said bet (thank you for the moodboard freya and SORRY i'm late!). don't say i didn't warn you, and i'm so serious, if any of those tags might be triggering for you, maybe sit this one out <3

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics 🤍

Nothing good ever lasts.

David York knows this. Has known it for a long time. He should have known better than to hope that it would last with you.

Now he’s staring at fresh earth, flowers in elaborate arrangements, a stone engraved with your name. Voices in his ear, hands on his shoulder, well-meant sentiments that he doesn’t hear.

You were always the people-person. The one who effortlessly made small talk while he could silently stand beside you, one hand tethered to the small of your back. The one whose wide smile made up for the lack of his.

Now it’s just him.

He arrives at the house after far too many hours, far too many pointless conversations in which he was searching for you to exchange a glance, the hint of an eye roll from him and the glint of amusement from you. Only to remember that he’s there, wearing black and letting people drone on about what a loss and still so young because you’ll never catch his eye again.

Kicking off his shoes and loosening his tie, he sinks into the couch cushions. They smell like you, faint traces of your perfume from how often you spent your mornings curled up on the soft fabric. Wriggling your feet under his thigh where he was sitting next to you, reading the paper and jokingly grumbling over the sudden jolt of cold. His breath comes out in a sob.

Daisy, the black cat he had finally agreed to on your last birthday, jumps up to him and settles on his chest. He welcomes the pinpricks of claws digging into his skin, the warm weight that settles on top of him. His fingers trace through the soft fur, like yours did so many times. He wonders if the small creature knows, understands that its human is not coming back.

David only gets up to pour himself a whiskey, then another. To feed the buzzing in his head until he’s numb, until the void in his chest stops feeling like it will swallow him whole.

He tortures himself, watching photos and videos. Vacations, Christmas, your wedding, the normal days when you shoved a camera in his face for no particular reason, freezing the memory of your smiles. It’s stupid, but he’s waiting, hoping for your eyes to look up. Hoping they’ll meet his one more time. The glint of understanding that you had reserved exclusively for him, the constant feeling that there was a secret joke only the two of you were in on.

He always knew he would love you until the day he died. David doesn’t think of himself as a spiritual man, doesn’t believe in fate, in soulmates. But if he did, he knew that you were his.

He had wanted out. Desperately wanted to get out. For you, to be with you, to keep you out of danger. Fulfill one more task, one more impossible task. Then you’ll be out. A bitter, double-tongued promise. One he should’ve known better than to believe.

He wasn’t stupid, wasn’t naive. But he had hoped. You had given him hope, and he’d let himself believe. It was all his fault.

His fault, when he’d come home, and there you were. A lump on the mattress of the bed you used to share. Not moving, your limbs contorted in ways that made his stomach heave. Your eyes blank, unblinking, unseeing. And the blood. God, there had been so much blood. Soaking through white fabric, staining his hands as they flew over your body, praying, begging that there was still time, that there was something he could do. That he hadn’t failed you, like he had always known he would. His fault, all his fault.

If only he had been there earlier. If only he had made your home safer, if only he had been more prepared. If only he had never been selfish enough to keep you in his life. If only he had never met you. You’d still be alive, then. Never tainted by him, by the darkness that he carried around like a curse.

There’s nowhere for all the love he has for you to go. He used to pour it into you, never let you go a single day without knowing how entirely he’s yours. It stays inside him now, burning a hole through his chest. Unable to let go of it, holding it like a grudge, letting it push him forward. Down a road he knows you wouldn’t have wanted him to follow.

But you’re not here anymore, and there’s nothing else he can do. He’s doing it for you. Once he stops, once he lets go, he’s not yours anymore. He doesn’t know who he’ll be then. If he’ll be anyone.

He plans. Methodical, determined. No mistakes, no second chances. He doesn’t stop. Cold rage flows through his veins, fuels him, drives him, his movements. He pulls countless triggers, stabs countless knives, lands countless punches. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t listen.

Until there is no one left. Until all he sees is blood, and death, and darkness surrounds him like a thick fog. He sets it all on fire, lets it burn to the ground, but it can’t reach him. The blinding brightness, the heat of the flames. All he feels is emptiness, the void where his heart used to sit.

It isn’t until he’s back at home that he realizes he’s wounded. He feels the ghost of your fingers where you used to help patch him up. Almost feels your breath huff against his neck. Misses the way your lips used to press against his skin when you were done.

God, he misses you so much. It builds inside of him, flooding his lungs until he’s gasping for air, but he can’t let go of it. The grief, the anger, you. Once he lets go, lets it spill from between his ribs, you’ll be really truly gone. He can’t live like this.

David York is methodical. Determined. No mistakes, no second chances.

His eyes close. His finger curls around the trigger, the movement as familiar as embracing an old friend. He will not live like this.

thank you for reading <3 as always, reblog and comments are love!

#janas fics #dave york #dave york fanfiction #dave york angst #dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york x female reader #dave york x f!reader

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elliewrites77 · 3 months ago

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Yapper!Gojo Modern AU

Yapper!Gojo who's best friend is the least talkative person he knows, even more so than Geto. Even after weeks of sharing a class, it was a full month of being classmates before he heard her voice.

Yapper!Gojo who doesn't pressure you to talk. He does plenty talking for the both of you, and somehow knows that you don't mind. A big part of your friendship is the fact that their is an unspoken connection, and you both tend to understand each other naturally. He talks, you listen, and you both enjoy the dynamic.

Yapper!Gojo who knows when you're uncomfortable or overwhelmed without you even needing to say anything. Maybe it's because you're always on his mind or his attention is always on you, but somehow, he just knows.

Yapper!Gojo who doesn't hide his affection for you. Sure, he doesn't come right out and say "i'm in love with you", because he does have a secret fear of being rejected by you, but he loves calling you pet names, loves physical touch like holding your hand, and stuff that some would say are obvious signs of feelings. and you always reciprocate, maybe not to the same extent, but still.

Yapper!Gojo who only shuts up when he insists on joining you in the campus library to study (you're studying, he..isn't). He knows how important finals are to you, but won't stand to not see you all week, so he invites himself to your study session. You barely acknowledge his presence in the small room, but you both know you are happy he is there with you.

Yapper!Gojo who finally plans to tell you his feelings after finals are over. You both have one semester left before graduating, and since he doesn't know where life will take you guys after college (though he intends to keep you in his life) he figures it's better to do it sooner rather than later. So he devises this elaborate plan, even forcing Suguru, Shoko, and Nanami to help him (all of which said he should just tell you without anything 'big').

Yapper!Gojo who almost has a panic attack when the day finally comes. Finals were over, and Christmas break was the best time to do it. So while you thought you two were just going out for a "friend-date" to a nice resturant Satoru wanted to try, he was panicking thinking about everything that could go wrong afterwards.

Yapper!Gojo who is suspiciously quiet throughout dinner. Not entirely silent, he could never be, but still. It was strange. So strange that you were more talkative, though most of what you said consisted of asking him if he was okay multiple times.

Yapper!Gojo who can't help but admire how beautiful you look on the way from the restaurant. He had asked if you'd mind one more stop, a surprise. So as you sat next to him, he stole multiple glances. Eventually, something about being so close to you made his anxiety calm.

Yapper!Gojo who covers your eyes when you arrive to the spot, helping you out of the car carefully. He guides you to the spot, taking a deep breath before he uncovers your eyes and allow you to adjust.

Yapper!Gojo who watches impatiently as you blink, your eyes flitting around the area. For the first time ever, he is anxious at your silence. He can't read it, and it worries him.

Quiet!reader who looks around at the University quad. There was a specific area that had a small gazebo and a few trees, a nice little patch that Gojo and you called "your spot". it had been the place where you first spoke to him. It was the place you guys always went to relax, to talk, to destress when everywhere else got too much. and now, it was lit up with fairy lights throughout the gazebo, a hammock connecting two trees, and a small blanket laid out on the ground with a beautiful bouquet of flowers, and two pillows laid on top.

Yapper!Gojo who stays silent as he waits for you to process it. Once you look at him, though, he gulps and moves closer, swiping the flowers up as he moves. He holds them out to you.

"I know this is unexpected, but I just finally wanted to tell you that I'm in love with you. And I know you don't like big, extravagant stuff, but I really need this to be perfect and still show just how much I feel for you." He slightly rambles, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in nerves.

Yapper!Gojo who is silenced by the feeling of your lips on his. His eyes flutter closed as he kisses back, the fireworks between you exploding in his chest. And even though you don't say it, he knows instantly you've felt the same,

Yapper!Gojo who reluctantly lets you pull back after a long, loving kiss. but he doesn't regret it when you whisper the four words he had been longing to hear.

"I love you too."

Quiet!reader who may not talk much, and may be able to leave things unsaid with Satoru, but will never hesitate to tell him exactly how she feels about him.

------

not proofread

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lycheeloving · 6 months ago

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tiny little fic elaborating on one of my Batman headcanons from my yandere Justice League AU, but you don't necessarily have to read those first, it makes sense all by itself imo. This is him taking care of you after having branded you basically. Warnings for the aftermath of a branding obviously + general yandere stuff.

"Go away."

Bruce, of course, doesn't listen, and shuts the door behind him with a click. "I know you're mad at me, but I brought you more painkillers, and I need to reapply the salve."

That does sound good, but unfortunately you're stubborn. And you hate him. "I don't care. Don't touch me. Go away," you mumble into your pillow from your place on the bed, then think for a second: "...but leave the painkillers."

"Me applying the salve is not up for debate. I don't want it to get infected, and you can't reach the wound by yourself, so I have to do it." He doesn't waste any time and straddles your lower back. Seriously? Couldn't he just have sat next to you? It's bad enough that you can't wear a shirt around him right now, and he has to sit on top of you? He must know what you're thinking, as you can't say anything about it before he states: "The angle is better from here." Yeah sure, it has nothing to do with the added body contact, or that he likes having you beneath him. You roll your eyes and don't say anything, waiting for him to get on with it.

You hear him open the jar of salve, its medicinal smell making its way to your nose, before he gently takes off your old bandages and starts rubbing it in. You flinch, his touch intensifying the burn. Why didn't he give you the painkillers before he started?

"You're healing nicely so far, it's going to be a beautiful scar." He says while spreading the salve evenly across your wound. Fucker. It's going to be beautiful? "Beautiful? You asshole, I'm going to have your fucking bat symbol on my back for the rest of my life! Of course you'd think it's beautiful, you wouldn't have done it otherwise." You scoff. Usually you wouldn't dare talk to him like this, but you feel like you've earned it after what he's done.

At your words his hands stop moving and he starts applying a bit more pressure on your wound. A warning. "Don't talk to me like that."

"I'll talk to you however I want until that thing on my back heals. You said it wasn't a punishment, meaning you broke one of your own rules when you hurt me. I'm allowed to say and do whatever the fuck I want until this is over." You should be allowed to do that all the time, but it's best not to push it.

Bruce grunts in response. "I'll let it slide for now. But don't get used to it." He finishes applying the salve and puts on clean bandages, but doesn't move to get off of you until you turn around to look at him and pointedly clear your throat. Unfortunately he doesn't give you any space, instead lying down next to you and putting his arm around you, carefully avoiding the burn.

"I'll give you the painkillers now, but then you should get some rest. Your body could use the extra sleep." You glare at him. "Oh yeah? I wonder whose fault that is." He doesn't react, instead holding the painkillers up to your mouth so you can finally take them. "I was thinking we could get your favorite food when you wake up again, and maybe watch a movie. What do you think?"

You only hum in response, your eyes falling shut as the painkillers kick in, making you sleepy. You subconsciously lean into the warmth that's radiating from Bruce before you drift off.

#I think it's romantic of him to put it on your back bc he wears it on his chest so you fit together like puzzle pieces when spooning ❤️❤️❤️#lycheewritings #yandere #yandere dc #yandere batman #yandere bruce wayne #yandere justice league #x reader #reader insert #yandere!batman #yandere!bruce wayne

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linkito · 1 year ago

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What's this au that watcher/vex art was similar to? Tell me all the things? -🎀

It’s less of an au and more of just an idea for a start of something? Either way~

It begins with young Watcher-in-training Grian fleeing from the Watchers, finding refuge in a cave that draws him in with some kind of powerful magical aura. He hopes it can mask his trace.

Unfortunately for him, it’s the home of a large, monstrous vex (Scar). He’s very feral and scraggly looking, and he has some awful magic-locked cage muzzle/gag on, leaving his teeth constantly bared and preventing him from speaking. (It doesn't make him safe by any means; he still has claws and various weapons of past attackers scattered around.)

But he’s not attacking Grian. Not yet. Not on sight. He mostly just...watches with narrowed slitted eyes, waiting for something that doesn’t seem to be coming.

Grian is frightened, has no weapon, and he’s significantly smaller. The vex should be able to take him down easily.

So eventually they reach this sort of neutral state of neither of them moving any closer. Grian creeps along the walls and eventually, slowly, settles himself down to sit to rest his poor shaking legs. Scar stares for a moment longer, then also sits, still watching.

Grian figures maybe as long as he doesn’t provoke this beast, he’ll be safe.

(And it's true. Scar is used to people coming in here to steal and demand to make deals with him. Grian clearly didn't mean to be here though. But he's keeping a watchful eye. He doesn't trust it.)

Eventually, Grian thinks maybe the vex is asleep. So he takes this time to meditate. His real eyes close, and hee opens his Eyes to try to determine if the Watchers are on his trail yet, reaching out as far as he can to Look.

When he opens his real eyes again, Scar is directly in front of him, staring more curiously, sort of like he’s wondering if his intruder just died whilst sitting up straight.

Grian yelps and bonks his head on the wall trying to scramble backward.

But Scar also yelps (although muffled) and flails back as well.

And despite everything... Grian can’t help but laugh at that? Because why is he startled?

Now that he’s closer, though, he can make out the Watcher’s symbol on the lock of the cage on Scar’s head. And being spiteful of anything the Watchers might do, he reaches out without even really thinking about it.

Scar freezes.

He lets Grian touch the trap around him, but he still doesn't know for sure this isn’t an elaborate trick? Something to get close and take him down? It would have been Grian's only way of winning, truly. So Scar places a clawed hand close to Grian's neck. He's slow and soft with the touch, but it’s undeniably threatening. If Grian was going for some kind of trap here, surely he'd flinch back?

But Grian swallows nervously and tries his best to reassure the vex that he wants to help.

And, eventually, Scar removes his hand and cranes his head to help Grian look at the contraption, also baring his neck, tentatively trusting.

Grian breaks the seal and slooooowly pulls the thing off of Scar, and oh Scar is so happy.

He grins, big and toothy (full of sharp edges, but it's still so oddly charming?) and grabs Grian to spin him excitedly.

He speaks now, (and oh if his voice isn't also so charming) and he lifts Grian up, looks up at him, lips far too close. "Oooh my gosh, I swear I could kiss you right now!" he exclaims, but he doesn't, a shame, really, and instead puts Grian back down and just starts excitedly introducing himself.

In this case, Vexes have like unlimited magical potential. But they are limited by only being able to use it under the direction of someone else. (thinking like how evokers summon them and direct them) The catch is, vexes are tricky creatures. They can and will warp your instructions to their liking if you leave any room for loopholes or leeway. That’s part of the reason Scar was gagged. To prevent him from swindling you into a bad deal.

So normally Scar would do whatever he could to bend the rules and screw over his master, but he’s so overwhelmingly happy at being freed that he says to Grian, “Anything you want! It’s yours. Anything at all, no tricks, no nothing.” And he means it, too.

And that’s all I really came up with! Like I said, just a beginning.

I think Grian should ask about that kiss.

#ribbon anon #link answers #desert duo #link draws #because I can’t help but add a doodle to everything #hehehe thanks for asking #sorry not sorry for getting a little carried away with it~#caged au

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winteringdream · 30 days ago

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MEET UGLY ──── han taesan

You've had a small crush on Taesan since your first year of university. Now that second year has begun, you're determined to get to know him better. Your first meetings with him are ugly to say the least. But as you try to connect with him, you realize that Taesan struggles to show his feelings. Will the two of you manage to show each other how you feel, or will your feelings remain untold?

✩ ⋅ pairing. bio major!taesan x bio major fem!reader ✩ ⋅ genre. fluff, angst, university!au, mutual pining (i tried) ✩ ⋅ warnings. alcohol intake, miscommunication, ankle injury, mentioning of being followed, reader studies quite hard-core, overworking ✩⋅ wc. 7k ✩⋅ with ive's liz & rei, all of bonedo and triples mayu ✩⋅ a/n: no mentioning of y/n, also the you character is somewhat similar to taesan personality-wise

previous | masterlist

You don’t expect to run into Taesan outside the library, but there he is, standing near the entrance, his usual neutral expression in place. He looks like he’s thinking about something, though, his gaze distant as he leans slightly against the wall.

When he notices you approaching, he straightens. His eyes flick over your tote bag, the weight of the books inside probably obvious. “Studying all day?”

You let out a sigh, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah. Just catching up on stuff.”

Taesan nods, silent for a moment. Then, he clears his throat. “You should take a break.” His looks around, not daring to make eye contact.

“A break?” You blink at him, surprised by the suggestion. Had he been waiting for you?

He exhales, looking slightly to the side as if this is harder to say than he expected. “There’s a record store near campus. It has a café next to it.” A pause. “I thought you might like it.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Is he asking you out?

“Wait.” You tilt your head, amused. “Are you inviting me?”

Taesan scoffs lightly, shifting his weight onto his other foot. “Forget it.”

You bite back a smile. “I didn’t say no.”

And just like that, you find yourself walking beside him. The record store isn’t too far, tucked into a quieter part of the neighborhood, away from the usual campus rush.

The bell above the door jingles softly when you step inside, and a wave of warmth greets you, the scent of old vinyl and wood filling the space. The store is dimly lit, cozy, with shelves upon shelves of records, some new, some vintage. A soft, crackling jazz tune plays from the speakers.

Taesan walks in like he’s been here plenty of times before, heading straight to one of the sections. You take your time, letting your fingers skim over the worn edges of the album covers, occasionally pulling one out to examine the artwork.

“You into vinyls?” you ask, glancing at him. He seems more in his element here, different from how he usually is.

Taesan picks up a record, turning it in his hands. “Yeah.”

You wait for him to elaborate, but of course, he doesn’t. You chuckle at the way he’s clearly trying to distract himself.

“You gonna leave it at that?”

“I like the sound. Feels more real than digital.” You blink at him, surprised by the suggestion.

You hum, considering that. “I get that. There’s something nice about hearing the little imperfections in the audio.”

Taesan nods approvingly, as if you just passed some kind of test. He moves further into the store, and you follow, pausing when a particular album catches your eye.

“Oh, my dad used to play this all the time when I was a kid.” You pull out the record, smiling at the cover. “My favorite one out of all the ones he played.”

Taesan glances over, then back at you. “You have good taste, then.”

You blink, surprised by the casual compliment. He doesn’t seem to notice what he just said, already scanning the shelves again.

You spend a while browsing, exchanging the occasional comment about album covers and song titles. Eventually, Taesan checks the time. “Coffee?”

You nod, and the two of you step out of the store and into the small café next door. It’s quiet inside, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wrapping around you like a blanket.

As you wait for your drinks, you lean against the counter. “So, you do this often?”

“What?” Taesan replies, looking at you. He takes note of the way you’re standing, in stark contrast from when the two of you were still uncomfortable with each other.

“Take people to record stores and coffee shops.”

Taesan huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Not really.”

“Not really, or not at all?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, after a beat, he shrugs. “Not at all.”

Something about that makes your stomach do a small flip. You glance away, focusing on the barista handing you your drink.

The two of you find a small table by the window, where the late afternoon light filters in. For a while, neither of you speak, just sipping your drinks in comfortable silence. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he says. “You should send me songs you like.”

You raise a brow. “Why?”

“So I can see if you have decent taste.” His smirk is subtle, but it’s there.

“Bold of you to assume I’ll text you.” You scoff, trying to see if he’s serious or not.

“Then how are you gonna prove me wrong?” he challenges, leaning slightly forward.

You open your mouth to argue, but stop when he slides his phone across the table. You blink at it. Then at him.

“You’re serious?” you ask.

A small warmth spreads in your chest as you pick up his phone and enter your number. When you slide it back to him, he types something quickly before your own phone buzzes in your pocket.

You check the message. It’s just your name, nothing else.

You raise a brow at him. “That’s it?”

“What else do you want?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee. You shake your head, but you’re smiling. And though you can’t see it, Taesan is also smiling.

The sky is dimming when you step out of the café. The conversation flows easily as you walk, teasing him about his questionable opinions on music and laughing at his responses.

By the time you reach your dorm, the air between you is comfortable, natural in a way that feels new. Taesan lingers for a second, then nods toward your phone. “Text me when you get to your room.”

“Why? So you can make sure I don’t listen to bad music?” You joke.

His gaze flickers to you. “Something like that.”

“You told me I had good taste. Are you sure it’s not because you want to steal some of my good taste?” Earning a scoff from Taesan.

“I only complimented you once, don’t get too ahead of yourself.” He replies with a smile on his face, his arm reaching out to open the door for you.

The two of you wait until the elevator arrives before saying goodbye. Taesan feels the need to say more but he doesn’t get the chance to.

“See you around, Taesan.” You wave to him as you walk into the elevator.

“Yeah. See you.” He nods, feeling somewhat disappointed that the date had ended. “Don’t forget to–”

“Lock my door. I know, I’ll make sure.” You flash a smile to him, and he smiles back. Once again he waits and makes sure the doors of the elevator are fully closed before turning back.

His fingers tighten around his phone and he unlocks it to see the chat between the two of you still open. Even though only his message with your name is displayed on his screen, for some reason, having your name in his contacts feels like something important.

Taesan doesn’t open his phone until he gets back to his own building, but when he does his heart skips a beat.

A message from you is staring at him.

door is locked 🫡

He almost drops his phone when he sees you typing, quickly turning off his phone. He catches sight of his face in the elevator mirror, his cheeks flushed and his expression somewhat happy? He quickly wipes his expression blank.

He turns on his phone and reads the message off of his lock screen.

i had a great time today

thanks for taking me to the vinyl shop and cafe, i really needed a break :)

After a brief hesitation, he unlocks his phone and types something.

get some rest

He sends it before he can overthink, shoving his phone into his pocket as if that’ll stop the feeling creeping up his chest. And even though he tells himself it’s nothing, that same small, undeniable smile finds its way back to his face.

It starts as a drizzle, soft raindrops tapping against the pavement as you and Taesan walk through campus. The sky had been cloudy all afternoon, but neither of you had checked the forecast, too caught up in the conversation. You had grabbed coffee together after class, and everything had felt natural, lighthearted and comfortable.

But then the rain picks up, you should have expected it. Spring was nearing.

You glance up just as a droplet lands on your cheek, followed by another. Within seconds, the drizzle turns into a steady pour, the cold seeping through the thin fabric of your sweater.

“Oh, you have to be kidding me,” you groan, pulling your sleeves over your hands as if that’ll protect you from getting drenched.

Taesan exhales sharply, looking up at the sky in exasperation. “Of course this happens now.”

“Should we run for it?” you ask, glancing toward the nearest building, but Taesan has already grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward a large tree near the walkway. Its thick branches and dense leaves offer some shelter, but not much.

Underneath, the two of you stand close, droplets slipping through the gaps between the leaves, dampening your hair and shoulders. You shake your sleeves out, huffing a laugh. “Well, this is great.”

Taesan runs a hand through his hair, pushing wet strands away from his forehead. “At least we’re not completely soaked.”

“Not yet,” you point out, shivering slightly.

He notices. Without hesitation, he pulls off his hoodie, shaking out the water before holding it out to you.

You blink. “What—”

“You’re cold,” he says simply.

“And what about you?” You hesitate, looking between him and the hoodie.

“I’ll survive,” he says, tone even. Then, when you don’t take it, he sighs and raises a brow. “Or do you just want to keep shivering?”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you’re still cold.”

He wins. Huffing, you take the hoodie from his hands and pull it over your head. It’s warm, slightly damp but still more comfortable than your thin sweater. The scent of him lingers. It’s clean, familiar, something that makes your stomach flip unexpectedly.

You tug the sleeves over your hands, glancing up at him. “Happy?”

“Just a little.” His lips twitch slightly, like he’s holding back a smirk. He tries his best to refrain from smiling, but the way you look in his hoodie is adorable to him.

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the way your fingers subtly curl into the fabric. The rain continues to fall around you, steady and rhythmic, the air carrying that distinct, fresh scent of a downpour.

“Thanks,” you mumble, adjusting the sleeves.

Taesan nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. The rain continues to fall around you, steady and rhythmic. For a while, neither of you say anything, just watching the empty walkway, listening to the soft patter of raindrops against leaves.

Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t know when it happened.” His body language shows he’s uncomfortable, his fingers pulling on the hem of his shirt.

“What?” You glance at him.

His eyes stay fixed ahead, as if he’s still deciding whether to say it. Then, with a slow inhale, he turns to face you fully. “I like you.”

Your breath catches.

His expression is unreadable, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes your heart race. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t look away. It’s as if he’s already accepted the weight of his words, even before knowing how you’ll respond.

“You do?” you ask, your voice quieter than you expect.

Taesan exhales, his lips twitching into something like amusement. “Yeah.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “That’s usually how it works.”

You huff a soft laugh, still stunned. “And you’re telling me now? In the middle of a downpour?”

“Not like I planned it.” He shrugs, but Taesan wished it wasn’t raining. Maybe he would’ve done something more special, but he couldn’t take it anymore. His heart was about to burst with the love he has for you, waiting any longer would result in a heart attack, he was sure of it.

You shake your head, but there’s a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the hoodie. Despite the rain, despite the way your fingers are still cold, you feel something settle inside you, a realization that you’ve been waiting for this. For Taesan to show you how he feels, for him to come to you.

You meet his gaze, heart pounding. “I like you too.”

Something shifts in his expression. His shoulders relax slightly, the corner of his mouth curving upward in the smallest, almost relieved smile. He tries his best to slow down his racing heart, but the fact you like him too makes it hard to.

For a while, you both just stand there, hidden under the branches, listening to the rain. The world outside feels muted, softened by the misty air. It feels like a secret moment, one just for the two of you.

After a beat, Taesan exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was going to wait.”

“For what?” You turn to him, a drop of rain falling on your forehead.

“I don’t know,” he admits, glancing away briefly. “For the right time, I guess. But I don’t think there was ever going to be one.”

You could’ve at least picked a day with better weather.” You joke, looking up at the leaves and branches of the tree.

He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well.” He gestures vaguely to the sky. “Didn’t exactly have control over that.”

You smile, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no uncertainty, no second-guessing. Just the sound of the rain, the quiet, and the fact that, despite everything, you’re both here, standing under this tree together.

The common area of the dorm is relatively quiet when you walk in, save for the low hum of the vending machine and the occasional footsteps in the hallway. The overhead lights cast a warm glow over the space, where Rei, Mayu, and Liz are gathered.

Rei is stretched out on the couch, flipping through a textbook, her legs draped over Liz’s lap. Liz, completely unbothered, is focused on scrolling through her phone, and Mayu sits on the armrest, sipping on a soda.

You step inside, still slightly dazed. You’re barely a few steps in when Rei looks up, her brows furrowing.

“You look out of it,” she declares.

Liz turns to look at you, tilting her head. “Oh, she does.”

Mayu lowers her drink, narrowing her eyes. “You were out with Taesan, right?”

At the mention of his name, your stomach flips. You grip the sleeve of your sweater instinctively, your mind replaying the moment under the tree, the way the rain had softened everything around you, your own words slipping past your lips before you could second-guess them.

I like you too.

You take a deep breath and walk fully into the room, sitting down in the empty chair across from them.

“He confessed.”

For a moment, there’s silence. It’s as if time has stopped. The three girls blink, not registering the words you just said.

“WHAT?!” Rei shrieks, sitting up so fast that her textbook slides off her lap and thuds onto the floor. Liz lets out a gasp, and Mayu’s soda almost spills as she jerks upright.

“No way,” Liz breathes, her eyes wide. “Taesan? Confessed?”

“You’re lying.” Mayu blinks at you like you just told her a celebrity had died. “He actually said it?”

Rei is already leaning forward, eyes gleaming. “Wait, wait, wait, like, with words? He actually admitted it?”

You exhale sharply, still barely believing it yourself. “Yeah. Under a tree. In the rain.” You say, and chuckle softly, realising how stupid it sounds.

Mayu recovers from her shock quickly, a soft smile forming on her lips. “I knew it. I knew there was something there.”

“Hold on, hold on. What did you say? ” Rei urges, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. The other two girls also lean forward, anticipating what you have to say.

“I confessed too.” You hesitate to say it, but there’s no point in dragging it out. You inhale sharply, preparing for their reaction.

Liz inhales sharply. “NO WAY.”

Mayu’s smile grows, and Rei immediately lunges across the couch, grabbing your wrist and shaking you. “You confessed back?! You actually said it?!”

“Yeah.” You nod, heat creeping up your face. Suddenly the room feels hot, the realisation actually hitting you that you and Taesan both confessed.

“I cannot believe this!” Rei falls back dramatically onto Liz’s lap but immediately sits up again, practically vibrating with energy.

“Wait. Does this mean you guys are together now? Like, are you dating?”

“Uh,I don’t know. We didn’t talk about that.” You stammer, you hadn’t thought about it at all. The moment was too intense to think properly.

Rei groans. “Ugh, typical Taesan.” Then she pauses, grinning. “But also, typical you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You frown, looking at her.

Mayu chuckles, sipping her soda. “She means that you overthink things, and Taesan overcomplicates them without even trying.”

“Exactly. But still! This is huge. We need to celebrate.” Rei declares, shooting up from her seat and pulling you along with her.

“Celebrate?” you echo, as the four of you walk towards your dorm.

“Duh. It’s not like you get confessed to every day. You’re the first one who is going to get a boyfriend.” Liz says, slamming the door behind her closed

Rei stands dramatically, placing a hand over her heart.

“Our emotionally constipated friend has finally admitted her feelings. And Taesan—TAESAN—confessed first? This is historic.”

You shake your head, but you can’t stop the smile from forming.

Mayu helps Rei take out the wine that was hidden in your fridge. Liz pulls out a chair for you to sit on.

“To our dearest friend, who has finally managed to pull Taesan after crushing on him for the entirety of our first year and half of second year.”

Taesan barely makes it through the door before Woonhak nearly collides into him. He’s on his phone, a tiktok playing on his screen.

"Yo!" Woonhak exclaims, eyes widening. "Where have you been? And why are you soaked from head to toe?"

He steps back, scanning Taesan like he’s searching for something unusual. Jaehyun is sprawled out on the floor, one hand lazily digging into a bag of chips, but at Woonhak’s words, he slowly lifts his head.

"Were you with her?" Jaehyun squints, eyeing him up and down.

Riwoo, lying on his bed with Leehan, glances up and side-eyes Taesan. "He was with her. There’s no way he’d be this soaked if he just ran from the lecture hall back home."

"And?" Sungho asks, arms crossed. "What happened?"

Taesan exhales, already regretting coming back at this hour. He steps around Jaehyun and kicks off his shoes, ignoring the way all five of them are watching him with increasing curiosity.

Jaehyun slowly sits up. "Hold on." His gaze sharpens as he studies him. "Something’s different."

"He looks happy," Woonhak squints. “Yah, Han Taesan what did you do?”

Riwoo lets out a short laugh. "No way."

"No, no. It’s worse than that," Jaehyun says, pointing at him. "He looks in love."

"Did you confess?" Sungho tilts his head.

The room goes still.

Taesan grips the hem of his hoodie, the hoodie he lent you, still faintly smelling like rain and your perfume. His jaw tightens, and he looks toward his bed, but the hesitation in his movements is enough of an answer.

"No way," Riwoo says, sitting up properly now.

"NO. WAY." Jaehyun’s repeats, shooting up onto his feet. He walks over to Taesan, gripping him by his shoulders.

"Oh, this is good," Leehan grins, propping himself up on his elbows to get a better view of what is happening.

"And?" Sungho leans forward slightly.

"Don’t and us! What did she say?" Jaehyun shouts, shaking Taesan back and forth.

"She confessed too." Taesan sighs, pressing his fingers to his temple, pushing Jaehyun away to make him stop shaking him around.

Jaehyun physically falls over onto the floor, clutching his chest like he’s just been shot.

"I knew it," Leehan claps his hands together, laughing.

"Took you long enough," Riwoo shakes his head.

"Really did," Sungho smirks.

"WHAT. YOU TWO. ACTUALLY. SAID IT?!" Woonhak jumps onto the bed, causing Riwoo and Leehan to look up at him, the bed shaking as he bounces from Riwoo’s bed to Taesan’s bed.

"So, does this mean you guys are dating now?" Woonhak stops jumping as he lands on Taesan’s bed, sitting down cross-legged on his bed.

The room falls silent again.

"We… didn’t talk about that," Taesan mutters. A series of groans can be heard throughout the room.

"Seriously?" Leehan blinks.

"Oh my god!" Jaehyun groans, throwing his hands in the air. “Of course he forgets to ask!”

"What do you mean you didn’t talk about it?" Woonhak collapses against the bed dramatically.

"It’s not that simple," Taesan scowls.

"It is that simple! You like her, she likes you! Boom. Dating," Jaehyun groans louder, dragging his hands down his face. Woonhak laughs loudly at the sight of his frustration.

"At least you got this far," Sungho laughs, also finding the sight of Jaehyun’s frustration amusing.

"I’m going to shower," Taesan mutters, “And then I’m going to bed. What are all of you even doing here?”

“Woonhak wanted to drop by because he misses us sooo much.” Riwoo teases, “You know he always wants all six of us to hang out.”

"But we’ll let you sleep. Sweet dreams, loverboy," Riwoo continues with a smirk, eyeing Taesan to see his reaction.

"Dream of your girlfriend," Jaehyun cackles, continuing Riwoo’s teasing. Taesan grabs the nearest pillow and launches it at his face. Jaehyun yelps as the pillow hits him, knocking over the bag of chips.

"You deserved that," Sungho bursts into laughter.

"He is so in love," Woonhak giggles, curling up at the edge of the bed.

Taesan scowls but doesn’t argue. For the first time in a long time, the noise in the dorm doesn’t bother him at all.

The next morning, you wake up with a mild headache. Rei, Liz, and Mayu had made a huge deal out of your confession, practically toasting to your emotional development like it was some kind of historical achievement. You’re pretty sure Rei even teared up at some point.

Your phone vibrates against the nightstand. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you reach for it.

Are you awake?

You blink at the screen. It’s a simple message, nothing unusual, yet your stomach still twists. After everything that happened yesterday he’s already texting you first thing in the morning?

barely. why?

There’s only a brief pause before his reply comes.

Meet me outside.

right now?

Yeah

Heart pounding, you push off the blankets and scramble out of bed.

"Why are you up so early?" Rei mumbles, turning around to face you.

You hesitate before answering, "Taesan wants to meet."

That wakes her up instantly. She bolts upright, nearly knocking over her water bottle. "WHAT?"

"Keep your voice down!" you whisper, already pulling on a hoodie.

"What does he want?”

"I don’t know," you say, hurriedly fixing your hair. "I’ll find out."

"Text me everything," Rei insists, but you’re already out the door.

Outside, Taesan is leaning against a lamppost, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. The morning air is crisp, and his hair is still slightly messy, like he barely ran a hand through it before coming out. When he sees you, he straightens slightly.

"You actually came," he says. His voice is soft, but still a little rough from sleep.

"You texted me before I was even fully conscious," you reply. "Of course I came."

His lips curve slightly into a smile. "You hungry?"

"Huh?"

"Breakfast," he says, glancing toward the path leading to campus. "Let’s get something."

It takes you a second to process. He didn’t just text you to talk, he wants to eat together. It’s such a simple thing, and yet warmth spreads through your chest before you can stop it.

"Yeah," you say, tucking your hands into your sleeves. "Okay."

He nods and starts walking, and you fall into step beside him.

The café near campus is quiet in the mornings, the kind of peaceful that makes you want to sit there for hours. You get something warm, hands curling around the cup as soon as it’s set down in front of you.

For a while, there’s only the sound of spoons clinking and the low hum of conversation. The silence between you isn’t awkward, but it is new.

He’s the first to speak. "Did you tell your friends?"

You huff a laugh. "Oh, yeah. They lost their minds."

"Figured." He exhales, shaking his head slightly.

"What about you?" you ask. "Did you tell anyone?"

He stirs his coffee idly. "Woonhak and Jaehyun wouldn’t let me breathe until I did."

You grin, already picturing the equally dramatic response his friends would have.

He doesn’t comment further, just takes a sip of his drink, but there’s something in his expression. His fingers drum against the cup before he finally says, "So, what now?"

Your breath catches. You look at him, and for once, he isn’t hiding behind sharp remarks or avoidance. He just watches you, waiting.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

Taesan is quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup. Then he shifts, resting his arm on the table as he leans in slightly. His voice is steady, but there’s something careful about the way he speaks.

"Can I be your boyfriend?"

Your breath catches.

He says it plainly, without hesitation, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he watches you, waiting. He isn’t trying to be casual or detached, he’s just asking, straightforward and sincere.

A slow smile tugs at your lips. "Yeah."

"I'm glad," he says, voice quieter now. "I wanted to ask properly."

Your chest tightens, warmth spreading through you. "You did," you murmur.

Taesan holds your gaze for a moment longer before nodding, like he's committing this to memory. The two of you fall back into easy conversation, and for the first time in a long while, everything feels right.

It starts with the best of intentions.

You and Taesan claim a table in the library, notebooks and textbooks spread out between you. Your goal? To get through at least three chapters before taking a break. Taesan seems cooperative, flipping open his book without complaint.

For a while, everything is fine. You highlight important passages, take neat notes, and occasionally glance at Taesan to see if he’s actually working. He is. Sort of.

Then, after about twenty minutes, you feel his gaze lingering.

At first, you ignore it, assuming he’s just thinking about something. But when the silence stretches, you glance up. He’s not even pretending to read anymore. He’s just watching you, his chin propped on his hand.

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” He tilts his head slightly. “You concentrate really hard.”

You blink, unsure whether he’s teasing or making an observation. “That’s kind of the point of studying.”

A hum of acknowledgment, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, he shifts closer, resting his arm on the table so that he’s leaning in. You try to go back to your notes, but it’s difficult when he’s practically in your space.

“Taesan,” you warn.

“Hm?” He’s still watching you, an almost amused look in his eyes.

You sigh, pressing your pen harder against the page. “Are you even paying attention?”

He smirks. “Not really.” Of course, he isn’t.

You roll your eyes and try to refocus, but now it’s impossible. The warmth of his presence, the subtle scent of his cologne, the way his voice dips when he’s teasing, it’s distracting in ways you don’t want to admit.

Taesan picks up his pen and lazily twirls it between his fingers. “You’re not paying attention either.”

You open your mouth to argue but realize you haven’t written anything in the past five minutes. Scowling, you nudge his arm. “This is your fault.”

“We’ve been here for almost an hour. Let’s take a break.” He chuckles, shifting back slightly.

You shake your head, trying to suppress a smile. “You’re the worst study partner.”

“I’m not that bad,” he counters. “You’re still getting your work done.”

As the days go by, the changes in Taesan are subtle. It starts with small things, like when you’re walking through campus, and without thinking, his hand brushes against yours. At first, it’s barely a touch, but you both feel it.

You glance up at him, surprised, but Taesan doesn’t seem to notice the weight of the moment. His eyes are ahead, a little distant, but there’s a quiet satisfaction in the way his lips curl slightly. He doesn’t look at you right away, but you both know.

The next time it happens is in the library. You’re sitting next to him, textbooks open in front of you, but your focus is on the way his knee gently bumps against yours. It’s almost too casual, like it’s nothing, but you can’t help but notice.

You look at him, trying to see if he’s noticed, but Taesan is absorbed in his notes, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Taesan,” you say softly, not entirely sure what you want to say.

He looks up, meeting your eyes. “Yeah?”

“You’re okay with this?” you ask. You don’t need him to explain everything, but you need to know that he’s not pulling away.

Taesan pauses, the moment stretching between you, before he leans back in his chair, his gaze shifting toward the window. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Later that evening, you’re walking back from dinner, and the breeze stirs your hair, sending it in every direction. You try to brush it away, but before you can, Taesan’s hand gently reaches up, tucking a stray strand behind your ear. His fingers linger for a beat longer than necessary, the touch warm and tender.

His voice is low, almost a whisper as he says, “You’re beautiful.”

The simplicity of it catches you off guard. Not the words, but the way he says them, like he believes them, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to admit. You stop for a moment, meeting his gaze, and see something you hadn’t noticed before, a vulnerability, soft and unguarded.

“Thank you,” you murmur, feeling the flush on your cheeks. You could say something in return, but for now, the silence between you feels just as perfect.

As you keep walking, his hand brushes against yours again, this time lingering a little longer. Neither of you pulls away, and for the first time in a long while, you realize that all the uncertainty, all the hesitation, has faded away.

Months pass, and the season shifts from spring to summer. The air is warmer now, and the campus feels different. It’s the perfect time for growth, and you find that, just like the season, everything between you and Taesan has changed and grown into something more comfortable, more secure.

You and Taesan have settled into a routine that feels effortless, the way two people who truly know each other function. Study sessions turn into late-night talks, quick coffee runs into quiet walks through the campus, side by side, hands brushing, fingers intertwining.

Even the silences are comfortable now, filled with shared glances and understanding that needs no explanation.

One afternoon, after an impromptu study date in the library, you and Taesan head to a nearby park to unwind. The world around you feels distant, everything quiet except for the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze and the occasional laugh or shout from children playing nearby. It’s peaceful. Perfect, even.

Taesan's voice breaks the silence, casual but with a tenderness you’ve grown to love.

“You know,” he begins, his gaze on the horizon, “I was thinking about how we first started. All those misunderstandings, all that back and forth.”

You laugh softly, a fond smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, I remember. It feels like forever ago.”

He glances at you, his eyes soft, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t expect any of it. But I’m glad it happened this way.”

“I think I am too,” you reply, your heart warming at the moment. You can hear the sincerity in his voice.

You sit on the grass, facing each other, his knee brushing against yours. The space between you feels just right. You’ve both learned how to be vulnerable, to be present with each other. You’ve grown together, and it’s evident in the way you both respond to one another: thoughtful, patient, affectionate.

He leans back on his hands, looking at the sky, and then turns back to you, his expression a little more serious. “I’ve never really done this before. This whole being with someone like this. It’s not something I was good at.” He smiles slightly, a bit shy. “But I’m figuring it out. With you.”

Your chest tightens from the overwhelming sense of gratitude and warmth that washes over you. You reach out, gently taking his hand in yours. “Me too. And we’re doing fine.”

A soft chuckle escapes his lips, and he squeezes your hand. “I think we’re doing more than fine.”

It’s true. You’ve both come to a place where the quiet moments like holding hands, sitting together in the park, sharing simple smiles, speak volumes.

Later that evening, as the sun begins to set, casting a golden glow over the world, Taesan pulls you closer, his arm around your shoulders, and you lean against him. There’s no rush, no expectation to move faster or slower. It’s just the two of you, here, now, figuring things out as you go, but with a sense of certainty that wasn’t there before.

You don’t need to speak it aloud. What you have now is something solid, something real. And for the first time in a long time, you feel completely at peace.

As the evening wraps around you, the stars starting to twinkle in the sky, you know that whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.

And that’s all that matters.

a/n : hi guys! ty for reading i had lots of fun writing this so i hope you enjoyed it too!!

taglist: @jungwonbropls, @enzstr, @bluecene @brownetry

bnd taglist: @ihruaz

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johnwickb1tsch · 1 year ago

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bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 2 <<Part 1

-You are sitting on a bench in the lakeside park, reading a book and enjoying the bright winter sunshine when a cold nose presses into your hand. You look up to find a blue pitbull nuzzling you for pets. “Oh hi there, baby,” you coo, scratching his broad head without a thought. You follow the leash to the owner, and are very surprised to see Mr. Wick standing there, looking endearingly embarrassed about it all. “Sorry,” he says. “He pulled me over here.” He gives the dog a look as it leans against you, getting side scritches with a blissed-out doggo look. You have a notion that Mr. Wick might be jealous, somehow, but you push it away.

“That’s ok. What a good boy. What’s his name?”

“Um…Dog.”

You smirk up at him. “Original.”

He sighs, looking at you through his hair, and it pulls at your heartstrings for some reason. You pat the bench beside you, and he accepts, though he sits as far away as he can. “He likes you,” he says, looking ruefully down at the dog. “Do you have pets?”

“No,” you admit. “I travel too much.”

“Yeah?”

You can tell he’s surprised to hear this. Most people are. But you live frugally on your barista’s salary so you can go abroad for a month or so. You’re a budget traveler for sure, but you’ve been all over the world.

“Yes. I’m going to Italy this summer.”

“Sounds nice.”

“You’ve been?”

“Several times. For work.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m retired.” He doesn’t elaborate, and you leave it for now. You don’t really talk anymore, just look at the lake, and pet his dog who leans all his solid weight against your leg. You are content in the companionable silence.

You think he is too.

- It’s interesting sometimes, watching the interpersonal pageants of the regulars. When thrice divorced Victoria Fraser-Sims lays eyes on Mr. Wick for the first time in what you have come to consider his corner, she starts coming in for a lot more no-fat double-shot sugar-free vanilla lattés. All the locals are quite…aware…of Vicky’s predatory habits. A part of you wonders if you should warn Mr. Wick, but you reckon a single man who looks like him is quite used to fending off hungry cougars.

She starts by sitting near his table in her tight workout clothes, ostensibly bending over to pick up repeatedly dropped objects, affording various views of her generous cleavage and spin-class toned rear end. You know you have no right to feel so pleased that Mr. Wick seems to ignore her.

But then she ups her game, so bold as to sit down at his table with him to chat. He talks to her politely. One day, she actually succeeds in making him laugh. You hear it, loosed like an arrow that strikes you from across the room.

You have zero right to be jealous, of course, but you can’t help it. You and Mr. Wick have a thing.

Maybe just in your own head, but still.

But maybe they would be a good couple, you reason sadly, making yourself think realistically. Closer to the same age. And he does seem so lonely.

A few days later they come in the door together, seeming content, and your heart plummets to your feet. Holy shit, she actually pulled it off. They’re dating, you’re perfectly convinced.

In that moment you decide to back off. Mr. Wick is at least twenty years your elder. What the fuck would he want with an awkward little gremlin like you? It’s amazing sometimes, how well you can delude yourself. A curse of having a vivid imagination, perhaps. He’s just polite, and you are kind to him, because he seems a little broken. You resolve to behave. No more quips. No more teasing. From this day forward it shall be only, Here’s your coffee, yes sir, have a good day.

You’ve never been terribly good at keeping resolutions, but you’re going to try.

-Your determination to leave Mr. Wick alone is timed conveniently with a new hire who is around your age. He is and cute, and you get on immediately. Your flirting is fairly harmless, though you know the shop is filled with loud laughter from the two of you when your shifts coincide. Sometimes you feel Mr. Wick looking over at you after you’ve had a good chortle, and you sense he is annoyed.

Once, you catch him glaring at Brian’s back like he might like to carve the boy’s liver.

You try to quiet down, but it never really lasts. It’s been a while, since you’ve met someone who you click with so well. A comrade makes working in the service industry slightly more endurable, after all.

-One day, you burn yourself on the steamer wand while Mr. Wick is waiting for his order. Maybe it’s the volume of the unladylike expletive that spills from your lips, but he does not hesitate to come around the counter to check on you. It hurts like a motherfucker, and while you blink back tears you are quick to dig out ice to put on it. He even more quickly bats it into the sink, flipping the faucet on. “Cold water is better.”

Before you know it he is guiding your wrist into the stream with a gentle but exacting grip. “Hold that there,” he instructs. You can’t fathom disobeying him.

Brian stares rather dumbfoundedly at the customer behind the counter. “Um…sir? You can’t be back here.”

“Then get her the first aid kit instead of standing there looking useless,” he snaps, and the young man jumps into action, scurrying away.

John gives a low whistle once you’ve finished with the cold water, blotting you dry at the butt end of the counter. “You got yourself good.”

“It’s not the first time,” you sigh. You’re not particularly clumsy, but it happens when you’re juggling five things at once to keep the drink orders moving.

John bandages the burn for you, frowning at the salve provided in the first aid kit that expired years ago, but deciding it will do in a pinch. His long-fingered hands are precise, but gentle, and as he touches you, you feel your brain turn to mush. You can’t remember the last time someone took care of you like this.

Maybe he’s not mad at you after all.

Later that day you appear from the back, to find a little paper pharmacy bag on the counter with your name written in concise black print. Inside there is more ointment, large Band-aids, and a little Snickers chocolate bar.

How did he know it’s your favorite?

Even though you didn’t see him come or go, you know it was Mr. Wick, and this small gesture touches you to tips of your toes.

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves #yandere john wick #yandere #bittersweet john wick imagine #john wick fic #john wick imagine

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s-4pphics · 1 year ago

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click!: in frame. 1 (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: you crave redemption more than love. [idk au]

WORD COUNT: 7.7k

WARNINGS: professionalphotographer!ellie, strugglingartist!oc who’s black, ANGST!!, loss and unhealthy grieving, papa issues, verbally abusive parent(PLEASE TREAD LIGHTLY), depictions of therapy and counseling, light discussion of anger management, brief mention of alcohol, bullying, a lil fluff, SMUT!! YIPPEE MDNI, bondage, squirting, bathroom sex, eating out no taqueria, ellie getting sloppy from a hot milf that’s it

You look like your mom.

Your father’s admiring whisper yanks you out of the hazy turbulence in your mind. You shovel a handful of caramel popcorn in your mouth. You don’t dare look at him.

Daughter things, I guess. Your dad simply hums. Silence simmers between the two of you. It’s not comforting. Not like it should be. A bomb is coming.

Honey, I… I love you. Your father sounds like he's crying and it pauses your aggressive chewing. You finally turn to face him and your fingers twitch when you see his globby tears. They’re heavy as he releases his regrets in silence, just like he always does during this time of year.

Me, too, dad.

You’re not sure if you’re lying or not. Some things are impossible to forget, you suppose.

You eat more popcorn with a permanently damaged heart.

FOUR YEARS LATER

FIRST DAY WITH DOCTOR BROWN.

“Some people believe that any form of assistance is… insulting. Whether it be to them as people or… specific traits that they hold that others may find unfamiliar or unsettling. I’m not here to judge or anything of that nature. Just here to help you figure out why specific aspects of your life affect you the way they do.”

Your arms cross over your chest. Dr. Brown realizes you’re not taking the bait, so she attempts to get you more comfortable. “I think icebreakers could help ease some of the tension. So… What’s your favorit— “

“My dad died last year.”

Your statement makes her freeze, her smile melting off her face, eyes shifting across her face. She adjusts some papers on her clipboard and clicks her pen. “Alright, hun,” Her gentle tone makes your stomach twist. “Let’s talk about it. What was the relationship with your dad like?” You simply shrug.

Dr. Brown nods and tries again. “Were you and him close? Your notes say you and your mother were inseparable, just like me and mine.”

Your nails sink into your cuticles and tears burn in your eyes, “I… I wanted to be. Close.” You whisper. “He wasn’t around like that, though.”

She scribbles and solemnly nods, “Did he work often?” Your head bobs and droplets stream down your cheeks.

“I didn’t think I’d care that he died… He was never around growing up, so… like, whatever.” You grumble lamely.

“What did losing him feel like?”

The end of your mouth curls downward, the familiar searing you’ve grown to loathe, “Like… the world was burnin’.”

“Elaborate.” She pries softly.

Another bounce from your shoulders. You readjust in your seat. “I wasn’t even sad. Just…” You trail off, fingers twitching under your arm.

“Angry. I was angry all the time.” You rush out quietly, face burning with shame. “Just like he was.” You pause when your breath shakes, “I wish I got some of my mom’s traits. My dad’n I are just alike.” You fiddle with the sleeves of your sweater.

“… You’re not like him— “

“I am— “

“You’re not. You’re trying to put in effort to be better for the future. Could he have said the same?” She’s stern when she speaks.

You’re stumped. You wipe your tears harshly. For the first time, you're at a loss for words.

WEEK TWO WITH DOCTOR BROWN.

“Think about the first time you saw your dad lash out. You can elaborate on how you felt, how you reacted, how your environment changed… Anything you feel comfortable sharing.” Your eyes stay glued to your therapist’s couch as you recall the day. Every detail and foul verbiage he directed towards your mother resurfaces and falls at your sock-covered feet.

It was the morning of your first day of second grade. Your mother spent the entire morning hot-combing your hair, bumping your ends, littering your locks that were bound to recoil in seconds in bobbles and clips. She could tell by your expression that you didn’t like it, but she completed your bright pink outfit with it’s not for you, it’s for me! Sit still! She never failed to live vicariously through you; Every childhood moment she couldn’t live out was now yours.

Your father wasn’t around much. He was a truck-driver, on a constant voyage to wherever he was instructed to go, hundreds to thousands of miles away from solace for months — sometimes years at a time. He missed birthdays, holidays, family reunions; There was always a missing space for him somewhere in your childhood home, whether it be his customized keychain that he forgot, shoes he didn’t pack, a hug he didn’t give. Proof of him was always scattered around somewhere, but he was a shadow. A blank memory.

So, why were your cartoons interrupted by his booming voice in the kitchen?

You remember turning the television down, only by a couple digits, your ears honing in on every word he screamed at your mother. You were so confused. Half of those words you’d never heard before. Why was he so mad this early in the morning?

You knew it was serious when your mother retaliated just as loudly, the cracks and shrieks from her belts sounding alarms in your brain. Your mom’s in trouble! Help her! But how could you? You were defenseless against him. It felt like the day flew by as their aggression intensified, curses nearly shattering the glass of your backyard door before everything went quiet.

But still, your feet carried you to peek behind the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen. Your attempts at being discreet were pointless, though. When you saw your mother pinned up against the counter by your father, tears streaming down her face as he spat with every whisper onto her cheek, you gasped. Your memory is washy after that, but you remember your mother wiping her tears and slapping that comforting grin on her face. You wish you didn’t remember how broken she sounded when she said alright, baby! Ready for school? Don’t wanna be late!

You suffered through social studies, language arts, and math. Your mind wasn’t where it should’ve been; You couldn’t shake the fact that your mother could be hurt and she had no one to tell. You just prayed to yourself as your teacher spoke, hoping that your mom would be on time to pick you up at the end of the day.

Your eyes travel over the teal incisions of thread on your therapist’s seat. You’re still not used to the sound of your own voice. “It’s… it’s a funny story…” You sound so weak. You retell what you can, all while following the tip of your therapist’s scribbling pen.

Why did it have to be green? Why are the clicks deafening?

“Ellie, holy fucking — shit, these look fucking incredible!” Yuki whispers, expression impressed as she snoops over the auburn-haired girl’s shoulder, inspecting the aerial shots she’d taken a few hours ago. Editing is a bitch. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re…”

“A genius, I know,” Ellie says dryly, a soft grin hidden behind the hand that holds her head up. It’s almost eleven. “M’almost done— “

“Nope! Not happening!” Another voice exclaims from the black lounge chair on the opposite side of the room. “You’re not the one that has to lock up every goddamn night! I ain’t stayin’ here ‘til two again! You got two seconds to finish up before I drag you up outta here.”

Yuki giggles at Saliyah’s scolding, and Ellie sighs. The pictures look almost perfect. Almost. They’re not there yet! All she needs is an hour… or three—

“What did I say! —“

“Alright, alright, fuck.” Ellie shakes her head before closing all her tabs, pulling her flash drive out of the PC before shutting it down. She stands from her rolling chair and snags her blazer from over the back of it, throwing it over her shoulders and grabbing her work bag, camera already securely inside. She shoves the drive in a random pocket before stretching.

The two girls already have all of their belongings in hand, more than ready to clock the fuck out. Yuki eyes her slyly, sarcasm dripping from her tone, “Oh, wooow, she’s actually taking orders, now? Listening to instructions for the first time? —“

“Can you stop.” Ellie mutters as she follows the girls descending the stairs. “No!” They both say in unison. Ellie smiles. Does she really stay out that often? There’s no way she’s that stubborn.

All three girls crack jokes as they vacant the building, ensuring all the lights and equipment are shut off and prepped for tomorrow. It’s an early day.

“Alright, bitches!” Yuki screams into the darkness, bag swinging as her heels click-clack on the pavement. “I want you bright and bushy-tailed tomorrow! Busy day! No time to fuck arou— “

Saliyah yawns, eyes droopy, “Girl… fuck you.” Ellie cackles and rubs her tired eyes. She can’t wait to get these six hours in. And see her baby. Saliyah wraps her arms around Ellie’s neck, muttering see you tomorrow, stinker into her neck. Ellie hums and holds her before watching her get into her vehicle.

Ellie does the same after both girls leave the parking lot, her head falling back onto the headrest, eyes shutting in exhaustion. Today was insane… Fuck, it was incredible. She's always accepted opportunities to take photos in nature. Landscapes are her prestige, but when she got the offer to take aerial shots of the ocean, she couldn’t say no. Just when she thought she’d never get on an aircraft out of fear…

The shots were mystical, the monsoon winds carrying the waves in all directions as the foams ripple, a scene straight out of her dreams. The second she got off the helicopter, she got to editing. Staying in late to perfect her captures has become a terrible habit, but what can she say? She loves her job. Thank God her coworkers are as sweet as cherry pie and support her bad habit. Besides tonight, apparently.

Days like this keep Ellie humbled… Most times. She deserves to boast every once in a while. She often thinks back on her college days, how out of touch chances like these seemed. The number of times she was brushed off by respected professionals because she lacked “necessary resources” was astronomical. But look at her now. She had everything she could ever want: a career she’s passionate about, healthy friendships, and the means to take care of her father.

Well… she has most things.

She sighs and starts her vehicle, the diamonds in her Rolex sparkling under the street lights beaming in from the window. The streets are calm. Not normally bustling like they would on a regular day. The clouds are coming in; Rain is due. She’s so excited.

It’s a calm drive back to her small home. She pulls into the driveway and exits with all her supplies, unlocking and entering her place of peace.

Meow! Meow!

Ellie clicks her tongue at Pickle, “Hiii, mama. I’m home.” She drops her bag on the small couch near the front door, bending down to pick her up. “You’re heavy, fuck.” The baby purrs and nuzzles into her neck as they enter the kitchen. She sets her down on the counter and opens the fridge for water. There’s soft scuffling from behind her as she sips.

Ellie turns to see Pickle playing with a pen, rolling it across granite. She swallows her last gulp before sighing, picking up the utensil, the one memory she kept of you. Your colorful fucking custom ballpoint pen. Pickle nibbles her fingers, trying to snatch it back to play with, but Ellie clicks it over and over.

“Miss her? Yeah?” She whispers. Pickle licks her index. Ellie will never admit it, but she thinks about you whenever she sees her baby. Yours, too.

She hopes you’re alright.

“You said that going to his funeral was different from your mom’s. Do you mind elaborating?”

You shrug and scoff. “Shouldn’t everybody feel sad when they parents die?” Dr. Brown mimics you, “Not at all. Every reaction to loss is different and not all reactions are symmetrical.”

“I was angry.” Your statement is blunt and abrasive.

“Expound.”

“I wanted to dig him up and spit on him my damn self.” You say, sharp as razor blades. Brown hums, unfazed by your sudden aggression; What the hell do therapists write on those clipboards? “I just… Seein’ all these fuckers I didn’t know talk about how fuckin’… great he was and how missed he’ll be was fuckin’ infuriating. They don’t know shit about that man or the shit he’s done.”

Sympathy washes over Dr. Brown’s pupils. “See, your temper is the reason you’re here. You’re not obligated to forgive anybody that wronged you, but…” She’s simultaneously stern and empathic, “You do not get to use those emotions to inflict negativity onto the people around you. You’re perpetuating the same harm you wanted to avoid in the first place.”

You instantly know what she’s referring to and guilt radiates all the way down to your toes. Amaya… Oh, you miss her. Another good person caught in your violent crossfire. Your last conversation was vile, and you hate yourself every day for the things you said to the only person who unconditionally cared about your wellbeing. Tears brew in your ducts, but you blink them away.

“I didn’t… know what to do…” You didn’t, so you screamed and shouted and told her to never call your fucking phone again. The last thing you berated was the final nail in the coffin for your relationship. You left me, you’d said over and over until the line went dead. You left me alone! I fucking needed you!

“No one has the answers for these types of situations. Why we react the way that we do to traumatic events will always be a mystery.” She adjusts in her chair, leg crossing over the other. “What I do know is that… you’re fighting grief. You’re choosing not to experience it, and it’s making you lash out on people who don’t deserve it.”

But how does one grieve the person that made their life… unlivable? Through rage. Rage in its purest form: unfiltered, erratic, sizzling. It’s unrelenting and unforgiving and holds no bounds, prepared to be released at any moment, no matter who’s present. Your father’s home has seen it all at this point: glass shattering on walls, screaming into the closet where all his clothes hang, punching the pillow he slept on every night.

Everything was exactly where your father left it, and instead of crying, you relinquished hell on the home he left in your name. You’re still surprised it wasn’t engulfed in flames after his funeral.

“I just…” Harsh sniffles from you, desperately wiping your tears with damp hoodie sleeves, “I don’t know what to do. Nothing feels… real anymore.”

“You’re real, baby.” This is the most delicate Dr. Brown has ever sounded, tone hushed. “Your feelings are real, your pain is real, but so is everyone else’s. You have to remember that.”

You’re listening so intently, “What I'd suggest…” You already know what she’s going to say, and you’re petrified. You sag into your seat.

You owe those two girls an apology.

Flashes of green race across your memory. The meadows are back, and they’re haunting.

“Three.” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“I owe…” A heavy exhale. “Three girls an apology.”

OCTOBER, 2013

Ellie’s officially fifteen. She’d give anything to be home right now.

She was so happy before she left that morning. Her dad woke her up with a heaping stack of iced chocolate chip pancakes that were the size of her head and happy birthday candles. Laughter echoed through their household, following as they cascaded down the stairs to blast music. Neighbors be damned. Everything was perfect. Up until she was dressed and ready and in the car.

Ellie’s dad held her hand the entire drive. He didn’t comment on her white knuckles as she gripped his digits when he kissed the back of her hand. It took her a second to exit the car when they arrived, so he said the usual. You got this, kiddo. The extra encouragement provided a boost, for sure. She was able to get to class on time.

Every time a wad of paper or a sharpened pencil hits the back of her head, she regrets not begging her dad to let her stay home. She’s grown used to the snickers, the shoulder chucks in the hallway, but it doesn’t hurt any less.

English concludes and she’s silently packing when her bag gets yanked out of her hand.

Missed you, stalker, A kid who Ellie doesn’t fucking remember snarks with a dark grin. Where’s that book you always have—

Tyler! The teacher’s voice booms, the class filling with oooh’s, That's enough. Give her stuff back now.

C’mooon, I can’t talk to my girlfriend? The remaining students burst into laughter and Ellie’s face burns, swallowing the lump that’s forming in her throat.

How about I call home? Tyler sucks his teeth at the threat while his friends laugh, dropping Ellie’s things on her desk with little care. She wastes no time to flee, shoving her earpods in and synching each trembling breath with the heavy percussion.

Her dad comes to pick her up an hour later.

A light tap on your shoulder tears your attention away from the lengthy equations on the board. Numbers and letters? Your fucking ass; Absolutely not!

You turn to Amaya, who’s smiling wide, shoving a folded note in your hand, rushing you to open it. Your brows crease as you face forward, unraveling the nest crevices and met with… hearts? Glitter? Pretty penmanship? No man wrote this, thank God.

Hi. You’re really pretty and nice. Would you like to sit with me during lunch?

Ceniyah

… Ceniyah? … Thee Cece? The person you’ve been obsessed with since middle school? What the fuck is going on!

You turn back to Amaya who’s giggling into her palm, catching glimpses of a shy Ceniyah, who keeps her head down, her beaded braids shielding her face. Your face burns and you jerk back forward. It’s not a fucking prank, what the fuck, what the fuck—

Class drags like a bitch, but the bell finally rings, and everyone hustles, shoving books in their bags, running to the cafeteria. You refuse to move, though. Your iron is low and the person you’re in love with asked you to crunch on celery sticks with her. Alone. You're bound to pass out the second you breathe wrong.

Hi.

You nearly fly out of your seat at her soft tone. She sounds like an angel. You’re going to die. You jump out of your chair and… take in the beauty that she is. She smells like heaven and her skin is perfect, not a blemish in sight. You hope she can’t see your acne scars… and she’s shorter than you. Are minors allowed to get married?

H-Hey, You hold up the pink piece of construction paper, I, uh, got your note… It’s beautiful. Her smile shines brighter than the sun. She shakes her head and the chains locked on her clips tinker like fairies.

Are you kiddin’ me! That mural you helped create was crazy. That was beautiful.

I love you.

Your eyes go wide. Did you say that? You don’t think you said that… Her smile turns confused and you realize you said that. You almost stab yourself with your pencil. I mean, like, I love how you appreciate art! Like, not m-many people… do that, and stuff…

She smirks and your heart squeezes with delight, And stuff? She inquires with an arched brow.

I’d appreciate it if you ladies headed to lunch so I can enjoy mine. Your teacher interrupts, And the next note that gets passed earns a detention.

A soft, floral-scented hand closes around your wrist, over your beaded bracelets and charms. You grab your bag with your last remaining strength and follow her like a puppy, her flowy skirt brushing against the bottoms of your jean-clad legs.

Best… day… ever.

PRESENT

Ellie needs to start doing finger stretches. Her hands are starting to hurt every time she clocks out.

She’s sitting at her desk, re-editing the infant photos she took earlier today. The twin girls from earlier were absolute angels, smiling and cooing up at the camera behind their matching pink pacifiers. She's never thought about having children… ever, but it might not be so bad—

Meow! Meow, meow! MeowMEOW—

… Nevermind. Kids are not for her. She can barely get this one to act right. The pictures are cute, though.

“What’s the matter, mama?” She coos down at a doe-eyed kit-kat. “Hungies?” Pickle jumps up and into her lap, staring at the bright screen that displays Ellie’s editing software. Ellie smirks down at her, “What, you wanna try?”

Pickle blinks up at her. No thoughts, just kibble.

She decides to save her progress on the photos and give her munchkin some love. The few minutes of head pats and runs are cut short when she gets a pop-up from her email. She pays it no mind at first, but she zeroes in on the subject with furrowed brows. It simply reads hi… an overdue apology. Ellie blinks a couple times before suspecting spam… But who the fuck names a spam email something that cryptic? What the fuck?

Ellie opens it… and her body goes numb as her eyes follow each word.

hi, ellie. i’m not sure how to start this off, but i hope it’s decent enough to sit through. i apologize in advance.

you probably don’t remember me, but we had statistics and used to live together in college. it was only for two months (i think, kind of a blur) but… yeah. i hope it semi-kinda rings a bell. hi again.

this is a very random time to reach out, and i understand any confusion, but i just wanted to apologize for everything. i was terrible to you. i'd never thought i'd become a judgmental person, but i did. i mocked you, i spoke behind your back, and probably ruined your last year of school, and i carry that regret with me everywhere i go. i’m not sure if i'll ever be able to express my remorse properly.

i’m trying to do better. i want to do better, but i can’t unless i express it.

you never have to talk to me again, and i understand if you don’t, but if you ever want to have a conversation with me, i’d be more than willing to come wherever you are to do so. or we can exchange numbers if it’s less of a hassle. i see how busy you are.

thank you if you took out any time to read this jumbled mess of thoughts. i’m very nervous. i hope you continue to live beautifully.

sincerely, someone trying to start fresh.

(p.s. i swear i'm not a stalker. you’re really popping on instagram. congratulations on everything.)

Ellie wastes no time and unplugs her entire PC, the screen going black. Her heart is racing and water surfaces above her pupils. Pickle purrs in her arms as she backs her rolling chair from under the desk and scurries into her bedroom. She sets the kitty down on her bed and clutches her chest. She forgets to count, forgets to breathe as detailed images of you scatter in her head.

You… what the fuck.

Ellie feels her hands start to shake, so she squeezes them in a fist as she paces. Her gasps are choked and she’s spiraling into panic; She can’t unsee your teary, brown eyes, how you tried to mask your sadness when she stated she was leaving. She was able to convince herself that she’d never see you again, and it took her so long to be okay with that. She’s grown to be okay without your presence.

The burnt trail she left behind has reignited again. She's sinking, drowning, just like she did years ago.

WEEK FIVE WITH DR. BROWN

“How do you feel now? Be honest.”

“… Still shitty… but alright, I guess.” You’re hoarse when you speak.

“Elaborate. What does alright mean for you?”

You pick at your fingers, “I’m not… I don’t wanna, like, kill myself… if that’s what you’re asking. The ball’s in their court now, I guess. I’m… I’m just alright.” Your shoulders bounce in a shrug.

“Has anyone answered?” Your head shakes in denial. “Don’t let that jeopardize your progress. However they react to you contacting them is not on you anymore. They either accept it or they don’t, and they’re valid in both options.”

Dr. Brown pauses and eyes you skeptically, “What?” You ask.

She shrugs, “One person isn’t on your making amends list.”

Your reply is immediate, “Probably for a reason.”

“Do you remember what you told me during our first meeting?”

Irritation boils under your skin. “I see where you’re taking this conversation and I’m not messin’ wit’ it… Respectfully. Next topic, please.”

Her hands raise in surrender, “Ay’, I’m not here to make you do diddly-squat. Merely providing perspective.”

“Right.”

“You did beat that girl to a pulp, though. I will say— “

“It’s what she deserved.” You say flatly. “She… humiliated me, and when her bitch left, she tried to come back to me. Get me pregnant— “

“Chile, I’m not tryna hear all that— “

You scoff and fall back in your seat, cushions and pillows molding with the curve of your spine. Dina bringing her happy ass to your father’s home after his death was one of the most infuriating experiences of your entire goddamn life. The second you opened the door, you were met with wildfire and permanently scarred. The least you could do is give her a fucking black eye.

What you did after that… you’ll never regret. Ever. She can blast you on Twitter all she wants; She’s dead to you.

Dr. Brown sips on her black tea with a pointed stare, “Yes, ma’am?” You say sarcastically.

“Watch that tone,” That look in her eye… she meant that. You’ll be quiet. “She was wrong for what she did, but you ain’t innocent.”

“I’m sorry, but I disagree. That one… she can choke. I don’t care.” Dr. Brown is disappointed by your answer, but frankly, you don’t care. That ship sailed and sank like the goddamn Titanic.

She seems disappointed in your answer, but she lets it go. “… Alright, then.”

On the brink of a heart attack perfectly explains how Ellie’s been feeling for the past week. The number of times she’s reread your fucking email is genuinely embarrassing, but she’s weighing her options: she either blocks you or accepts your offer. She's never been so conflicted in her life. She desperately needs a fucking break.

She never takes Saliyah and Yuki up on their offers to turn up on Friday nights, but her rampant emotions backed her into a corner… and now she’s tipsy on the dancefloor of some rinky-dink club. One night of release wouldn’t hurt.

Ellie really wishes she had a grilled cheese. They’re quite delicious… Probably not the thoughts she should be having with a hot older woman pushing back on her to fucking T-Pain, but she’s hungry! Liquor gives her the appetite of a fucking rhinosaurous, what can she say!

Saliyah and Yuki are handling business for her, though, giving the lady’s ass very encouraging slaps every time their hips connect. Ellie probably looks like a fucking dumbass as she pumps her fist in the air like an old man, but she can’t remember the last time she partied. Sue her!

It’s not until the woman stands upright, her sweaty, nearly bare back pressed against Ellie’s button-up, an arm coming up to loop around her neck, slightly shifting her bow tie that Ellie freezes, her fists clenching even tighter in the air. Her core gives a sharp squeeze when she feels sticky, glossed lips imprint on her throat. Her eyes bulge as she frantically searches for guidance from her friends, but they’re no fucking help, as usual! What the hell is miming sex and eating pussy going to do for her? She can barely breathe.

Her friends shoot her finger guns in encouragement before heading back to the bar. A tongue darts out to lap up her anxiety-induced sweat, and her body tremors, her hands untwisting to land on the girl’s jean covered hips for leverage. She feels teeth beam on her neck and her entire body flushes.

“You’re adorable!” Ellie hears her scream over the blasting music. Her tongue jumbles as she searches for a reply, but nothing leaves. She just drops her head onto the woman’s shoulder… and nearly flat lines when she eyes the cleavage sitting taut in her halter top. Her heart’s pulses synch with the ones from her clit when the woman giggles. Ellie’s ninety-five-point six percent sure that her nipples are poking through her shirt.

Her teeth sink into the inside of her cheek when the woman spins to face her, chest to chest, noses almost touching. The woman’s gaze drops to her neck, cunning as a fox as she undoes the first button of her shirt before unraveling the loop of her bow tie. She leans in, wafts of cinnamon flooding Ellie’s nostrils.

“Come to the bathroom with me?” Ellie’s nodding before the lady can conclude the purr in her ear. Her hand gets snagged and she’s being dragged through the hot crowd, all the way to the back of the club and shoved into the giant restroom. She finally takes in the goddess in front of her: dark hair, plump lips, pretty lashes. The wrinkles by her eyes and laugh lines are sending dopamine alarms in her brain.

Ellie receives one gentle kiss that makes her hips

grind forward before she hears, “You ever been tied up?” The raven-haired woman mumbles against her mouth. She whines, cheeks burning, “N-No,” she whispers.

Her perfect teeth shine, “You wanna be?”

Does she? “I — yeah, I guess?”

“Put your wrists together,” she hums and Ellie does. Her own bow tie gets looped and twisted around her nimble hands. The woman drops to her knees in front of the trembling girl, massaging her thighs over her jeans, planting kisses all over them, “You gotta name, honey?”

“Ellie… M’Ellie…” The woman’s hands creep up to unbutton her jeans, the soft hiss of the zipper, “What’s yours?” She only receives a shrug. “Whatever you want it to be.” Her jeans are yanked down seconds later, her… fucking Cartoon Network boxers drenched all the way through. The woman giggles and calls Ellie a cutie pie and her clit jumps.

Her manicured nails hook under the band of Ellie’s boxers, slowly inching them down until her soft, sticky hairs are on display and her boxers are around her knees, “Gonna let me eat this pussy out, angel?”

Ellie’s vision whites out. Only for a second, “Y-Yes, ma’am…”

Ellie’s sopping lips and pulled apart, her red, throbbing clit on display for the fucking witch in front of her. “You’re so fuckin’ cute. Anybody ever play with this pretty cunt?” Reality crashes down on her like a boulder as images of you touching her, kissing her flash before her eyes. Her jaw slacks as her words flurry.

“Just — fuck, just one time.”

“Yeah?” She coos, massaging gentle circles on her clit, “I'm your lucky second?” Ellie nods frantically. Her knees buckle when a sharp slap lands on her pussy, “Ffuck—“ The strokes on her clit are punishing, fast and non-stopping, the woman’s teeth gritted when she asks, “Steppin’ out on your girl, huh?”

Ellie moans around her denial while her cheeks glow, “N— agh, s-shit, wasn’t m’girl—“

“Yeah? She touch you like me?” The woman snickers, and Ellie burns red. She’s already so close and she can’t fucking think, “Think m’cummin’—“ Ellie slurs, her tongue thick in her mouth as her walls squeeze down, desperately trying to pull something, anything in as deep as possible.

“Can feel it. Tell me when.” But Ellie couldn’t. Her orgasm crashes into her like a fucking truck and her body falls forward, legs trembling as it wracks through her in harsh waves. The thighs that try to close are forced open, sharp stings radiating off her skin from the nails that pierce them. Strong suctions attack Ellie’s clit and she sobs, practically riding the woman’s face. Vibrations from satisfied hums stimulate her further, and she swears she’s going to pass out.

The pleasure builds all over again and her eyes squeeze shut, her hips thrusting forward and into the woman’s mouth. Her optics cycle into her skull when the space right below her clit gets stimulated just right and she rides that edge all over again, but this time, it’s stronger. The woman’s groaning in her pussy like she’s starving, and Ellie can barely garble her warning of another orgasm.

She squeaks when a gentle finger slides between her walls and she wishes it felt like yours did. Ellie’s bound hands entangle in the soft locks and pull, pushing her head any which way to guide her where she needs. She doesn’t register that she’s whining your name until the woman asks, “Tha’s your girl?” Right on her pussy, and Ellie tips.

She’s so loud when she explodes all over this stranger’s face, wetness coating her inner thighs, dripping all the way down to the bottoms locked around her ankles. You take refuge in the nasty side of her brain as she envisions you between her legs, you making her feel this good. Something about the way you touch her… She thinks it's impossible to replicate till this day.

When Ellie comes down, she falls against the door, relishing in the steady kitten licks on her twitching bud. One last gentle kiss, and the woman separates from the mess between Ellie’s thighs, chest wet with her juices.

“Good, honey?”

Ellie blinks like she’s risen from the dead, short hair clinging to her forehead. She shoots the woman two thumbs up and she chuckles, untying Ellie’s hands and helping her back onto her feet. The woman helps her redress after she cleans herself up, and Ellie’s nose twitches when her own stickiness latches onto her clothes. Her arms fall back to her sides when her belt gets secured.

She’s winded when she finally speaks, “Um… thanks…” How the fuck does Ellie say goodbye to someone who sucked her soul out?

“No problem…” The woman’s warm hands are soft as they push away damp strands from Ellie’s forehead. The freckled girl nearly purrs. Call her Pickle at this point.

Ellie steps away from the door so that the fucking seductress can exit. The woman backs away and unlocks the door with a gentle smile. “You should text her.”

Ellie’s stomach churns. “… What.”

“The girl that’s not your girl.” That’s the last thing she says before stepping out. Ellie’s heart plummets when her eyes lock with Saliyah’s, then Yuki’s. Her friends gawk at her disheveled appearance, lipstick stains littered all over her button up. Ellie’s not nearly as embarrassed as she should be; All she can think about is you.

“I think I’m in trouble.” Ellie states mindlessly.

“Doesn’t look like it.” Yuki snickers and pulls Ellie out of the bathroom. She hides her face when she’s met with the long line of people desperately needing to piss.

WEEK SEVEN WITH DOCTOR BROWN.

“You look bright.”

You feel brighter. Just a little bit. You’ve finally gotten your locs retwisted.

“Amaya texted me back.” Dr. Brown seems impressed at your statement, happy for you. A small smile makes its way onto your face.

“Yeah? What’d Ms. Producer say?”

“She, um… She wants to have dinner.”

“Oh? And what’d you say?”

“I said of course and then sobbed until I got here.” Dr. Brown chuckles, “When’s the big meal?”

“In two days. I got a hotel near where she’s at, so… Yeah. Probably won’t see me for a little.”

“Good for you, honey.” She says proudly, “Heard from any others?” Your head shakes. It’s not surprising that Abby and Ellie haven’t reached out to you. They don’t owe you any closure, even though it took you a while to accept your karma.

“Progress is progress, nonetheless.” Her tone reverts back to stern, “Remember… when you see that girl, don’t expect anything to come from it. She’s going out of her way to speak with you, not the other way around.”

Your head bows shamefully. You're incredibly nervous to see your best friend… if you deserve to call her that anymore. Anxiety isn’t foreign to you, but you’re anticipating the worst for your meeting. You’d give anything to mend your relationship with Amaya, but how’re you going to be able to overcome the guilt of abandoning her?

You can’t remember the last time you went to the campus coffee shop.

When Amaya sent you her new address in the middle of your old college city, you sobbed for half an hour. You’re not sure why considering the entirety of your graduating class is gone (hopefully in hell); It’s a mix of emotions coming back here. The baristas that used to work here have been replaced with new bushy-tailed freshmen with under eye bags. The coffee isn’t the best, but it’s oddly nostalgic. You feel fucking old just looking at their bright customer service smiles.

Your attention gets snagged away from your steaming cup when a sharp gasp echoes from behind you, nearly spilling your drink all over your flannel when someone calls your name. Anxiety spikes in your gut when you see…

Who is that?

“Oh my goodness! Sweetheart!” An older woman with gray hair and a cardigan places her hand on your shoulder and your eyes bulge out of your skull. “It’s so good to see you!”

What the fuck is going on? “You... You, too, uh… ma’am!” You put on the most believable smile you can. Is your memory really this fucking bad?

“Students don’t usually stick around after this long! Our major was pretty small, you know how it is.” Major… Students… Graphic design… Professor! Your memory clicks but her name doesn’t. What the fuck is this woman’s name! You feel like a cunt all over again!

“I’d love to catch up if you’re sticking around!”

“Um… yeah, of course.” Her smile is bright when she enters the line. Relief floods through you when she gets to the service counter and one of the baristas says good morning, Professor Meyers!

You silently thank the Lord.

“What brings you back to town, honey!” Professor Meyers asks excitedly.

“Um… just missin’ school, I guess.” You lie. Fuck this school.

She swallows her sip of tea before pausing, “Wow. First time I heard that. I didn’t see you at graduation!”

Your chest concaves and your face burns, “I, uh. I didn’t graduate. I dropped out.” Professor Meyers' expression drops, pity written all over her face.

“Wh— Why?”

You shut down her interrogation, “I just… stuff happened. I couldn’t handle everything all at once.” Her eyes sadden and she places a comforting hand on top of yours.

“I’m so sorry, honey. Whatever it was… I hope it’s okay, now.”

“Getting through it.” You shrug, feigning nonchalance. The air is suddenly suffocating.

“Y’know… if you’re interested…” Professor Meyers’ tone is suggesting. Your brow quirks at the woman plotting in front of you.

“Some of the art profs are always looking for some extra help for the introductory courses. Your rough drafts were always pretty spectacular.”

Your body burns. “Thank you.”

She smiles and reaches into her bag in the other chair, pulling out a small card and handing it to you. “This is my contact information. I can set you an interview with Professor Ronson if you’d wanna join the little alumni support team.”

You accept her card, “But I’m not… I didn’t graduate— “

“Oh, hush now! If you go to college, you’re an alumni! These exclusive rules are outdated!” Professor Meyers stands with her bag and tea. “I gotta run, but please consider it! It could be a great marketing opportunity for you!”

You're left to simmer in your thoughts as she rushes out of the cafe. You didn’t even have the chance to tell her that you haven’t touched a canvas since your father’s funeral.

You waltz into the upscale restaurant with tied lungs. Prepping an outfit for tonight was a hassle; You were forced to rummage through your father’s closet for suitable attire. You can’t remember the last time you made a purchase for yourself.

You feel out of place standing here with the… upper class. They’re dressed to the nines and it’s incredibly intimidating. Your eyes cast downward to your wrinkly shirt and blazer; Why didn’t you bring a fucking iron?

“How can I help you, miss?”

Your eyes bulge when they lock with the host’s and gut churns with discomfort. Your legs wobble closer to the counter, “I— there’s… reservation…”

The host stares at you with utter confusion, “Oh, sure! What’s the name?”

“Um… Amaya— “

“Ms. Robinson?” The host’s eyes fill with glitter, “Oh my gosh, when I saw her walk in earlier, I was like, no way she’s actually here. This is crazy! But it was really her! I couldn’t believe— “

Another host interjects, “My apologies, ma’am! She’s a bit, uh, excited. Your table is right this way.” The host begins walking, and your feet move on autopilot, “Would you like a menu?”

“No. I’m good, thanks.” You won’t be able to keep anything down anyway.

You move through bustling walkways, ears filled with bouts of obnoxious laughter and corny jokes with each table you pass.

Your heart stutters in your chest when you see the isolated leather and rosewood booth where Amaya sits, her back to you. There’s two glasses and a bottle of… something on the table.

“Ms. Robinson! Your guest is here!”

Amaya, filled glass in hand, cranes her neck and meets your flitting gaze. Her eyes are stagnant, unmoving, and your nerves wrack. She looks fucking immaculate with the slit in her black dress, smokey makeup, heeled

shoes. She’s dressed down for a fucking funeral. Yours.

You’re actually not ready to see her. You’re not ready at all.

“You want a glass?”

Amaya’s tone is cold. Colder than the dripping neck of the bottle right in front of you. “N-No thank you.”

She scoffs laughter around the rim, “Shocking.” You scramble for a reply, anything to say to the woman oozing impatience in front of you.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper. She sets her glass down with an unsteady clink.

“You said that already.” She states, brown eyes sharp. “Why are you?”

You scratch at your ear, trying to mask the tremors in your fingertips, “Because… I — I wasn’t…”

“I don’t hear from you for months,” She spits, “And then I get a phone call from my drunk best friend screamin’ at me, tellin’ me that I fucking left her to grieve by herself… because I’m selfish and money hungry… Right?”

Angry tears sizzle in Amaya’s eyes as she continues, “And I still come and visit you… only to get a door slammed in my fuckin’ face.”

You’re completely frozen; You can barely look her in the eye. Your hands are clenched together under the table, nausea creeping up your throat. “I… there’s no excuse for what I did— “

Amaya’s eyes are void, “Why did you do it.”

“I don’t know how to explain it,” you rush out, desperate. You’re losing her, “He — I was just — I couldn’t control myself and I screamed and yelled and blamed everyone for what happened. I was just so mad and I couldn’t stop— “

“Abby called me two days ago.”

You gasp, “S-She did—?”

“She told me she hated you.” Amaya says plainly. The remaining shards of your heart dissipate like dust, leaving your mouth when you whimper, “O-Okay.” Tears stream down your cheeks and neck, harsh sniffles filling the small corner of the restaurant. “She hasn’t, um… never mind.” That’s why she hasn’t reached out, you suppose. Well deserved.

“I don't… hate you, you know that, right?”

You sob, palms in your eyes, “S’okay if you do. I deserve it.”

She shrugs, “I don’t. I’m just very disappointed in you.” You nod in agreement, in understanding. You accept that this is probably the last time you’ll ever see someone you considered a sister.

“I’m so sorry, May— “

“M’gonna head out. I’m,” She wipes a tear and grabs her bag, throwing a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “I… I don’t hate you.” You cry as you watch Amaya gather herself, stand, and leave without another word. You heave and attempt to dry your face with the fresh napkin but they won’t stop flowing.

It’s difficult, accepting that you’re undeserving. That you’ve dug yourself into a hole that you can’t escape. It’s dark and cold and you’re desperate for comfort but it never comes because you chased it all away. You eye the tall bottle that sweats; Very tempting, but you leave it where it stands. The blame for your downfall is yours to take; The only reward you can receive now is from your upkeep. To dig yourself out from beneath the maggot-infested dirt. To resurface and recover what you can.

You’re unsure how long you sit here crying. Devastation sets hard in your tummy when you stand to leave the restaurant, ignoring the judgmental stares from the annoying, old fuckers that wouldn’t stop glaring at you.

The air outside is fresh and soothing as you walk, right past your parked car. Past the young people mingling and taking pictures. Past the girl doing graffiti on the old building across the street. Something beats in your chest when you eye her spray paint cans, brushes in her hand, the bright colors all over her bare arms. Her passion is evident, even from a distance, and you miss that. That feeling that takes over when you create something that no one else can replicate. Her style is unique to her just like yours is to you.

Color sparks in your soul for the first time in a year, and you know what you have to do tomorrow morning.

taggiesss yasss n slayyyy @dyk3ang3l @ellieloml @inf3ct3dd @fromminaa @womenofarcane @sawaagyapong @mina-281 @aouiaa @bbglmfao @i00rii @sakiigami @starologist @southelroys @diddiqueen @trackinglessons @ellieswhorcrux @villainousbear @p4ison1vy @tohoko @yuckyfucky @dollyfleurs @elsbunny222 @sevsbimbo @amiorca @alittlextrahoney @gato-chino @topiatwin @r3wbeef @elliesatchel @muthafuckingstargirl

#in frame ✎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･#ellie williams smut #ellie williams #ellie williams au #ellie williams angst #ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #black!reader #black!oc #lesbian #works 𖧧࣪#photographer!ellie

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yanderes-galore · 2 months ago

Note

Platonic Zim Hcs (Invater Zim) 🪲 [Shiny Bug Anon]

Sure! Let me try my best. He isn't going to understand anything in this... Like usual, assume you're all adults for this AU. It takes place in the future.

Yandere! Platonic! Zim Concept

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Stalking, Isolation, Secret cameras/recordings, Jealousy, Murder implied, Kidnapping, Drugging, Dubious turned forced companionship.

Let's be honest, Zim doesn't know anything about human companionship.

Nothing.

He doesn't have a very positive outlook on humans and tends to think of them as lesser beings.

But... let's be honest...

In this universe he sort of has a point.

We've seen episodes where he not only doesn't understand human 'courtship'... but also friendship.

It makes sense for him, however.

Irkens aren't really ones for personal relationships.

So... friendships...

Zim would only try to have that if it benefits him.

Like... messing with Dib.

Zim would probably try to befriend you if you're friends with Dib.

He's good at manipulation... and likes to just mess with Dib at times.

Zim is an arrogant person.

He originally pushes friendship for his own goals and seems rather forceful.

He practically tries to bribe you with gifts or favors.

All in the name of 'human friendship' apparently.

You probably only go along with it because Zim ends up getting persistent and annoying.

It's then that Zim accidentally learns human customs.

He originally was just going along with what you did to spy on Dib or even you to see if you suspected Zim of anything.

He ends up playing what you humans play 'video games' with you.

He practically knows around your house... with help from secret cameras.

He knows whatever Earth slop you eat since he watches you eat it all the time.

Which usually ends up in him remembering it and finding it for you.

While he starts by being fake friends with you... G.I.R is completely fascinated with you.

It's so difficult for Zim to get the unit to act like an actual dog around you.

At some point he just accepts the fact you're going to know G.I.R is a robot and just... tells you he's a really good inventor?

Not an alien?

Zim often asks you about Dib since you're his friend and take classes with him.

You answer innocently, even if Dib tells you not to trust Zim.

Zim isn't sure how to feel when he actually starts getting attached to you.

Okay... Why are some of these Earth games actually... entertaining?

He's never going to like eating what you eat... but the sweet things you like are good, actually.

Then there's... why does he hate you around other human bugs?

Zim is surprised that he's envious of you speaking to other humans.

Especially Dib even though he originally befriended you to know more of him?

Since you're all in college in this AU, Zim's probably going to swap majors to relate to you more.

Is it his thing...? Well...

Debatable... Yet you seem very interested in it.

Zim is baffled at what he feels when you're around others.

Zim... jealous? Nonsense!

Jealousy is such a... hm...

Okay maybe he is feeling a bit of envy.

Why isn't ZIM your best friend!?

He's obviously smarter than all the other human flesh things.

Aren't you impressed by what he does?

Eventually you're no doubt going to figure out he's an alien

Or maybe you knew all along.

Either way you tolerate it since Zim seems relatively harmless around you.

... until he isn't.

You tend to notice Zim freaking out when you're with others.

You have a project to do? Why not with Zim?

Just hanging out? Zim would like to join.

Better option, actually... Don't go.

Would Zim actually murder anyone?

I mean... We've seen what he's capable of....

If he really wanted someone gone he could get that done.

Look, it should be an honor to be Zim's best friend.

Anyone else shall be removed.

He'd probably have this elaborate plan and machine to get rid of humans he didn't like around you.

Where did they go? Zim shrugs.

Oh welll~ Better go back to 'hanging out', right?

This could be considered murder... or maybe Zim just sending them somewhere else (not Earth).

Either way they're gone.

Would he kidnap his obsession?

Not surprised if he did.

After all, what better way to keep a human pet to yourself than a cage?

You'll be hanging out with Zim, doing what you two usually do together...

Only for you to wake up in a cell somewhere you don't recognize.

Zim gleefully tells you he had your house gassed.

He had hidden gas traps probably just like how he hid the cameras.

Oh? You didn't know about the cameras?

Poor you had no idea Zim was watching your every move in your home?

Great! Then he won't have to tell you about the amount of footage he has of his human pal.

Can't you see how dedicated he is to learning about humans?

Don't worry... Zim has done his research on how to care for humans...

Somewhat.

At the very least he knows what you eat, do, and wear.

That's good enough, right?

He feels because he's done a ton of research on you, he'll know how to make you like him.

Look, friends aren't something Zim knows much.

Stop screaming at him.

Stop... Just... Hello?

STOP. SCREAMING.

Zim is possessive of you, his newfound human friend.

You're the only good human to him. He just tolerates Dib.

You see... If he keeps you in his secret base... Then you won't have to touch the other filth.

If Dib ever confronts him, he'll play dumb.

Maybe you moved, hm?

To Zim, your isolation is an excellent plan.

Now he doesn't have to record you all the time.

You'll be so fun to watch in the enclosure he made...

His only true human friend... or pet, what's the difference?

#yandere invader zim #yandere invader zim x reader #yandere zim #yandere zim x reader #platonic yandere

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dragon-kazansky · 11 months ago

Text

Heart of the Dreaming

Morpheus x Female Reader

Soulmate AU

You are the daughter of Rodrick Burgess. You find out about the "demon" in the basement and decide you want to see it. Things take an unexpected turn when your soulmate connection is made with the man you find down there. You are the one he has been waiting for, and you're being taken away from. Not for long. Dream will protect his soulmate.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Chapter Ten - Our two hearts

☆☆☆

You stand beside Dream while he fixes up some more lf his realm. He had mended quite a lot of it over the last few days, and the residents were starting to return. You had been introduced to many of them by Lucienne.

Dream had chosen this as a good place to start teaching you about the power he has given you.

He was creating more dreams and nightmares, but it was a slow process. It took a lot of concentration from him to do this. He explained everything to you as he worked, but it was still a lot to take in all at once.

He could see at one point that you were growing weary and came to stand in front of you. "Hold out your hand."

You look at him and then hold out your hand. He takes your hand gently in his, cupping it in his palm. His skin is pale against yours. He looks at you with a small smile. You feel something soft in the palm of your hand and look to see something beginning to take shape. A stem. Long and green, full of life. A bud began to take form. Pale pink petals began to bloom. He lets go of your hand as you look at the flower in your hand.

"You made that."

"What?" You look at him.

"I helped, but you made it." He smiles softly. "I didn't even tell you what to make, you did that all yourself. In fact, you have given me an idea."

"Um... what kind of idea?" You ask, looking up at him.

"I want to give you a gift."

You stare at him, hoping he will elaborate, but he doesn't. He just gives you a little grin and then returns back to his work on the dreams and nightmares.

You look at the flower in your hand and bring it to your nose. It smells heavenly. You smile.

☆☆☆

You walk through the palace with Matthew as your guide. Lucienne had called Dream to speak with him privately about something. He told you he would join you again later, so Matthew brought you back to the palace.

You were still holding your flower, admiring it. They way it smelled, the way it looked, the way it felt. You had made this very special little flower.

"Uh, your room is this way." Matthew caws.

You look up and see that you had stopped paying attention and were now veering away from your location.

"Oh, sorry."

You turn around and follow Matthew down the correct hall. You return to your room. Matthew perches on the end of your bed and watches you put your flower in a vase next to your bed.

"You made that?"

"Yes." You smile. "Isn't it pretty?"

You take a seat on your bed and turn to Matthew. He looks up at you with those big black eyes of his.

"Is he a good man?" You ask.

"Who? Dream? To be honest, I haven't known him that long. You should ask Lucienne, though. She's known him a long time." He cocks his head from side to side every so often. "But I think so, yeah."

You smile softly.

"So, are you two married?" He asks.

"What? No! I've known literally days." You look shocked by his question. "Haven't you been following us around all that time?"

"Well, yeah, but... you two seem kind of close."

"Do we?"

"Well, I've seen the way he's been looking at you recently." Matthew tells you that so causally.

"Oh? How does he look at me?"

Matthew is about to tell you, but someone comes into your room unannounced. You look up to find what looks like a scarecrow with a pumpkin for a head. He turns and sees you and then stares at you.

"Oh, uh, I wasn't aware you were in here, lady."

"Merv!" Matthew caws.

"Oh, right, um. Mervyn, at your service."

"Hello," you greet him.

"He's kind of the handyman around here. Which brings the question, what are you doing in here?" Matthew looks up at Merv.

"Uh, well, you see, his highness is working on something, and asked me to come see what kind of things you like. I just didn't think you were in here. Thought I'd coke snoop through your stuff and get some ideas..."

You chuckle softly and look at him. "You came to snoop?"

"Yeah..."

"That's considered rude. Why not just ask me?"

"Uh... I don't know."

You laugh and stand up. "What do you want to know?"

The next fifteen minutes were spent in a game of 20 questions. Mervyn asked you about your favourite colours, favourite animals, favourite flowers, favourite music, favourite foods, what you liked to wear, what you liked to do.

You told him everything.

He was doing this because Dream had asked him to. You were certain if he wasn't so busy with whatever it is Lucienne needed him for, he would have come to ask you all this himself. It made you feel warm inside.

Once Merv had all the answers he needed, he left. You chuckled as he went.

"You'll get used to him." Matthew said to you.

"I'm sure."

"So, you are staying?"

"I am." You smiled. "The Dreaming is my home now."

☆☆☆

Dream sat on his throne with a thoughtful expression on his face. In his lap was a big red book with your name on it. It contained your life history. Lucienne had brought it to him and stated he should read it.

He saw your childhood on these pages. He saw everything Rodrick Burgess did to you. More the lack of what he did for you. His only daughter cast aside. It infuriated Dream how poorly you were treated by that family. Now you were safe within his realm.

Also in the book was the moment you both met. He looks down at the scar as he reads that part. His soulmate. There was hope in his heart that you would see him differently in the future.

He certainly saw you in a different light.

Dream hoped his gift would be the first step to winning you over. He had concluded business with Lucienne ages ago and then gone to start on your gift. However, he was curious to read what was in your book, so here he was.

As he nears the part where he took you away, he heard footsteps entering the grand throne room. He lifted his eyes from the page he was on and found you walking over to him.

His heart skipped a beat.

Dream closed the book and put it down carefully to the side. He stood and made his way down the steps to meet you halfway. He was pleased to see you.

"Hello," he greeted you softly.

"Hello." You smiled. "Have you been busy?"

"Quite."

There was a slight eagerness to him. You could see it in his eyes and his smile as he stood there in front of you. He almost, almost, childlike.

"What's up with you?" You ask softly.

"Why should anything be up with me?" He asks, smiling.

"Because you're smiling. You don't exactly do that." You pointed out.

"Oh?"

You roll your eyes. "Just tell me."

"Come with me." He starts to walk away. You follow him, trying to keep up with his lkng strides. Wherever he was taking you, he was determined to get there quickly.

He led you out of the palace round the back. You had gone past your room, and down a hall, you were certain hadn't been there before. He took you through a door that led outside into a courtyard. Around the courtyard were empty flowers beds. In the centre was a fountain. Opposite the door, you came out of was an arch covered in flowers that led to more flowerbeds.

You look around you. "What's this?"

"Your garden."

You snap your head towards him and state at him in confusion. "My garden?"

He looks at you in amusement. "Yes."

"What do you mean my garden?"

"Exactly that. I've made you a garden," he says proudly.

"When did you have time to do this?" You knew it took a while for him to build his residents in the Dreaming, so a whole garden would have taken hours, you're certain.

"I can create places quite easily. A garden was simple enough. Once Lucienne left my side, I began this for you."

"You have gifted me a garden?"

"Yes."

You take another look around and smile softly. No one has ever given you something so wonderful before.

"Where are the flowers?" You ask softly.

"Ah, well, that's your job," he states.

"My job?"

Dream guides you over to the closest flowerbed and looks down at the rich soil below. He gestures to it with one hand as he raises his eyes to look at you. "You grew one flower with a little bit of help, so I figured gifting you a garden to practise in would help you."

You look at him on awe. "You did this for me?"

"Of course."

"You didn't have to," you say softly.

"I wanted to."

You feel your heart skip. A warmth settles in your chest. He did this for you. He made this gift for you.

"Thank you."

He smiles at you. His blue eyes seem to brighten. He's certainly handsome. You smile.

"I'll practise. I promise. No more gifts, though. You've given me enough."

He chuckles deeply. "No promises."

You can't help but chuckle, too.

Dream leaves you in your garden to tend to other matters for a while. You're kind of glad because you had a lot to think about. You had him to think about.

Suddenly, everything felt like it was in a new light, and you needed to know what it meant.

☆☆☆

@deniixlovezelda - @missdreamofendless - @kpopgirlbtssvt - @meganlpie - @thoughtsfromlayla - @ladyjbrekker

@mwaaaaaugh - @bluespecs14 - @intothesoul - @lady-violet - @navs-bhat - @krahk - @oldsoulmagic

@rubyrose2014 - @lorkai - @roxytheimmortal - @star-maker-rain-dancer - @intothesoul - @gemini-mama - @whotperlinda

@dreamingblueberries - @the-shadow-of-aurora - @novavida - @blackgirlmagicforever

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 - @hopshusushi - @sloppyzengarden - @thecraziestcrayon -

#heart of the dreaming #morpheus x reader #dream x reader #the sandman #female reader #soulmate au #dragon writes

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ashtavula · 5 months ago

Text

Royalty AU Pt 7: A Meeting With Malleus

Housewardens x Gender Neutral Reader

Word Count: 3716

Start Here

AN: Another double feature!

You groan as you toss and turn in your bed. It’s far too late for you to still be awake, but you can’t sleep. “Yep. Napping with Prince Leona was a bad idea,” you grumble. After a few more restless minutes, you finally decide to just get up. You think that a walk might be enough to tire you out. So, you pull on your robe, and slide your slippers on.

You don’t want the guards to follow you around, so you decide to leave your bedroom through the secret escape route. You slip into the dimly lit passage, and you decide to head to the gardens.

As you step out into the cool night air, you take a deep breath. You can smell the Taif rosebush, and it reminds you of the day you spent with Kalim. A small, fond smile crosses your face, and you mentally remind yourself to invite him over again in the future.

As your thoughts wander, you slowly stroll through the garden. There are little green fireflies flitting between the flowers, and you giggle when one of the bright spots of light briefly dances in front of your face. But you freeze when you turn your head, and you see a figure standing in the garden.

The figure is tall, and a wicked pair of horns sprouts from his head. A thick, scaly tail brushes the ground as he turns, and your breath catches in your throat. In the silver light of the moon, you can see the vivid green of his eyes, and his pointed ears. The man possesses an otherworldly and intimidating beauty.

You swallow, and your words come out barely louder than a whisper. “Who are you?”

The man tilts his head, surprise flashing across his face. But then his lips curl into a smile. “I am obviously a fae.”

You take a hesitant step forward. “I knew that. Are you here because of King Malleus?”

“You could say that.” The fae continues to watch your every move with sharp eyes. His smile only grows a bit wider as you slowly close the distance between the two of you. “I am not here to harm you, if that is what you’re concerned about.”

You almost want to laugh. This strange man has broken into your castle in the middle of the night, and he thinks that that is enough to reassure you. “Then why are you here?”

“I simply wished to see what sort of human you are.” He suddenly moves closer, easily closing the gap between your bodies. He towers over you, looking down at you with curious eyes. “Tell me, are you afraid of the man you see before you?”

You tilt your head back, considering him. “...No. I’m not scared of you.” It’s the truth. This man is strange, and he looks intimidating, but he doesn’t frighten you. You look into his eyes. “What should I call you?”

“Whatever you wish.”

You scoff. “I’m just going to give you a silly nickname,” you warn.

“If that pleases you.” The fae is smiling, like the thought of you calling him something ridiculous amuses him.

“Fine. I’m just going to call you…Hornton.”

Hornton tosses his head back, and he laughs. “Truly? You are going to call me Hornton?”

“I warned you that it’d be silly!” You grin, giggles slipping out of your mouth.

He continues to smile at you. “Very well, my child of man. I accept the name you have granted me.” He holds out his arm. “Would you like to accompany me on a stroll?”

You accept his offer, wrapping your hand around the crook of his elbow. “Sure. It’ll be fun to explain to the guards why I’m walking around with a fae in the middle of the night while I’m wearing my pajamas.”

Another chuckle slips out of Hornton’s mouth. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to explain anything to your guards.”

You look at him, hoping that he’ll elaborate, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steers the conversation towards a rather unexpected subject. “I noticed that your castle boasts several gargoyles. Do you know anything about them?”

You blink, trying to think about the history lessons that have been taught to you. “Uh…they were a gift from the former fae queen, Maleficia. She gave them to us when we signed a peace agreement with her…about 400 years ago? I don’t remember the exact date.” You shrug. “People here think they’re good luck.”

“Ah, I thought so. They bear the distinctive architectural hallmarks of Briar Valley stonework. As for luck, I did see a few protective sigils carved into their bases.” Hornton guides you to one of the gargoyles perched on a roof, and he begins to ramble about its distinguishing features and how it proves that it was carved by a certain artist.

You gape at him. “Huh. I didn’t know gargoyles could be so interesting.” It’s not that you’re particularly enamored with the gargoyles, but you are drawn to the passion that he seems to bear towards the statuary.

“Indeed. Would you allow me to take you in for a closer look?”

You glance up at the gargoyle. It’s at least fifty feet off the ground. “Sure. But how are we going to-”

You gasp as he suddenly scoops you up in his arms, and he starts to fly. You cling to his neck, and you feel the fae stiffen slightly. But he quickly relaxes as he takes you up to the gargoyle. “I won’t drop you,” he murmurs. His arms tighten around you, like he’s trying to reassure you with his strength.”You can trust me. A fae never lies.”

As he floats closer to the gargoyle, you take a mental leap of faith. “I do trust you.”

His eyes grow wide, and his lips part, showing you a glimpse of his fangs. The expression is gone in the blink of an eye, replaced by an enigmatic smile. “I see.” Hornton’s gaze shifts to the gargoyle, and he launches into another lecture about the statue’s unique features and history. You find yourself leaning into his embrace, letting the rich tones of his voice wash over you.

As he starts taking you to see the other gargoyles, you stifle a yawn. Your fae companion chuckles, and settles back down on the ground. “Forgive me. In my enthusiasm, I forgot that humans sleep at night.”

“Mm, it’s fine,” you mumble. You expect Hornton to put you down, but he continues to carry you as he walks towards the main hall of the castle. “What are you doing, Hornton?”

“I am carrying you to bed. It’d be rude to make you walk to your chambers when you’re exhausted. Now, which way do we go?”

Pink blossoms across your cheeks, but you give Hornton directions to your room. As he walks, you notice that your guards and servants are oddly absent. It makes the dark halls of the castle feel eerie. The only reassurance you have is the solid warmth of the fae that’s cradling you close.

When he reaches your room, he sets you down on your bed, and draws the blankets up around you. “Thanks, Hornton.”

He smiles. “It’s my pleasure. Now, sleep, and know that you will see me again tomorrow.” As he draws away from your bed, you see more of the green fireflies appear. They float aimlessly around your room as Hornton begins to hum a tune under his breath.

Your eyes grow heavy, and it’s impossible to keep them open. You fall asleep to the sounds of the lullaby, already looking forward to seeing the strange fae again.

xxx

As the sun rises into the sky, you make the decision to go into the city. You won’t be meeting with King Malleus until this evening, which gives you plenty of time to spare. You think about the strawberry tart that you ate with Riddle, and your feet start to carry you to the Clover Bakery.

As you turn a corner, you’re startled by a loud voice booming down the street. It’s easy to see that the commotion is being caused by a tall, broad man with pale green hair. “Silver! You’re slacking off!”

His companion, a man with silver hair, sighs. You can barely hear his much softer voice. “Sebek, you’re the one who grabbed everything…”

Sebek puffs out his chest. He’s got a precarious stack of wrapped parcels in his hands, as well as several shopping bags hanging from his muscular forearms. Silver, meanwhile, only has two bags in his hand. They’re wearing simple clothing, but they both have swords dangling from their belts. They’re clearly not from your kingdom, and that intrigues you.

Sebek is so absorbed in scolding Silver for his apparent shortcomings that he doesn’t see you. He bumps into you, sending the parcels falling to the ground. You stumble, and Silver quickly catches you by the arm. “Are you alright,” he asks.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine,” you say.

As you look at the pair, you can see them both grow pale. Sebek immediately drops to his knees while Silver pulls his hand away like you burned him. “Y-Your Highness! Please forgive this lowly knight,” he yells. “I will accept any punishment you deem fit!”

Silver clears his throat, and bows to you. “Indeed. Please allow us to state our names. I am Sir Silver, and this is Sir Sebek. We are knights of Briar Valley, here in service to His Majesty, King Malleus Draconia.”

You introduce yourself, though it seems like they both already know who you are. Sebek is still kneeling before you, looking like a kicked puppy. You decide to take pity on him. It was an accident, after all. “I forgive you.” You bend down, and you start to gather what he dropped. “Here, let me help you pick these up.”

Sebek scrambles to pick up the rest, and Silver takes the ones you have in your arms. “Thank you, Your Highness. We appreciate it.”

You nod. “So, what have you two been buying?”

Sebek answers. “Lord Lilia has asked us to purchase various things that can’t be obtained back home.”

“Lord Lilia?”

“He’s King Malleus’ advisor,” Silver explains. “And our mentor.”

“I see. Is he here too?” You fall into step with the two knights as they walk down the street, presumably to drop off the things they’d purchased.

“Indeed! His Majesty never travels without Lord Lilia!” You flinch as Sebek’s loud voice suddenly fills your ears. Silver sighs, and quietly tells Sebek not to shout. “I am not shouting!”

Silver shakes his head, and continues. “We’re actually going to meet up with him now if you’d like to come with us, Your Highness. Of course, you’re supposed to be seeing him this evening…”

“I’d like to meet with him without all the formalities, if he’s alright with that.”

Silver nods, and the three of you continue on your way. Soon, you spot a fae lounging on a bench. He perks up when he sees Silver and Sebek, and he stands to greet them. “Oh? I asked you to buy a few things, and you bring me a member of the royal family,” he teases.

The fae bows, strands of pink and black hair falling into his face. “Lord Lilia Vanrouge of Briar Valley, at your service.” Lilia straightens up, flashing you a cheeky grin. “So, what are you doing hanging out with my boys?”

You bow your head for a moment. This Lord Lilia is dressed in the finery of an aristocrat, but his way of speaking is casual. You decide to be honest. “Sir Sebek bumped into me earlier. After they introduced themselves, I decided to accompany them while they met up with you.”

Lilia’s eyes narrow slightly, and his smile shifts into something almost sinister. The tips of his fangs poke out over his bottom lip. “Really? And tell me, did Sebek apologize to you, Your Highness?”

The tone of his voice puts your hair on end. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Sebek and Silver stiffen. Sebek is looking anywhere other than you and Lilia. “He apologized, and I forgave him. It was just an accident.”

“Accident or not, Sebek should have been more aware of his surroundings.” Lilia’s crimson eyes shift to the knight. “What have I always told you?”

Sebek’s eyes snap to Lilia. “An inattentive knight is a dead knight,” he states.

“Indeed. Do pay more attention in the future, hm?” Lilia pinches Sebek’s cheek. It looks painful, but Sebek doesn’t flinch.

“Yes, sir!”

Lilia releases Sebek, and he shifts his attention back to you. “Now, we have some time before our official meeting. Perhaps you’d like to show us around? This city is rather different from what I remember.”

You agree. You’re curious about them, and this presents the perfect opportunity to get to know them. It also gives you a chance to ask some questions about King Malleus. Silver and Sebek deposit their purchases into a waiting carriage, and the four of you set out on a brief tour.

“You said that the city is different from how you remember. How long has it been since your last visit. Lord Lilia?”

He considers your question for a moment. “Oh…I think the last time was about 300 years ago.”

“I see.” Fae live for centuries, so it shouldn’t be surprising to you. But you’re still taken aback. For a brief moment, you wonder what it would be like to live that long, to see so much history. You shake your head, and you continue. Silver tells you that he and Sebek have never been outside of Briar Valley, so everything about your kingdom is new to them. Hearing that makes you pause. “Wait, then how did you know what I looked like?”

“His Majesty was sent a portrait of you when your search for a suitor was announced,” Silver says. “We’ve seen that portrait.”

Lilia cackles. “Oh, we’ve seen your face plenty of times already! Malleus has it hanging in the throne room back in our castle!”

You blush. Usually only portraits of the royal family are hung in a throne room. If Malleus has it there, then he’s practically saying that you’re already married to him. You try to reassure yourself that things might be different in Briar Valley. But Lilia’s mischievous smile kills any hope of that.

You clear your throat, and divert to a different subject. “Are any of you hungry? I know a wonderful bakery.”

xxx

You smooth your clothing down, and you take a deep breath. It’s time for you to meet with King Malleus. You remember the things your people have whispered about him, saying that he’s a powerful and cruel dragon. And then the things that a visiting fae told your parents, that his king was a lonely man who yearned for a companion. You approach the door, and you take a deep breath. The truth would be revealed by this meeting. You reach out, and you turn the handle. When you see the fae standing in the room, the breath is stolen from your lungs.

It’s Hornton. Your feet carry you into the room, until you’re standing before him. Emotions swirl in your chest. Anger, embarrassment, and relief all blend together. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Hornton, no, Malleus’ eyes soften. “Many people are afraid of me. I didn’t wish to frighten you. When you didn’t recognize me, I saw an opportunity for you to know me outside of the fear my very name inspires.” Malleus takes your hand, and lifts it to his lips. You can feel his warm breath ghost over your skin. “Allow me to repeat the question I asked you last night. Are you afraid of the man you see before you?”

You pull your hand out of his grasp, and Malleus looks crestfallen. He tries to look away from you, but you stop him by placing your hand on his cheek. “Why would I be afraid of my friend Hornton?” You offer him a small smile. You’re still upset that he let you embarrass yourself, but you suppose that you can understand why he did it.

Malleus sucks in a breath, and he leans into your touch as he gazes at you. “I…” His words trail off, unsure of what to say in the face of your acceptance.

Your smile widens. You’ve flustered him, and it’s fun to see the blush spread across his pale cheeks. “You know, you never got to tell me about all the gargoyles in my garden. Care to rectify that?”

He blinks, and a chuckle slips out. He takes your hand, gently intertwining your fingers together. “It’d be my pleasure.”

You expect him to lead you out of the door, but he surprises you by taking you to the balcony. He once again scoops you up into his arms, and he flies off into the garden. As you approach one of the gargoyles, you lean your head against his chest to listen to his heartbeat as he launches into another lecture.

After that, you direct Malleus back inside for tea. Now, it’s your turn to talk. You ramble about your hobbies and your life while he listens attentively. Then, Malleus tells you about his kingdom. He makes it sound beautiful. He describes dense forests and sweeping valleys and jagged mountains. He tells you about the thriving capitol city, and his own castle.

You sigh dreamily. “It sounds wonderful in your kingdom.”

Malleus’ lips quirk into a smile. “Indeed. I’m very proud of my home and its people. Even though I have scant few companions to share its delights with.”

“You have Lord Lilia, and your knights Sir Silver and Sir Sebek. They seem to be your friends.”

“Yes, but not quite. Lord Lilia has served my family for most of his life. Silver and Sebek are sworn to my service. None of them truly chose to be with me out of the desire to befriend me.”

“That’s not true.” You frown at Malleus. “I spent some time with them today, before our meeting. They all care about you. If given the choice, they’d all choose to stay with you.” You’d heard the way they all talked about Malleus. Lilia spoke of him with all the fondness of a father. Silver and Sebek had told you about how Malleus had been there for them since they were both children, and it was clear that he’d earned their loyalty. “Sure, they have a duty to you, but you’re doing them a disservice if you think that’s the only reason they’re in your life.”

His lips part in surprise, and his brows lift. He considers your words for a few moments. “...Perhaps you are right.” You can tell he isn’t entirely convinced, but you at least made him think about it. “And what about you? You have surely managed to amass many friends with your charm and wit.”

Your smile tightens. “No, I don’t really have any friends.” You remember what you said earlier, and you add, “Besides you.” As a member of the royal family, plenty of people would want to take advantage of you, so you’d avoided befriending any of the aristocracy. Combined with the fact that your parents insisted that you not leave the castle unless it was absolutely necessary, you hadn’t really found the chance to seek out companionship. Your suitors are the closest thing you have, but you’re loath to admit that.

“I find that surprising.” Malleus pauses. “Though, I am pleased that you think of me as such.” The end of his tail wags back and forth across the floor. It reminds you of the way a dog wags its tail. Your attention is drawn back to his face when Malleus moves from his chair. He sits beside you on the sofa, close enough for his knee to bump into yours. He stares down at you.

You realize that Malleus is probably touch-starved, but he doesn’t know how to ask for attention. You slowly lean against him, and you feel the way his muscles briefly tense before relaxing. He nearly melts, and he leans into you as well. You feel his cheek coming to rest against the top of your head, and he hums in contentment. Malleus sighs when you take his hand in yours, slotting your fingers between his.

It feels nice. Sure, you took a nap curled up next to Leona, but that had been on his terms. Malleus is letting you take the lead, and is merely enjoying whatever affection you deign to give. You find the pressure of his body against yours soothing, and you close your eyes as you quietly enjoy sitting next to him. Malleus begins to hum again. It’s the same lullaby that you’d heard the first night he’d visited you. You want to tell him that you enjoy it, but you fear that he’ll stop if you interrupt him.

This is how Lilia finds you. He chuckles when you pull away from Malleus, who seems rather peeved that his time with you was interrupted. “It’s getting late, Malleus. And humans need to sleep.”

Malleus heaves a sigh, and he looks at you. He gently squeezes your hand. “May I escort you to your room, then?”

You nod, and you both stand up. Lilia allows you both to leave, and you pass by Silver and Sebek, who are flanking the door. They try to follow after you, but Malleus waves them off. He remembers the path, though he walks more slowly than he did last night. When you finally reach your door, Malleus sighs. He lifts your hand to his face, and he presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Goodnight,” he murmurs. “May you be blessed with sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight,” you say in return. Your hand slips out of his grasp, and you walk into your bedroom. You quickly get ready for bed, and you lay down. As you set your head down on the pillow, you see a spark of green light. You smile as little green fireflies fill your room. And as you close your eyes, you swear that you can hear the soft strains of Malleus’ lullaby.

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