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spideyjimin · 5 months ago

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Bloodlines entwined: I | jjk

⤷ having a baby alone was supposed to be easy. but an accidental twist of fate pulled you into a hidden world of werewolves, and ancient bloodlines. navigating your already complicated life becomes even harder as you uncover your past; one tied to a legacy you never knew existed. and in the middle of this chaos stands jungkook, the werewolf king… and the father of your child.

— pairing: werewolf!jungkook x female reader

— genre: strangers to lovers, parents-to-be au, royalty au, werewolves au, soulmates au, angst, fluff, and smut

— rating: 18+

— words: 7,213

— warnings: strong language, mention of death, mention of murder, mention of loneliness, mention of blood, several mentions of abortion, and crying

— author’s note: here it is the first chapter of this series! <3 i’m actually very excited about this entire universe, i’ve been working on it for a little while already & i’ve been taking my time to write each part 🤗 the beginning is inspired by Jane the Virgin and the Flash as they are both my favorite shows ✨ i hope you’ll enjoy this part & don’t hesitate to let me know what you think 😊

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Chapter I: when worlds collide

SERIES MASTERLIST | next

Sitting in your car, you’ve been looking blinkingly at the windshield, hands trembling against the steering wheel. For ten whole minutes, you’ve been frozen like this as if moving would shatter the fragile sense of calm you’ve barely managed to hold together.

Your life is about to drastically change; you know it deep down.

“The deed is done,” you whisper to yourself.

You let out a shaky breath, and your reflection in the rearview mirror catches your eye. You look exhausted, your eyes wide and glistening.

For two years, this moment has been building. You have thoughtfully considered having a child on your own. At first, it was just a random thought that crossed your mind, a curiosity born on one of those quiet, lonely moments where life felt both too much and not enough. Then, you deeply thought about it. The idea rooted itself deep within you, anchoring into something raw and tender: a longing to create a family on your own terms.

After much research and consideration, you decided to go for it.

Many people couldn’t understand your choice, but honestly, you don’t give two shits about others’ opinions. What did matter to you was the support of close family and friends.

Felix, the man who raised you after your parents were stolen from you, proposed to accompany you to the fertility clinic, but you gently declined his offer. This was something you wanted to do by yourself. Well, you just came alone to be inseminated. Other than that, he has been by your side every step of the way.

He helped you to go through the countless donor profiles, and every document needed for this adventure of yours.

The process was a bit long and emotionally draining. The first steps were more like an evaluation, mostly for the clinic to understand your reasons and ensure you’ve deeply thought about all the aspects. Having a kid alone isn’t just about fulfilling your dreams but also about building a life for a child.

Once you’ve successfully completed those steps, you had to choose the donor. There were a lot of choices; it was like going grocery shopping. You were handed a catalog of potential donors with their medical histories and first names. It felt odd to be choosing the progenitor like this. After going through every profile, one of them stood out.

Following the donor selection, your cycles and hormone levels were tracked. When all was good, you’d get inseminated on your ovulation period, which technically is happening this week.

So, ten minutes ago, you walked out of the clinic after being artificially knocked up.

If your egg is fertilized, in nine months, you’ll welcome your very much desired baby. A tiny human who will call you mom. You already picked the names, one for a girl, one for a boy. You simply can’t wait to welcome a tiny human in your life. Hopefully, the life of your baby will be better than yours.

You lean your head against the steering wheel, closing your eyes as the ghosts of your past surface.

Twenty years ago, your life was turned upside down when a terrible murderer put an end to your parents’ lives. Nobody ever found him or her; it’s like the person completely vanished into the night. That person left behind a little girl with questions nobody could ever answer and scars nobody could understand.

Since you didn’t have any family left, you were raised by your father’s best friend, Felix. Over time, he became like a second father to you. Even though you were full of anger when he took you over, he stayed by your side and helped you navigate this sad reality; one where your parents weren’t part of anymore.

His daughter, Lexi is your age. You were already so close, and living under the same roof brought you even closer. She’s your super best friend, almost like a sister today. A smile grows on your face as you think of her. Your life would have been a nightmare without her.

Lexi was the first person to be aware of this desire to become a single mother. She even pushed you to do it as soon as you could, and she has encouraged you like nobody else. She also helped you select a donor; she even made fun of the names of some of them.

Your phone buzzes; the name and picture of Lexi appearing on the screen.

“Hi,” you say when you pick up.

“Soo,” she says. “How did it go?”

“Good, I guess?” you say with clear hesitation. “The doctor just inserted a thin catheter, looked at the screen, and said it was done,” you explain. “Now we just have to wait.”

Waiting is now the worst part, especially since you decided not to take any pregnancy test until the next appointment. Meaning, you have to wait two full weeks.

“Let’s hope the donor’s little swimmers are good ones,” she says.

While you always wanted to have a kid, Lexi never wanted one. You and her are total opposites but that’s what helped create such a strong bond between you. “Yeah, let’s hope for that,” you smile.

Two weeks later

A couple of days ago, you took a blood test, and now, you’re in the waiting room, patiently waiting for the doctor to call you up.

These past two weeks, you’ve been internally battling to take a pregnancy test. It’s been hard to fight the urge to discover beforehand if you’re expecting or not. On your way to the clinic, your heart was beating extremely fast with nervousness. Even the music playing in the car didn’t seem to calm you down.

Even though you’re extremely nervous, a part of you knows. You can’t explain it, but you feel it deep down. Two nights ago, you were lying in bed completely exhausted after an intense day at work. The rhythm of your heartbeat was rocking you to sleep. Amidst the thrum of your own heart, you swear you could hear a faint, smaller, and quicker rhythm.

You instantly opened your eyes, scanning the room. The sound wasn’t coming from outside. It felt like it was inside you. You stayed perfectly still, listening to that tiny sound. That night, you were rocked to sleep by that new rhythm.

The morning after, as you caught your reflection in the bathroom’s mirror, something felt off. Your brows furrowed as you noticed your own scent was different. It felt like it was mixed with somebody else’s scent, but it wasn’t as strong as yours or any other living human. It was extremely odd.

After a little while, the doctor says your name, and with shaky legs, you walk to her office. Your heart is beating at a very crazy pace, ready to burst at any moment. This is so stressful; it feels like time is moving so slowly.

“Hello yn,” the doctor smiles at you while you’re entering the room. “How have you been feeling?” you now take a seat.

“I’m good, thanks,” you smile back at her.

She sits down at her desk and takes a look at her computer.

“So, did you take any pregnancy test?” she asks.

“No, no,” you answer. “I wanted to keep the surprise for today.”

“I see,” she looks again at her screen before taping on her keyboard.

She seems to quickly read something before her smile widens. Your heart is going completely crazy. It really makes you nervous, and you try to mentally prepare yourself to receive the bad news as well. It’ll definitely break your heart but you’ll try again.

This entire process is quite expensive, but the payment can be spread out over time rather than made in one shot. With this first payment, you have the right to three attempts. If pregnancy isn’t achieved after those attempts, you’ll have to go through another round and pay for additional attempts.

The doctor mentioned that usually, it takes about three to six attempts to achieve a successful pregnancy. Hopefully, you’ll get pregnant within those first three tries. You’re not entirely sure you’ll be able to afford another round of insemination.

“Well, it looks like it only took you one try to conceive,” she informs you.

And right there, your heart bursts with joy. There’s indeed a little human being growing inside you. You’ll become a mother in nine months. You can’t believe it.

A little tear runs down your face as you hear the good news. It’s such a relief. You won't have to worry about coming back for another round.

“That’s good news,” you clean the tear on your cheek.

“It is indeed,” she says. “In four weeks more or less, we’ll plan an ultrasound to confirm the embryo’s implantation and check for a heartbeat,” she adds.

Well, you’ll still get worried about that because maybe until there, your baby will not survive. But you need to remain positive. No need to start stressing about it; you promised yourself that you’ll try to remain calm the entirety of the process and pregnancy so you’ll offer a great beginning of life to your baby.

“I’m very hopeful everything will go well because both you and the donor are in good health,” she says.

“Let’s hope for that,” you answer.

You then proceed to schedule the next appointment in four weeks. You can’t hide the immense smile on your face. This is the best news you got today. Nothing else will ever be possible to ruin this day.

When you leave the clinic, you instantly call Lexi.

“I AM PREGNANT!” you scream with excitement.

“Yeeeah,” she screams as well. “I’m going to be an aunty!” she adds.

“I’m so relieved that this first attempt was successful,” you admit.

Once you get inside your car, you touch your belly to caress it.

“That baby is so lucky to have you as a mother,” she says after. “And even more lucky to join our family.”

For sure, your family will extremely love this baby. It’s such a desired baby, and everybody has been so excited.

“They’ll be so loved,” you reply.

“There’s absolutely no doubt,” she says. “Dad will be so happy about this news; he’s been so excited to become a grandpa.”

Felix has expressed lately that he couldn’t wait to welcome a baby and become a granddad. This man has raised you for twenty years, and you consider him as a second father. There’s no doubt that your baby will see him as their grandfather even if, biologically speaking, he isn’t.

When you hang up, you stare into the void for a couple of minutes. In this moment, you wish your parents would be here. They would have been so happy to become grandparents, but they won’t be by your side for this new chapter of your life.

They are also the reason why you’re doing all of this. Since they passed, there’s been a tremendous emptiness inside you that even the love of Felix couldn’t fill in. This void stems mostly from the fact that you were left alone when they were killed. You’ve been feeling so lonely since then.

Throughout your life, you tried to fill it with relationships but they all failed. As far as you can remember, you wanted to follow the traditional path to build a family. However, it never worked out. Then, one day, you saw a brochure about single mothers, and you’ve been thinking about it since then.

You’ve seen motherhood as a role that will fill this emotional void you’ve been carrying for years. Plus, you’ve also seen it as a way to finally control your life. Twenty years ago, someone decided for you what your life would become. This wasn’t fair.

And you also want to give your baby the life you never got. You want to give them a loving family that won’t disappear the second the parents die. Outside of your parents, you didn’t have a family. Based on what Felix told you, your grandparents were against your parents' relationship so they moved into another city to live freely and build a family.

Life hasn’t been fair for you, but you want to make it fair for your baby.

Two weeks later

The clinic called you this morning to urgently come in the afternoon, only making you grow concerned during the day. You kept wondering what the reason for such urgency would be. Did they notice something when they did the blood test? Did they get the wrong blood test? Are you even really pregnant?

However, you’re a hundred percent sure you’re carrying a life inside you. You haven’t had the ‘normal’ early symptoms yet, but you can feel your baby inside you. The faint heartbeat can still be heard, and there’s still that subtle scent interwoven with yours.

For the past two weeks, you’ve repeatedly inhaled this new scent, almost to make sure you weren’t hallucinating. Most of the time, you wondered if it wasn’t something like blood, sweat, or the smell of your new shampoo. It was definitely an earthly one. One that only a human can possess.

Once inside the clinic, you’re instantly installed in the doctor’s room. Your heart is crazily beating inside your chest; you’re so nervous right now. Seconds later, a man joins you in the room.

At first glance, you’d think he is the CEO of a huge company. He’s fully dressed in a black suit with a white shirt underneath, his hands casually placed in his pants pockets. This man is extremely charismatic; something about him draws you in.

The man looks at you while frowning, his eyes moving from your eyes to your belly. By reflex, you cover your stomach with your hands. He’s making you uncomfortable with his intense stare.

He has a very strong bestial scent, it predominates his cologne. Everything about him is imposing, even the way his heart beats; it’s so calm while yours is completely erratic. The man’s eyes are clued on you.

The doctor arrives right after and closes the door behind her. Her face is quite serious; she even seems concerned.

“Miss y/l/n,” she takes a seat at her desk. “Mister Jeon,” she looks at the man behind you. “Please take a seat.”

The two of you sit down next to each other with apprehension. You can hear his heart beating a little faster, but he remains extremely calm on the outside.

“There’s been a mistake,” she starts saying.

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. The doctor pauses, giving you time to absorb the gravity of the statement. Her tone is gentle, but at the same time professional.

The sterile, cold walls of the room seem to close in around you as the doctor’s words pierce through your thoughts.

“There was a mix-up with the sample…” your breath is caught in your throat, your hands trembling. “We were supposed to inseminate you with the donor sample you selected. We still don’t know how but you got inseminated with Mister Jeon’s sample.”

Your eyes look at the man sitting next to you. All you can see in his eyes is the same disbelief that reflects your own. So, this is your child’s father.

Many questions cross your mind, but they remain unspoken, lodged in your throat.

“We truly apologize for our mistake,” she says. “We were totally aware you both wanted to have a child alone.”

You desired nothing more than being alone in this adventure; you didn’t want a present father. That was the whole point of a donor. Now, you know the father of your child, and he’d probably like to be present.

For the past months, you went through a series of questions regarding the fact that you’ll raise your child alone. They asked you many times how you’d explain to your child that they don’t have a father. This now feels like a complete waste of time.

“We understand the nature of this situation. We will refund the totality of the treatment’s costs. We can also terminate the pregnancy if you both wish.”

Those words seem so heavy and yet, they represent the reality of the choice you now have to face. A knot tightens in your stomach at the thought of undoing something you wished for so long. The baby is now growing inside of you, you’ve got used to falling asleep with their tiny heartbeat. The only thought of not having it anymore breaks your heart beyond comprehension.

Right now, everything—your carefully constructed plans, your hopes, the small life growing inside you—seems to be slipping through your fingers.

Mister Jeon is silent beside you, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. He seems as stunned as you, but you can’t help but think that there’s something else there too. Something deeper and darker.

You ignore if he’s thinking the same thing as you, but you can feel it: the strange twist of fate pulling you both into an unknown world, one you both hadn’t planned for.

“You still have some time to decide, of course,” the doctor’s voice is still very soft.

Time seems irrelevant now. There’s a choice you need to make; a choice you didn’t expect to face. You swallow hard, your heart racing inside your chest. Your hands caress your belly through your shirt while you only hear the baby’s fragile heartbeat.

This isn’t supposed to happen. This can’t be real.

Jungkook’s face went pale as the doctor’s words sank in.

“There’s been a mistake,” she starts saying.

Just like you, the room’s white walls feel suffocating, the air thick with a tension he can’t shake. A mistake. His mistake. He tried to avoid this situation. He was supposed to go through surrogacy to guarantee a child that would uphold his lineage. His werewolf lineage, pure and untouched by human blood.

“There was a mix-up with the sample…” the doctor’s words hang up in the air like a death sentence. “We were supposed to inseminate you with the donor sample you selected. We still don’t know how but you got inseminated with Mister Jeon’s sample.”

His eyes quickly look at you, and he notices how much you’re shaking. It seems like you’re in a more devasted state than he is.

“We truly apologize for our mistake,” she says. “We were totally aware you both wanted to have a child alone.”

Jungkook blinks, trying to absorb what is happening. A human child. Nonetheless, his child. Having children with humans isn’t just a personal choice; it’s a fundamental rule of the werewolf society. The very foundation of his power as the king depends on the purity of his bloodline. To break the rule is to risk everything.

He knows better than anyone what happens to the werewolf-human hybrid kids together with the parents. They are killed by the pack. Being a king doesn’t make him the exception to the rule. If this pregnancy goes to full term, not only will he be killed, but the baby and the lady sitting next to him will too.

You didn’t ask for any of this. You don’t deserve to die because of a mistake.

His gaze filled with frustration and panic moves toward you once more as his pulse quickens. He wanted control over the situation. He never intended to father a hybrid child. And now, not only is he involved in this pregnancy, but the child is going to carry his blood mixed with human genetics. God only knows what can happen to this kid, genetically speaking.

“We understand the nature of this situation. We will refund the totality of the treatment costs. We can also terminate the pregnancy if you both wish.”

‘This can’t be happening’, he thinks.

His eyes move back to the doctors, his hands clenched into fists. The thought of the entire werewolf community learning of this is unbearable. And what is his mother going to think of this?

She was the first person to support him in this surrogacy journey. She knew how important it was for him to have a child as soon as possible because he’d been struggling to find someone with whom he’d mate. Having an heir is the first thing a king should do to ensure the legacy.

Now, he’s about to have a child with a human. That’s not possible. This child won’t have a pure bloodline, this child can’t ever be an heir.

“You still have some time to decide, of course,” the doctor’s voice is still very soft.

The idea of termination seems dreadful, but the possibility of a hybrid child heir seems even worse. His responsibility as king, and the traditions that have been in place for centuries don’t allow for such breach. To raise a kid with human blood would mean instant disgrace, not only for him but for his entire family. How could he even be respected after this?

His entire world is slipping through his fingers. His position as king is now in jeopardy. This baby will destabilize the entire werewolf community. Nobody will respect him and will only see him as weak. Weak for having a human child.

There’s no going back. His mind tries to find a solution to fix this, or how to undo this. The idea of raising a child with a human—no matter how much it is his responsibility—is unthinkable. He never desired this and hasn’t even considered it. He has been so focused on maintaining his bloodline that the idea of a mistake happening never crossed his mind.

Your presence beside him destabilizes him beyond comprehension. He can see the confusion in your eyes mixed with disbelief. You can’t comprehend the extension of this entire problem. You can’t even comprehend the danger of mixing bloodlines, because you aren’t a werewolf.

Jungkook stands in silence for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts. Terminating this pregnancy isn’t something he desires, but having a child with a human is simply impossible. His heart beats too crazily, and he can hear yours beating just as fast. His heart and duty are pulling him in two different directions.

Finally, his eyes meet yours. His voice is soft but it carries a heavy weight. “We need to decide. This affects both of us.”

After what felt like an eternity, you both leave the room completely shaken up by the news you just got. How could this be happening?

As you’re both walking in the clinic in the parking lot’s direction, none of you dares to speak. You’re a complete stranger to Jungkook. All he knows is that you’re a human carrying his child.

“I can’t have that child,” he finally breaks the silence.

His words cause you to stop.

“It’s too early for me to consider terminating this pregnancy,” you admit. “I need time.”

Jungkook understands your perspective. It’s not a decision you lightly take, especially if you’ve come to this clinic to have a child. It’d be completely absurd to abort after going through this entire process.

“Of course,” he says. “But I want you to know my point of view.”

You nod, understanding his perspective as well. This is such a horrible situation. Jungkook wanted to have an heir while you simply wanted to have a child on your own. On top of that, he doesn’t look like the donor you selected.

“So if I decide to keep it, would you be out?” you ask.

Jungkook considers your words. There’s a possibility that the baby could still exist, but he wouldn’t be part of their life. He’d still be losing because he wants a child, but at least this way, his position wouldn’t be jeopardized, and no one would get hurt or killed.

“It’s possible,” he honestly answers.

You nod once more. Even though he decides not to be part of his child’s life, he’d still know that he has a kid somewhere. He wouldn’t have any trouble finding you; he already knows your smell, and he has the means to find you.

“Okay,” you say.

Jungkook watches you take a pen and paper from your purse before writing something.

“This is my phone number,” you hand him the piece of paper. “In case you change your mind or take a decision.”

The man takes the piece of paper while you give him a small smile. You start walking away, his eyes following you until you disappear inside a car.

In this situation, he definitely would like to ask his mother for advice, but he can’t. He already knows the answer she’ll give him. ‘This baby can’t exist.’ And she’s right, but he can’t force you to terminate the pregnancy. It’s your body after all.

In the eventuality that you decide to proceed with the pregnancy, he guesses he’ll let you be a mother alone and pretend like this kid doesn’t exist.

You’ve spent the last two days crying in bed. The conversation with the doctor and this mysterious Mister Jeon has been playing over and over in your head. You can still picture everything so clearly; the white walls of the doctor’s room, the apologies from the doctor, and Mister Jeon’s piercing gaze.

‘There’s been a mistake,’ ‘There was a mix-up with the sample,’ the words still echo in your mind.

You’ve been trying to make sense of how such a monumental mistake has happened. But nothing seems to make sense. The clinic did this; the clinic took control over your decision. This chapter of your life was about you gaining control, but once more, someone decided for you. It’s been making you angry.

You’re furious at the clinic and their negligence. You trusted them with your project of building your own family. However, they decided otherwise.

But underneath that anger, there’s another fury; one directed to yourself. You were so focused on having a child on your own terms that you didn’t stop to consider the what-ifs. You didn’t stop to consider that something might go wrong. And now, you are here.

You’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours now, your mind trying to find a solution. Do you keep this baby? Do you terminate the pregnancy?

This choice feels impossible. It feels like no matter what your life will completely change.

But deep down, you somehow feel some kind of relief. Because when Mister Jeon—this intense and charismatic man—said there was a possibility he’d walk away, that he’d leave you to raise this child alone, you felt lighter.

His potential absence is appealing. It aligns with your original choice, to be a single mother. A choice where your child is yours, and yours alone. But then, there’s also a possibility where he stays, or that he comes back later. What would happen then?

You press your hands against your face while a guttural growl leaves your lips. This is so damn frustrating. This should be simple. Because now, you’re left wondering what you want. Do you want to walk away from this and stick to the original plan? Or do you want to embrace this chaos, and see where this might lead?

Your hands slide down to your stomach, caressing it while you hear again the tiny heartbeat. This sound comforts you which makes you close your eyes.

For now, you don’t have any answers to all your questions. You’re not even sure you’ll have them tomorrow. For now, you’ll let yourself breathe. You’ll let yourself feel. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find the answers.

The sound of your phone ringing pushes you out of your own thoughts, informing you that you received a message. You sit on your bed before grabbing the phone on the nightstand. You received a message from an unknown number. By curiosity, you unlock your phone to read it. To your surprise, it’s the famous and mysterious Mister Jeon.

From unknown: hi miss y/l/n, this is jeon jungkook, the father of your child. i’d like to meet you to discuss the matter. would you be free tonight?

Your heart hammers inside your chest, ready to burst at any second. He contacted you sooner than expected. You were thinking that you wouldn’t hear anything from him for at least a week. You thought you’d have more time to make a decision before meeting him. Now, it seems you don’t, and that you’ll have a very interesting conversation with him tonight.

With shaky hands, you start typing your answer.

To unknown: hello mister jeon, we could meet tonight

When you press ‘send’, you stare at the conversation, waiting for an answer. Mister Jeon responds instantly to your message, proposing to meet in a town square. You accept the suggestion and quickly go to your clothes cupboard to pick up an outfit.

The man seems very impressive, and you want to be presentable. He’s after all the progenitor of the life growing inside you.

A couple of hours later, you take the road to the meeting point. Surprisingly, you’ve remained calm for the entire drive. Driving is actually the only thing able to calm your tormented soul. Whenever you go through something very intense, you just drive to clear your mind.

However, since this pregnancy thing, even driving hasn’t been able to help you out. You tried to drive yesterday, but it only made things worse. So it definitely surprises you that you’ve been able to clear your mind before meeting Mister Jeon.

When you arrive, he’s already there waiting for you. He’s not wearing a suit, quite the contrary. His outfit is only made of a grey sweater with a blue pair of jeans. His hair isn’t perfectly pushed back as it was two days ago. It feels like you’re meeting a completely different person.

When he sees you, he stands up. As he does so, you notice he holds a box in his right hand. It’s a small one, but it still intrigues you.

“Good evening, miss y/l/n,” he says.

“Good evening, mister Jeon,” you say back.

His presence is still very imposing, but the fact that he isn’t wearing a suit anymore changes it a bit. He seems more approachable than he was in the clinic.

“Please call me Jungkook,” he offers you a small smile.

It’s the first time you see him smiling, and it feels like a very warm one. Beneath it all and in the midst of the city noise, you can perceive his heartbeat. It’s quite rapid which makes you tilt your head. Is he nervous?

“You can call me yn as well,” you smile back at him.

“I’ve brought you a box with some pastries,” he hands you the box. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”

Your smile grows wider at his simple but heartwarming gesture. This wasn’t expected, but it lightens the mood. Jungkook seems to be a nice person which contrasts with the cold and unreadable person he seemed two days ago.

“Thanks,” you say while grabbing the little box. “You didn’t need to,” your eyes look up at him.

After that, you both sit down on the bench he was on before you arrived. By the way he rubs his hands on his tights, you can tell that he’s a bit nervous. You try not to overanalyze him, because you know your mind will go crazy, full of questions.

“What is happening is really crazy,” he admits with obvious nervousness. “I never imagined things would go this way,” you nod.

Jungkook looks everywhere, except at you. It seems like he isn’t brave enough to face you, almost like a teenager confessing his love.

“As I told you two days ago, I can’t have this child,” he finally speaks. “I really would love to, but I’d put the three of us in danger.”

Your heart starts beating rapidly. What does he mean by ‘putting you in danger’? Does he come from a crazy family? Is he part of the mafia? This is scaring the hell out of you.

“We didn’t know each other up until two days ago, and you don’t deserve to be put in danger because of a stupid mistake the clinic did,” he seems angry when he mentions the mistake. “But I can’t force you to terminate the pregnancy, it’s your body, and it was also your wish to have a child. I can’t take that away from you.”

It kind of surprises you how respectful he is. Any other man in his position could have forced or paid you to put an end to this pregnancy. It’s really admirable.

“In case you want to keep going with it, I just want you to know that I’ll step away, and I will never come back to reclaim a role I refused from the beginning.”

You wonder what the reasons behind his decision could be. This man desired to have a child but is now refusing to have one with you because of a mistake.

“To be honest with you, I don’t know what to do,” you admit.

His piercing eyes finally look at you. For a split second, you can swear that they were red. Red like blood. This destabilizes you, and you furrow your eyebrows. You’re not sure if you’re being delirious or if this is real.

“I wanted to become a mother, but not like this,” you continue, still destabilized by what you just saw. “So it leaves me wondering what I should do. But if you walk away, I’ll be more tempted to keep the baby because, in the end, it’ll go as I planned.”

In an unexplainable way, this man puts you at ease. It feels like you can confess how you truly feel about this situation without being judged by him. This man exudes serenity which draws you even more to him.

“I get that,” he says.

For a brief moment, you only look at him while your heart peacefully beats in your chest. His dark eyes stare right into your soul, and it feels like the world completely stopped. There’s just the two of you. But Jungkook breaks the contact, looking in another direction.

“If you decide to keep the child and need any financial help, I can give it to you,” he speaks.

This man definitely seems like a good guy, and you wonder even more why he’s walking away from this.

“I won’t,” you answer. “I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t have any means to take care of the baby.”

For sure you need financial stability to be a single mother, and you would have never embarked on this adventure without having it.

Jungkook runs his fingers through his fluffy hair, avoiding still your gaze. “Can I ask why you want to become a single mom?”

The question catches you off guard. You weren’t expecting this man—this stranger—to be interested in you.

“I didn’t have an easy life and I grew up without my parents,” you confess. “Motherhood was something I aspired to have in my life since I’m very young, and I’ve desired to give to my child everything I didn’t have. No matter if it was with someone or alone.”

Your eyes shift from Jungkook to the square full of people. It’s never easy to express out loud and to a complete stranger why you embarked on this adventure. Mentioning your parents is actually never easy; even after all this time.

Suddenly, you feel Jungkook’s gaze on you, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you in complete silence. For once in your life, people’s heartbeats and scents don’t suffocate you. You can hear and smell them, but it’s like it doesn’t matter.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve had those developed skills. You can hear stuff from afar, and you can strongly smell people’s natural body’s scent. Since it’s kind of ‘normal’ to you, you got used to it; but sometimes, and especially when you’re in the middle of heavy crowds, it suffocates you. It becomes simply too much.

This is something you never told anyone, too scared to be judged. Undoubtedly, people would say you’ve gone crazy due to the trauma of losing your parents. Not even Felix or Lexi knows about it. They just think you’re agoraphobic.

However, lately, you’ve been trying to go to some crowded place to overcome this suffocating feeling. You ignore why you’ve been doing it, but you’ve been doing it. It’s still too much, but today, next to this complete stranger, it doesn’t feel like it.

“I’m sorry you lost your parents,” he whispers.

You turn to look at him to offer him a little smile.

“Thanks,” you mumble. “Can I also ask you why you’re doing this?” you dare to ask.

Jungkook nods before looking away once more. It definitely looks like it’s hard for him to hold your gaze.

“In my world,” he starts saying. “I have heavy responsibilities, and having a child is one of them. But I can’t have one with anybody. I’m very limited in who is the biological mother so that’s why I can’t have one with you.”

You almost feel offended by his words. In which kind of world can’t you be the mother of his child? It’s completely crazy!

“Oh,” you simply say.

“You could have been the surrogate…” you can hear some kind of chuckle. “But never the progenitor.”

“It’s seems like a tough world.”

His eyes look again at you; you can see that he seems to hesitate with the answer.

“It isn’t,” he finally says. “But it is with me.”

Obviously, he carefully chose his words.

“Well, I hope you’ll find the right mother for your child,” you offer him once more a little smile.

“Thanks,” he smiles back at you.

The two of you look back again at the people walking in the town square. They are walking around you, ignoring totally what you’re going through, what tough decision you have to make. They ignore everything about you, just as you ignore everything about them…

“I’m sorry about all of this,” he adds.

“It’s not your fault,” you answer. “It’s the clinic’s.”

Jungkook shifts uncomfortably, his gaze fixed on the people walking in front of you. His heart is racing and piercing through your ears. He’s even more nervous than he was before, and it concerns you a bit. But you don’t say anything, too afraid to scare him off if you reveal you can hear his heartbeat.

“Yn…” he starts. “There’s something you need to know,” his voice is deep and low at the same time. It’s so low that it almost drowns out by the distant chatter of people passing by.

You turn to look at him, your brow furrowing. “Okay,” you whisper.

Jungkook takes a deep breath, his jaw tightening before he exhales. His eyes don’t meet yours immediately, but when he does, there’s an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

“When I said my world is different,” he swallows with difficulty. “I don’t mean it in a metaphorical sense. My world, my reality is not the same as yours.”

You frown even more, confusion plastered all over your face. You’re definitely incredibly confused. How could his world be different than yours? You live on the same planet, and breathe the same air. How could it be not the same?

“What do you mean?”

Jungkook gets closer, his voice dropping even lower, barely audible. However, you still hear it perfectly.

“I am not entirely human, yn.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your heart skipping a beat. You stare at him while waiting for him to elaborate. However, Jungkook just stares at you, waiting for your reaction.

“What do you mean by ‘not entirely human’?” you tilt your head.

For a couple of seconds, he doesn’t speak, almost as if he’s scared to reveal his true nature to you.

“I’m a werewolf.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and impossible to ignore. It leaves you wondering if this man is of sound mind. Right now, you��re slightly concerned about his mental health, and the future of your child, if you keep them.

Your first reaction is to laugh, dismissing his words as if it is some kind of twisted joke. But the look on his face tells you that he’s deadly serious. This isn’t a joke.

“A werewolf?” you repeat to make sure you hear it well.

Jungkook nods. He looks tense and he maintains his deep glance on you.

“It’s why I can’t have this child,” he starts to explain. “In my world, bloodlines matter. Werewolf bloodlines are sacred, and the continuation of my lineage isn’t just about having a child. It’s about having the right child with the right kind of mother.”

The weight of his words crashes over you like a tidal wave. You stand up, your hands running through your hair. Your mind is spinning, and your pulse thunders in your ears. This is something you definitely weren’t expecting to hear today.

Werewolves? You’re carrying the child of a werewolf?

This sounds like it comes straight from a fantasy movie.

“This doesn’t feel real,” you whisper to yourself but Jungkook hears it.

“I didn’t want you to be dragged into this world, but you deserve the truth.”

You keep your back turned to him while you cross your arms against your chest.

“This is something you need to consider if you decide to keep the baby.”

At his words, you freeze. Instinctively, your hands down move to your stomach. Jungkook’s eyes follow your hands.

“Is this…” your voice trembles. “Is this a viable child?”

If you want to keep going with this pregnancy, you need to know if this baby can survive.

“There wouldn’t be any reason why this child wouldn’t survive because of mixed blood,” he stands up and gets close to you. “But as they grow up, they’ll develop werewolf abilities. And, one day, they’ll probably turn into one. It’s pretty unpredictable, though. There’s never been a human-werewolf hybrid before.”

Damn, this is leaving you speechless. How can this be real? Werewolves are supposed to exist in movies, not in real life.

“This is insane,” you rub your hands on your face. “This can’t be real.”

Jungkook steps closer. His presence is grounding but nonetheless overwhelming.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” you demand, your voice filled with panic.

Before you can blink, he gets even closer to you. He’s in front of you in an instant, his hand gently grabbing yours. Your eyes look down at his hand as you notice it changing. His fingers elongate, his nails sharpen into claws, and the texture of his skin turns into something more beastly. Slowly, your eyes look up, and what you see completely freezes your body. His eyes glow a deep, predatory red, and there’s something undeniably wolfish about them.

You take a step back while setting your hand free. As you do so, Jungkook shifts back, his hand returns to its normal form, and his eyes fade back to a human form. The transformation is so quick that it almost feels like you imagined it.

“So what happens now?” you ask.

Jungkook’s gaze softens at your words.

“That depends on you, yn.”

Please note that the taglist is closed

#bts #bts fanfic #bts imagine #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #bts angst #jungkook angst #bts fluff #jungkook fluff #bts smut #jungkook smut #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #bloodlines entwined #bloodlines entwined: chapter 1 #spideyjimin

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serendippertyy · 6 months ago

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WELCOME TO THE AMAZING DIGITAL WINTER WONDERLAND!! ❄️ ❄️ ❄️

pomni the cute little elf lady! not entirely happy with her new arrangements she begins her quest to escape which isn't easy as she's very sensitive to the cold!

ragatha is a tree topper angel whose the representative of the isle of misfit toys- she wants everybody to feel included and loved!

jax is a mischievous sprite, similar to jack frost. he loves causing wintery mayhem like turning people into snowmen! him and ragatha are very close :]

zooble is a voluntary resident of the isle of misfit toys- they feel quite comforted being around others with jumbled parts! ragatha is their best friend <3

gangle is a gingerbread creature from the candy canyon kingdom, she is in search of adventure with her new friend pomni!

caine is a nutcracker and the king and queen's most loyal guard! his companion bubble is a shape shifting sprite created by jax lol

and kinger and queenie are the mr. and mrs. claus of this au! they are gentle leaders who long await the arrival of their new elf! jax is their adoptive son :]

❄️❄️❄️

this is an au I've been drafting since september and I'm so excited to finally have enough to post! I'm sure I'll be showing off more of their dynamics through doodles n whatnot, but I've been very burnt out this week so I just made some simple refs for now lol

and I'm not very well versed in making aus so let me know what ya guys think! :] 💜

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brightgoat · 1 year ago

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JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE PART Ø : STAND FREE

(but let's call the AU 'Standverse')

Transcript:

The universe has been reset! Twice, in fact.

On the flipside, a strange nonsensical purgatory made out of past places and memories, awaken the Stands - now equipped with an independence and self-autonomy that most of them are not used to.

The ones whose emotions, goals and spirits they embody; their Users - are curiously nowhere to be found.

The Stands awaken at the same time, no matter whether they've died before the Separation or not. Every version of every Stand (from parts 1-6 that is).

Each Stand sees their User differently - some with undying loyalty, some with dismay and others with a mix of both.

But most settle on one thing - that they need to bring their Users back and return the universe to how it was. So, some set out on a crusade, while others begin cultivating a plan.

And thus we explore the existential horror of being a Stand!

....... this AU is very silly but just uhh-- bear with me- let me cook-

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msfantasy-anime · 5 months ago

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A Visit from Father

Monkey D. Luffy x Wife!Reader

Summary: Y/n’s father Mihawk has visited to check in on his daughter.

A/n: I wasn’t ever going to give Y/n parents in this AU. But someone sent a DM requesting to Mihawk to be the father and on good terms, so here we are hehe. You mother is whoever you want to picture.

Part IX

Where the hell is everyone?! One minute you were all walking down the street. The next minute everyone walked off on their own without saying anything.

Whilst you begin to wonder the back streets yourself, you came across someone you expected the least.

“Dad?!” You shout with pure excitement, jumping into the arms of Dracule Mihawk, who is suddenly standing right before you in a random back alley. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Saw your wanted poster.” Mihawk answers, holding up the newest edition. “Came to check in on you.” He answers, his demeanour remaining void of emotion, but the corner of his lips twitch ever so slightly at his daughter. “I just wanted to check in on you...“

“Huh? What about it?” You grumble, unable to resist making a sour face.

“You know, I never wanted this life for you.” Your heart plunges, unable and uninterested to be lectured by your father. It’s rare to cross paths and you just want to enjoy him being there whilst you can until he rushes off like he always does.

“Ugh, are you serious right now? Let’s not talk about it let’s just go and-”

“Listen.” Mihawk says, grabbing your shoulders and forcing you to listen. Your eyes darting away, unwilling to have a heart to heart with your father who you haven’t seen in a long time, next to some garbage. “After the Marines took your mother from us, simply because she was my lover, made me realise that you could never live a normal life with my name attached.”

“Yeah I know. You made the hard decision to leave me to be raised by others and your sacrifice was all for nothing because I went and became a pirate anyway- well I’m sorry to disappoint you-“

“Stop. You do not disappoint me.” Mihawk said sternly, his fingers digging into your shoulders and gives you a slight shake as if shaking you would bring you back to your senses. “You would never disappoint me. But since you now have a bounty, I see no reason to hide you from the world anymore.”

Your heart begins racing at your father’s words. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I want you to come live with me, I can teach you, spend time with you, take you on adventures.” He offers. “And I want the world to know you are my daughter. There’s no reason to hide you anymore.”

You missed out on being with him in your early years and now is your chance to spend time with him. But…

“It’s a dream come true dad… but…” Mihawk had some suspicions before, but he’s certain now.

“My offer doesn’t expire my girl.” He says, pulling you into a hug. “When you are finished with your adventures, the front door will always be open, ready to welcome you home.” Your eyes welled up but you swallow back your emotions, too embarrassed to cry.

Mihawk holds your face one last time before turning to leave. “Dad, before you go, I just wanted to thank you for leaving me in the east blue all that time ago.” Mihawk pauses, his eyes widening, his back remaining turned to you. “I could not have imagined what life would’ve been like without Sabo, Ace and of course … my husband, Luffy.”

“Your mother would be so proud of the woman you grew up to be.” Mihawk smiles at your bittersweet fair well. “Take care of my girl for me Strawhat.”

“Will do.” Luffy answers making you jolt from your spot.

“Ah! Seriously?! How long have you been standing there?!” You screech making Luffy cackle.

“Still afraidy cat huh?” He teases but quickly shuts up when he sees your serious face.

“I’ve just been thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“My dad won’t hide me from the rest of the world anymore, which means I’ll be known as Dracule Y/n.”

“Yeah and?” Luffy asks, picking his nose.

“I know I shouldn’t care but I do! You’re my damn husband and I want people to stop questioning it! Take me to the courthouse so we can hurry up and make this official already!”

“Huh?! We already talked about this damnit! We don’t need papers! We already had the wedding and everything!” Luffy protests but you stomp off on a mission.

“I don’t care! We are doing it again!”

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quietplace26 · 19 days ago

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SAGAU au, but MC is the actual IMPOSTER, and the real CREATOR is a selfish asshole.

Imagine a MC who knew about the SAGAU aus from Tumblr, and who woke up one day in Genshin Impact, right outside Mondstadt.

They at first feel amazement, but then they see the statues... with their face. They realize then they were in a true SAGAU cult situation.

With this fact, they decided to test something. They prick their finger. Their blood is red, not gold. They weren't the CREATOR. They were the IMPOSTER.

Imagine how with this knowledge, the MC decides to stay away from all the nations and people. They didn't want to be mistaken as the CREATOR after all.

Because really, even if they did take over the CREATOR's throne for a bit until the true CREATOR arrived, what's to say all of Teyvat would take their lies nicely. They didn't want to die, thank you!

So, imagine MC hiding out in the wilderness, avoiding the whole cast of Genshin as the true CREATOR arrived and took the throne.

Only... the CREATOR wasn't like how the scriptures said. They were rude, arrogant, lazy, selfish even! ...But the people of Teyvat forgave them because oh, their grace was tired after their long journey, they deserve to be spoil. They would show everyone their love when they're better... Right?

Only, they didn't. The CREATOR remained how they were, and even Archon's themselves could only take so much...

Which is why it was Venti who happens upon the MC first.

Venti, who was tired from their precious CREATOR's tasks and 'love', happens upon a MC who gathering firewood for her tiny modest cottage. And he's like, who's this? An IMPOSTER with his grace's face? And before he could reach for his bow to enact 'justice'... His stomach growls.

MC, despite their fear... invites him to have dinner with them.

The Ameno Archon ends up staying the whole night, venting loudly as the MC refilled some dandelion wine they found left behind by some treasure holders while scavenging.

"Y-you're so nice, hic, w-why couldn't you have been the CREATOR..." Venti slurs, letting MC tuck him into their sole bed and he drifts off to sleep...

This whole interaction leads to a domino effect, as more of the Mondstadt characters stumble across the MC... and begin thinking along the same lines as Venti.

Why couldn't this person have been the CREATOR?

Soon it was open secret among the people of Mondstadt, and MC would have guests or travelers from Mondstadt camping out near their home while they were out in the Mondstadt wildness doing work and stuff.

Like it wasn't uncommon for Bennet or Amber to stop by as they did their routes, along with some the knights and Mondstadt adventurers, who mostly was just checking on MC or visiting with some supplies that just happened to have on hand.

This also weirdly included Dvalin, of all things. As MC woke up one morning to find the Ameno dragon snoozing on their front lawn like a cat napping under the sun.

All he tells MC is that Venti said they were nice, and he'd like him.

...At least MC had someone to nap with when Venti couldn't visit. Dvalin's fluff was so soft! The perfect pillow!

They were also even pleasantly surprised when Diona and Klee showed up one morning with some snacks... and a brand-new deck of TCG, just for MC.

With deck on hand, it wasn't uncommon for some of MC's visitors to pull them into a game. Though things did get awkward when someone drew the CREATOR card, which they immediately chucked into MC's fireplace with a huff and curse, breaking the awkward air with giggles.

Albedo, with his artsy self, even made MC a card that represented themselves, which was a sweet gift.

Though all the joy comes to an end when someone snitches. Apparently, a traveler from a different nation, caught sight of MC in the woods while on foot to Mondstadt and immediately told the CREATOR about an IMPOSTER on the loose!

Venti of course was one of the first to be sent out to deal with 'it'. Ugh, it made him sick at hearing the MC be refered as an 'it'. But he quickly finds them, helps them pack their things, and smuggles them to the border that led into Liyue.

There were tears as MC hugged Venti, whispering a quiet, "Thank you, Venti... Tell the others I'll miss them? A-and please don't drink too much, ok?" They had a shaky smile on their face, and Venti just hugs them one more time before pushing them towards Liyue.

And as MC disappears into the distance Venti prays that Morax and Liyue would see what he and Mondstadt saw in MC once the time came...

"...Be safe, MC. May the winds guide you to freedom..."

#sagau #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #venti #mondstadt cast #my genshin content

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colouredbyd · 1 month ago

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The Garden Gate

Mauraders Era

🌷= fluff 🌙 = angst 💌 = hurt/comfort 🌱= crack

❤︎ poly!marauders:

"Tell Me You Will Believe Me" 🌙 (3.6k) (part 1)

seer!reader: haunted by dark visions, you must protect your lovers from their fate.

↳ " Tell Me I Didn't Lose You" 💌🌷(3.3k) (part 2) after your vision exposes the traitor, healing begins only once you let yourself break.

A Moon For Moony 💌🌷(4.3k)

When Remus admits he's never seen the moon, you create one just for him.

We Will Be Okay 🌙💌 (4.6k) (part 1)

After an argument with the boys you nearly lose your life, the Marauders realize too late what their silence cost.

�� We Heal, At Last 💌 (8.8k) (part 2) after your attack, you pull away, wounds aching. but love finds you again, gentle and patient, proof that even after ruin, there can still be light.

Sweet Things Melt Slowly 🌷(2.6k)

Winter comes softly, and in firelight and snowlight, three boys and their girl fall a little more in love.

Finding Rest 💌 (2.1k)

You wake hurting, but they hold you through the silence—until it hurts a little less.

The Adventures Of Flicker ( animagi!reader x marauders)

↳ The Secret's Out (5.2k)🌷💌 : you keep stumbling across your boyfriends in your Animagus form, a clumsy red panda. Their gazes linger, sensing something familiar. But not all secrets last. ↳ The Secret Life Of Pets (7k) 🌷🌱: after a botched transformation, you’re stuck as a red panda, posing as the Marauders' pet—but staying hidden proves harder than they thought. ↳ Lost And Found (4k) 💌: after a reckless fight, you hide as flicker, overwhelmed by fear. when they find you, their gentle words and touch ease your heart, bringing fragile peace.

❤︎ Regulus Black:

Soleil 🌷(7.3k)

childhood friends to lovers: Regulus overhears a quiet confession and everything shifts.

You're Too Sweet For Me 💌 (1.5k)

Despite claiming you're too sweet for him, Reg returns, broken and seeking the love you always offer.

"If you look closely, you'll see them!" 🌷 (3k)

You swear Regulus has dimples but no one believes you. Then he walks in, finds your eyes, and for a moment, your friends see it too.

Sweater Weather 🌷(4.7k)

Regulus, notoriously bad at expressing love, spends an entire fall knitting you the world’s ugliest sweater, yet you wear it anyway

The Nightingale Masterlist 🌙💌🌷(58k) (series) (on going)

hunger games au: You were thirteen when your name was called. He was fourteen when he took your place, becoming the youngest Victor the Capitol had ever seen before disappearing into its glittering grip. Now, your name is drawn again for the 70th Hunger Games, and Regulus is willing to do anything to make sure you make it out alive. But the Capitol is watching, and in the arena, nothing is as it appears.

Time Cast A Spell On You 🌙💌🌷

reincarnation au: Across lifetimes, two souls find each other, haunted by love and lost memories. But maybe this time, in their final life, the story will end differently.

↳ Prologue (0.8k) ↳ I: Hogwarts (10k) ↳ II: The Kingdom (12k) ↳ III: The Rockstar (22k) ↳ IV: The Art Gallery ↳ V: Silver Springs

❤︎ Sirius Black:

Silver Spoons And Butter Knives 🌙 (2.4k)

Sirius, born into a house of cold legacy, watches love like a stranger and aches for what he was never taught to hold.

❤︎ Remus Lupin:

Caught In The Web 💌🌱🌷(10k) (part 1)

spiderman au: when your fascination with spiderman leads to danger, secrets unravel. with regulus by your side and remus hiding more than he admits, you realize heroes are closer than they seem.

↳ Web Of Secrets 💌🌱🌷 (13k) (part 2) When danger resurfaces and secrets unravel, your fascination with Spider-Man deepens—but with Remus by your side, you learn that heroes aren’t always who you expect.

❤︎ poly!jegulus

Kiss, Marry, Avada Kedavra 💌🌱🌷(6.2k)

A late-night game of Kiss, Marry, Kill turns tender when truths surface quietly. lines blur, and something like love begins to take root.

Sweeter Than Syrup 🌱🌷(3.6k)

A lakeside weekend of soft mornings and sweeter laughter, where something warm and wordless grows between you, James, and Regulus.

❤︎ poly!wolfstar

The Boy Is Mine 💌🌷(3.4k)

In which a girl flirts with Remus, and despite your quiet nature, you remind everyone who he belongs to.

The Names Of Real Things 💌 (3.6k)

When reality blurs and the world slips away, Sirius and Remus hold you steady, naming every truth until you find your way back.

❤︎ poly!moonwater

Broken Vases 🌙💌 (4.0k)

A misstep cracks open the past, and suddenly the ghosts of your childhood are too loud to ignore. Leaving Remus and Regulus to teach you that love isn't supposed to feel like survival.

Of Rain And Gentle Hands 💌🌷(6.3k)

A rough day leaves you fraying, but with Remus and Regulus, even the heaviest days feel lighter.

❤︎ poly!bartylus

oh my, love is a lie! 🌙💌 (5.2k)

Caught between Regulus's soft looks and Barty's wild affection, you almost confess until you see them walk in hand in hand. You toast to their happiness, breaking in the street when it hits different.

want to plant a seed? requests are: open!

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ofpineapplesanddawns · 10 months ago

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Been a bit since I've drawn my older Phileas Fogg

#david tennant #around the world in 80 days #let the adventure begin au #phileas fogg #john's art

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 2 months ago

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reader walking into the frat’s kitchen late at night when everyone is asleep because she has trouble sleeping. and one of the boys finds her there (because so does he) and offers to help her sleep😇

a/n: OMG HAAALP THAT CLASSIC TOO GOOD

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

take her under your wing au masterlist | 101, intro to the au

masterlist | join my taglist

the first frat boy that my mind went to was curtis ♡ gruff baby boi curtis ♡ brrrrr, WOOF WOOF

he’s up as well because he’s all wired about the boxing match he has the next day

the glass of water you just filled up and have only had one sip of shatters on the floor as he suddenly pops up and gives you the fright of your life

but by the time that he’s kneeled down to help you clean up the broken glass, you’re both giggling quietly

then i’m just imagining those two spending the next chunk of time talking, illuminated by the moonlight as you sit up on the counter, criss cross applesauce, and he leans against the opposite side

you open up to him about why you couldn’t sleep and he tells you about his fight tomorrow

and then as you’re yawning and making a joke about how you’re almost desperate enough to fall asleep that you’d let him just knock you out in order to get some shut-eye and not waste the whole night away

the dumb joke makes you laugh softly, but not really curtis because suddenly there’s an idea floating around in his noggin…

“…i mean, there is something i could do… something that could help us both fall asleep…”

“…you know i wasn’t serious about you hitting me, right? i know you’re into the whole rocky thing, but no thank you, i’d rather not have a concussion.”

“yeah, i know it was just a joke, that’s very much not what i was suggesting...”

he chuckles and then begins to walk closer to where you sit,

your legs all folded on the table, so he gently grabs them before yanking you closer to the edge so that he can slot himself in between your thighs

“you’re a pre-med student. do you know what happens when you have an orgasm?”

“oh, well, hormones like oxytocin and dopamine are released–“

“yeah yeah, bla bla, science or whatever,” he swiftly cuts you off before you can dive any deeper, “point is, it helps you fall asleep.”

and so then i imagine it could go a few different ways (let’s do a little choose your own adventure type of situation, just for the lols)

maybe he then bangs you right there in the kitchen, you bent over a counter, fucking you so good and flooding your system with orgasms that you basically fall asleep while he’s still going at it like a bull behind you. so then, when your pretty little hole is all stuffed and dripping, he carries you back up to steve's bed.

or maybe it doesn’t happen in the kitchen but still downstairs and away from the slumbering frat guys right upstairs, so you end up crashing down into the couch as he eats you out. maayybee it’s a little 69 action, but he’s the one that crawls up over you so that he can fuck your face and pin you down while his head is at bliss between your thighs. i’m imagining that you both pass out down there and then the rest of the guys find you in the morning.

or perhaps at the get-go, he grabs your hand and drags you up to his room, just so that he can be sure that when you do fall asleep, it’ll be in his bed, and then you’ll be the first thing he sees when he wakes up the day of his fight. mayhaps even ask you for a little good luck, if you know what i’m sayingggg

#lea’s writing #take her under your wing au #curtis everett x reader #curtis everett smut #curtis everett au #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers au

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pullhisteeth · 8 months ago

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saturn return | eddie munson

hello! I'm back :) will leave a little author note at the end of the fic for u. but in the meantime: enjoy this medieval slow burn fluffy smutty monster of a fic (which has not been proofread because I am so tired) <3

in short: you're from royalty, and the illicit crush you're harbouring on your sworn protector is threatened when your father, the king, reaches the end of his tether and finally begins the search for your husband.

medieval/fastasy au with knight!Eddie and fem!princess!reader, smut (18+ only, minors dni!), implied virgin!reader, (one attempted) assault, general fluff and angst and fun fantasy frolicking, mention/threat of arranged marriage (brief), enemies to lovers if you squint but mostly a bodyguard au but he wears armour and you live in a castle.

14k words (!!!)

You had only seen your knight without his cuffs and cloak once before in your life.

When you were nineteen, you had a fling with one of the boys who tends the horses in the stables. It had been a wet summer and against your father’s wishes you’d spent many evenings returning to the castle sodden and smiling. Your afternoons were adventurous - too much so for your age, your mother would say over dinner - and your escapades to the woodland beside the keep resulted in muddy fingerprints up the curve of your thighs and difficult-to-hide bruises blooming below your collarbone.

You may have been reckless, but you knew better than to show up to court with purpling bite marks where the collars of your dresses did not reach.

On one of the rare sunny evenings, you had stolen away after supper to the balcony that extended across the western wing of the castle. It stretched from your quarters around the side of the building, ending at the room that had belonged to your sister before she had been married to a man who lived across the sea. The sun was low and the air was thick and so in your nightgown you prowled the terrace, fingers dancing along the worn stone and up the wilting vines. As you rounded the corner there he was - your sworn protector, a man who could be barely a year your senior, hunched in an old chair over his armour. You stopped behind the wall with enough haste that he didn’t spot you - or if he had, he never let on - and while he was engrossed in the work of polishing the silver, you watched.

He’d done away with his undershirt, most likely because of the stubborn, close heat, and though he was side-on to you, his chair facing out towards the mountains in the distance, he was hunched to his left, leaving you with a view you much preferred to the vast one beyond the wall.

The muscles across his back rippled as his arm moved back and forth over the metal. In the quiet of the evening you could hear small grunts and sighs, and as your eyes adjusted to the light you spotted silvery marks of healed flesh across his side. His back was speckled with freckles and as he moved, you took notice of his mop of hair.

Though your father’s knights were never required to wear their helmets in the castle, the hair that now flowed freely was usually tightly bound at the nape of your knight’s neck. You had never realised how long it truly was - nor how unruly. Brown curls stood in what seemed like every direction, swaying back and forth in tandem with his shoulder, glowing a slight auburn in the setting sun.

You had watched him for a while, listening to the sounds of his efforts and drinking in the way the light made his skin gleam golden. It wasn’t until the sun had set that you had made your escape, bare feet padding silently across cool stone.

Ser Munson - Edmund, or Eddie as he preferred - was assigned as protector of the King’s first daughter when she came of age, at sixteen. You had been a moody teenager, belligerent and stubborn, determined you did not need protecting, even if the protector in question was broodingly handsome and a challenge to crack.

Thus, you lingered around the castle while your sisters sought husbands and new lives. Your father, though a cunning ruler, was soft when it came to his girls, and so no man was worthy of a single one of them unless he made her happy.

And no man ever had made you happy. The ones who put themselves forward as candidates for your hand were, in most cases, perfectly nice men. Mostly wealthy, often handsome, but always boring.

It was always the same: they believed you to be the most beautiful princess in the history of the realm, and they would be honoured to wed you. But as your father’s eldest daughter you knew one thing to be true: every one of them wanted the throne, and would marry you to get there.

So you sought fun in lowly servant boys, stealing kisses from cupbearers and kitchen porters, running wild in the vast gardens of the castle, just out of grasp of your grumbling mother. One day, you’d tell her when she chastised you over monstrously glutinous dinners. One day a man will come here and sweep me off my feet. Until then, I am content with my lot.

After that evening when you were nineteen, you had not looked at Eddie the same way. His job was to follow you everywhere - well, mostly everywhere, unless you were behind a tree with the stableboy again - so it was difficult to not look at him. But those aimless adventures became tiresome, and your daydreams became occupied instead by the man who tailed your every move. Stableboys were getting married, all your sisters were getting married, every eligible nobleman for a hundred miles was getting married - but you remained, as did Eddie.

“So it doesn’t hurt?”

“No, your highness.”

Eddie stares straight ahead, off into the distance, answering your childish questions through gritted teeth. You grin at him, elbow on the arm of your chaise and chin cupped by your hand, enjoying this latest instalment of your petty little game: you ask him silly questions, Eddie’s cheeks go pink, and you get a good giggle and a kick out of teasing him. It began as something lighthearted, a test of the waters after that late night wander changed your perspective, but that was two years ago and understandably, Ser Munson is getting increasingly tired of your games.

“Your highness, can I suggest that you get dressed? You’ll be late for-”

“No,” you yelp as he stands to move, sword clanking. “I’m sorry, I’ll bite my tongue. Don’t go.”

“But Miss-”

“Okay, okay, I’ll dress, just wait outside the door, will you?”

“I always do, your highness,” he says. “It is my duty.” You cannot see the smirk he sports as he turns his back to you; it is one he reserves only for himself, lest your ego get too big.

You deflate into your chair as he leaves, the heavy door swinging open. Three young maids are by your side as it slams shut, lifting you from your doze and tying you into a corset and skirt. Today you’re offered a deep navy gown, the colour of your family’s flag and perhaps the colour you look second best in.

At least it matches Eddie’s cloak.

You knock softly twice on your bedroom door, your handmaids tugging at the final details, and the guards who stand watch pull it open for you. You breathe in quick and deep, hands smoothing the satin across the top of your skirt, and step forward into the hall.

Eddie stands to one side, awaiting your direction. You follow your usual morning route, down the wide corridor to the stairs, which roll out into an even wider hall like dropped silk. Eddie’s cloak slinks across the stone floor behind you, and you yearn to make a joke, prod at him, get under his skin but you cannot, for many eyes are upon you now.

The Great Hall sits at the opposite end of the atrium to the staircase. The walls between yourself and the huge, towering doors are decorated for the brief return of your youngest sister, the most recent to wed - she is pregnant, and so there must be celebrations.

Floral garlands follow you as you make your way across the room, where, at the far end, your father stands in the doorway, watching, your mother by his side.

Peering glances follow you until other guests arrive and attentions are diverted. So you slow your step just slightly, enough that Eddie does not notice immediately and falls in line with you. Before he can correct himself, you lean in.

“Ed- er, Ser Munson,” you say, tone playful but slightly sinister, an indicator that you are brewing one of your schemes.

“Yes, your highness?” he responds neutrally.

“Ser Munson, would you please do me a favour?”

Long ago, Eddie learned to never respond to this query the way he is supposed to as your protector: Anything, your highness.

Instead, he asks: “What can I do for you?”

“You know that sword?” You twist slightly, tapping the hilt of his blade where one of his fists seems to permanently rest. “You’ve killed people with it, right?”

“Only when I have to, your highness.”

“How many, would you say?”

You hear him take a sharp breath in. You smile softly.

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen,” you repeat. “Care to make it nineteen? Do me a favour and slice through my guts so I don’t have to bear another one of these idiotic ceremonies?”

If you’d paid closer attention, rather than sharing your gaze between Eddie and your father, who was ever-nearing, you’d have seen that your dear knight almost broke. This would have been the closest you’ve come to getting a laugh out of him, your stoic, stone-faced hero.

“That’d be highly inappropriate, your grace,” he says, composed. “And I’d surely lose my head.”

“Oh, but that’s your job,” you whisper. “To die for me! And anyway, I can’t go to hell alone, you’ll need to keep me company. And protect me from the ghouls. So maybe make it twenty instead.”

This time, you do catch it. The corner of his mouth twitches and something in his eye, the way it dodges you, gives him away. In your peripheral vision you see him open his mouth - it’s close to your ear, you almost hear the beginning of a word - but you’ve reached the end of the hall, and your father awaits. Eddie falls back again, a step or two behind, as you drop your shoulders and brace yourself.

Being one of many sisters is a difficult life. Impossible to prevent yourself from comparing their hair to yours, their eyes, the slant of their shoulders, their waists, their hands, and worse is the bickering, the competition.

Being the only one of them not to be married is the worst.

Twenty minutes ago, you stole yourself away to a corner of the Hall with a too-full cup of wine and three slices of the best bread. Here you camp, munching on the final crust, eyeing up the table across the room. How do I get a refill without someone asking me to dance?

With your eyes squinted and shoulders hunched in, you scarcely notice your knight down the wall. He’s on guard, back straight with his hand on the hilt of his sword - watching, as he is supposed to. Only his attention is distracted, because in his peripheral vision is you, alone, as always.

It’s only when you hear the familiar clinking of sword sheath on armour that you turn to see that he’s beside you, and in a rare moment of peace, he’s leaning back, letting the wall take his weight.

“What’re you looking at?” You eye him suspiciously, swallowing the final sip of wine. “Come to ask for a dance for one of those snivelling Harrington boys?”

You hear him scoff, though he’s smiling just slightly. “No,” he says quietly. “Why, do you want to dance with Steven?”

You scoff. “Do I fuck.”

“Language, your highness.”

“Please stop calling me that when dad isn't around.”

He glances at you, smiling still, and rolls his eyes. “Why aren’t you with the other ladies?”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “The Buckleys aren’t here. It’s no fun without Robin.”

“And your sisters?”

“Oh yeah,” you drone. “I just love being reminded by all four of them how lucky a man would be to have me and how I must get married because, oh, weddings are so lovely!”

He turns to look at you properly, silver collar creaking, and reaches over to take your goblet. “How many of these have you had?”

You drop your hands behind your back, looking down at your slippers like a naughty child. “Three.”

To your surprise, you feel the damp rim of the cup meet your chin, pushing your face up. Eddie looks back at you and keeps the pressure under your head so you can’t divert your gaze. Your cheeks warm, heat blooming under his watch.

“Fine,” you sigh, eyes dropping closed in defeat. “Seven.”

You brace for a scolding, expecting a telling off from your faithful knight, but when you look at him in the silence, you find him grinning down at you.

“You’re going to feel awful in the morning,” he tells you.

You look back at him a little dumbfounded, because he’s very close to your face and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him in such detail before. There are creases by his eyes from smiling, and there’s an old, white scar across his nose, which is crooked, presumably from old punches.

“Will you take me to bed, then, please?” you ask softly, and he lowers the cup slowly, placing it on a nearby table without looking away from you. You look back at him, trying your hardest through the fog to give him your best pleading eyes, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. He’s close, still; time suspends as he nears even more and runs his thumb along the underside of your chin. It is the first time in your life that your knight has ever touched you.

You watch as he brings it to his mouth - it’s a deep, bruised pink, dyed by the wine from the rim of the cup where it had held your face up - and, taking his eyes off you, slides it between his lips.

It’s certainly not the first time you’ve been breathless around him, but it is the first time you’re face to face with him as the air leaves your lungs in a slow, desperate whine. It feels criminal, illicit, standing in the shadows at the back of the room, within reach of anyone who cares to look for you, watching Eddie lick wine off the pad of his thumb.

The festive music on the other side of the room ends and people around you cheer. Eddie’s smile drops and he straightens up as though kicked in the back, looking around like he just woke from a dream.

“Uh, yes- Your highness. I’ll escort you to your quarters.”

He steps back but holds his arm out for you to take. For a moment you just stare at him, incredulous, before wrapping your fingers around the cool leather covering his forearm and lifting yourself off the wall, your heart wilting as his guard rises again and your fun, playful protector is lost to duty once more.

The ceiling of your bed chamber hasn’t changed in fifteen years. You know because you’ve had many nights like this, staring at it forlornly, yearning for something you cannot and will not have.

When you were six, your father had the sleeping quarters across the whole castle redecorated, and you requested a fresco above your bed. Under the guise of education, telling your father that it would help you practise your knowledge of Arthurian legends, you asked for a depiction of the knights of the round table. Truthfully, you wanted to be able to look at Arthur every night before you slept.

Now, it makes you feel sick. It’s an ugly, truthless fairytale, spun to make little girls giggle and you despise every inch of it, regardless of how beautiful it may have appeared to you once.

In the dark, you can still make out Arthur’s faded features. He is plain, with cropped blonde hair and a silly chestplate, looking over the expanse of your ceiling to Guinevere, whose clasped hands by her cheek make the picture of a woman in love.

You turn over, frustrated, and cover your head with a spare cushion.

The stone of the balcony wall is cool beneath the palms of your clammy hands. In the courtyard, your sister’s carriage is leaving, followed by many horsemen from her husband’s house. They’ll return only when the baby is born, to christen him in the family chapel.

You sigh as she leaves the gates and lean your weight on your hands. It’s still hot out, too hot for so many layers under your dress and a corset so tight, and you’re too exhausted to carry the weight around. Your maids are nowhere to be seen because it’s the middle of the afternoon and you should be socialising, but you’re an adult. You can dress - and undress - yourself.

As you return indoors, you reach behind your back and tug at the knot at the base of your corset. After a couple of frustrated tries it finally gives, loosening so that you can hook your fingers under each stretch and pull it undone. You gasp for air, filling your lungs properly as your ribs expand, and use your shoulders to pull it loose enough for you to remove. You take care to place each layer gently over your chaise - corset, overdress, skirt. You’re left in your undergarments - a long, loose slip made of cotton - when you hear an unexpected knock and the door begins to open.

You jump, feeling suddenly exposed in so few layers. It’s unlike anyone to disturb you at this hour.

You tense even more when your knight, with his hair loose and his cheeks pink, pushes the doors wider. He stops in his tracks for a moment as he spots you across the room, flushed your own shade of mortified.

“Eddie,” you hiss. “Shut the fucking door.”

His eyes widen and he straightens up, knocked out of his daze. You expect him to retreat, but he moves inside and pushes the doors closed behind himself.

“I meant with you outside them, ideally,” you bite.

“I- Uh, sorry- My apologies, your highness, I-”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Sorry! Sorry, shit, I- It’s important, sorry.”

“So important that it requires you to see me indisposed?”

He looks at you blankly for a second. “I mean, technically I see you like this every morning when you interrogate m-”

“Oh, shut up,” you spit, eyes narrowing. Your arms are still crossed over your chest, even though you’re covered from neck to ankle. “You know that’s different. There’s no robe or slippers between us now, Ser Munson.”

His cheeks bloom at that, pink slipping into fiery red. He breathes impatiently through his nose, clearly irritated by your prodding, and steps closer.

“Your highness,” he says pointedly. You roll your eyes. “Your father- His Highness requests your presence. In the throne room.”

“I refuse.”

“Darling, I-”

“No!”

Your father stands at the other end of the table, his head hung and his hands on the wood in front of him. You are in the room in which he has his important meetings with his council. Over the years you’ve tried a hundred times to get in here during such meetings, to no avail, but now all you want is to get out.

“You are twenty-one,” he says after a breath. “I’ve given you time, five years of it. You can’t remain unmarried any longer.” This conversation has only been happening for maybe two and a half minutes, but it seems more like an age; you’re exhausted from yelling already, especially at him. But it feels like the walls are closing in, your entrapment in a loveless marriage with a stranger now a certainty rather than a possibility. It’s beyond your power to stop the tears falling.

“You can’t make me,” you say through the thickness of your throat. Your arms wrap around your waist, squeezing, breath hiccupping on its way out.

“I can,” he sighs. “But I really don’t want to. It doesn’t have to be horrible. Your sisters, they’re all happy, why-”

“I don’t care about them. I want to be-” You stop yourself, because this isn’t something to talk about here, with your father of all people; you’d barely even talk to your mother about this stuff. But he’s looking at you again over the expanse of mahogany and his eyes are sad, because he’s fighting with his first daughter, and you break. “I want to be in love, father. I don’t want to be sold off to the highest bidder because I’m the eldest. That can’t be my life.”

He sighs again. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It is. There are fifteen houses coming here tomorrow, each with an eligible son. I’m letting you choose; it’s the most I can do.”

Your nose burns with betrayal and terror. Your cheeks are wet, tears falling into soft, wet spots on the front of your dress. Your arms squeeze your middle one last time before you turn, pushing past the Kingsguard who stand at the door, past the cupbearers and the maids, and past Eddie, who has been waiting for you outside. For the first time ever you don’t hear the familiar sound of armour following you, and for a moment you almost stop to turn and look for him, but you’re still crying and although it’s the middle of the afternoon, all you want to do is hide.

“It’s true,” Robin sighs. “I’ve been looking in our library, and I’ve counted at least three instances.”

You roll onto your back. Robin sits beside you on the plush of your bed, which has been remade by your maids so that there are no remnants of your painful, sleepless night. She strokes your hairline softly, looking down at you with sorry eyes.

“The most recent was eighty-three years ago,” she continues. “Lady Flora. She ran off with her knight, to be fair… But still!”

“I’m the eldest, Robin,” you tell her, trying your hardest to stop your words coming out in a hiccup; you only stopped crying this morning, and you’re in no mood to begin again now. “There’s too much expected of me. I can’t run off. I have to pick the right person.”

She takes in a breath. “Who says he isn’t the right one? Or that you’d have to run off?”

“Centuries of historical precedent,” you tell her flatly. When you meet her eye, though, you watch as she tries and fails to hold in a laugh.

“Since when have you ever cared about historical precedent?”

“Never, but that’s the problem.” You sit up quickly, knocking her affectionate hand back into her lap. “I can’t… This isn’t right. None of it is, but especially… Him.”

“But in the centuries of historical precedent,” Robin says, a poor imitation of you, “There were people like you.”

“And what happened to them?” you ask with a huff, standing to pace beside your bed. “Exiled, abandoned, cut off, ridiculed… I can’t live like that, Robin. But- But I can’t exist here while he’s always around, right behind my back. He’s like my fucking shadow. I can’t-” You hiccup, a wet sound that heralds the return of tears. “I can’t move on.”

Robin watches you with eyes laced with a pity that makes you furious. You want her to fix this; it’s entirely irrational, but you’re lost, and surely someone somewhere has to take responsibility for this, fix it so you don’t have to feel anything anymore. Remove Eddie, replace him with someone lifeless and unfunny and ugly, hand you a beautiful, attentive husband on a platter and, most of all, take the pain away.

But it doesn’t work like that. You know it doesn’t.

“Your Highness,” Eddie says in a raised voice from beyond your door. “It’s time.”

You look at Robin, who looks back at you, her eyes wide.

“I’ll be a minute,” you shout back hesitantly as she rises and rushes over. You let her help you adjust your dress and she dips a cloth left behind by a maid into the basin of cool water by your bedside, wiping it gently over your cheeks in an attempt to reduce the blotches there.

Neither of you say another word. She takes your hand firmly and squeezes.

You hate this.

Although you’re desperate for anything but a pre-arranged marriage pact, part of you had quite genuinely hoped for some kind of miracle, that one of your suitors would be The Guy. In your restlessness the evening prior, you’d even let yourself fantasise that one of them, strikingly handsome in your daydreams, would appear at the foot of the throne and you’d feel it in that instant: love.

But in every version of this delusion, The Guy was faceless, nameless, a blur of a person until he wasn’t. Until he was Eddie.

In reality, your knight is out of sight for once, and you’re nearing hour three in the gardens, where the court musicians entertain the countless guests and wine is flowing freely for everyone except you. (With your father at your elbow all afternoon, it’s impossible to get a second cup. Your mouth is dry and your boredom inflating.)

You know better than to assume Eddie’s left the gardens completely, but there are too many people for you to see him.

Suddenly, you feel a sharp elbow nudge your rib.

You turn to your father and find him wide-eyed and pink in the nose - a tell-tale sign of frustration - nodding to the man standing opposite the two of you.

“Hm?” you hum, painfully aware of how obvious it is to the both of them that you weren’t paying a lick of attention.

“Lord Carver was telling us about his hunts,” your father says through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” you sigh, turning to the stranger. “How… Interesting. What do you hunt?”

“Deer, mostly,” he responds, puffing out his chest. His cheeks are blotched with pink and the caramel blonde of his hair is unpleasant. The pleasure of your attention is clearly feeding his ego. “Started on pheasants when I was ten. They’re far too easy now; I’m heading out tomorrow to try for a stag. Say, care to join me?”

“Oh, I’m flattered,” you say with a saccharine giggle and hand to your chest that your father can certainly see straight through. “But I don’t hunt. Thank you, though, Lord Carver.”

Lord Carver seems to take this somewhat personally, despite your almost sincere attempt at a polite curtsy. He comes over stoney, steel-eyed as though you’ve wounded him.

“No matter. Your highness,” he says flatly, bowing quickly to your father before turning on his heels and marching away.

You barely listen as you are accosted by the king for being so blatantly rude. Lord Carver is far from your mind because across the heaving mass of strange bodies, you can see your knight, looking straight back at you.

Your father hisses your name but you do not listen.

“I’m taking a walk,” you tell him. “Sorry, father, I just need a break. And… A glass of water.”

It must have rained this morning. The grass is damp beneath your feet, soaking slowly through the velvet of your lilac slippers as you push your way between bodies as politely as you can manage.

With your focus on the ground you do not see Eddie’s eyes following your figure through the crowd; you also do not see Lord Carver six steps behind.

The latter reaches you first, by quite a margin, a moment after you’ve broken free of curious strangers and can finally breathe again. Everything happens very quickly. In the shadow of a high wall, the man reaches for your arm like a viper. His fingers coil and the fresh garden air is replaced by his coddling breath on your cheek. He spun you so quickly you feel momentarily winded, enough to catch you off guard as your face scrapes the old brickwork. Spit hits your cheek and mixes with fresh blooms of blood as his pink face looms, dominating your field of vision - like a bear in a trap you feel helpless, his fingers around your wrist so tight you fear he may break your bones. In a moment you’re frozen stiff and he takes his chance, his lips pushing angrily into the stretch of bare skin above the collar of your dress.

“You’re a bitch,” he says, muffled by the skin under your jaw. You writhe and whimper but you cannot scream. “You humiliated me. See what happens to cunts like- Ungh-”

The force of your knee between his legs is enough force to knock him back. Stumbling, he lurches forward again, only to meet your elbow, sharp and swift at his throat. The pathetic choking sound he makes mixes with the familiar sound of heavy boots; you turn to find Eddie, pink in the face, fist on the handle of his sword.

“Christ,” he pants, “Are you okay?”

Lord Carver coughs as he struggles to regain his balance.

“You-” Cough. “You bitch,” he spits, hand at his collar.

“Watch yourself,” Eddie growls, towering over the spluttering lord, his sword pulled only a few inches from its sheath - a warning: I will not hesitate. “I suggest you take your family home, Sir.”

Lord Carver looks up at him, red eyes watering and breath still catching. For a moment he seems to contemplate fighting back, but even you almost find yourself laughing at the possibility, until you look to Eddie and find a version of the man you’ve never seen before.

Your life, which Eddie tails endlessly from a few paces behind, always, is quiet. Mundane, boring, unadventurous; you rarely leave the castle grounds and when you do, it’s inside a carriage. Your bravest adventure since you were sixteen was taken barefoot, that evening after dinner, up on the balcony where you’d stumbled across your knight, bare-chested and panting.

You’ve teased Eddie before about how the lack of danger in your life must mean his own is boring. Though he never once gave into you, deep down you worry that it’s true.

Now, though, your knight is coloured a shade unknown to you. He’s come over like a shadow, eyes hard and brow set, and there’s a vein visible above the collar of his cape. Lord Carver seems to halve in size beneath his frame, and though he has never shown himself like this in front of you before, you’re sure of one thing.

Your pleading cry is too late, too weak - before you can intervene, Eddie’s fist makes contact with Lord Carver’s cheekbone. There’s a crack that, to you, is as loud as thunder, though the skies are as blue as they’ve ever been. As his back hits the floor, Lord Carver yelps like a wounded dog, and Eddie moves in on him.

“Eddie,” you plead, voice weaker still, your hands grasping his arm, “Leave him alone, I’m okay, please.”

In the commotion, you’d failed to notice your growing audience. You’re sure that if you let him, Eddie would give another punch, and another, but the man on the floor is bleeding from his nose and from a wide gash under his eye and your slippers are drenched through and so is the collar of your dress where your tears, unbeknownst to you, have been soaking the cotton.

“Please,” you hiccup, your hands squeezing, pulling Eddie backwards with as much strength as you can manage.

“Asshole!” Carver spits, his voice broken. Two men who resemble him are helping him up off the ground, the small crowd murmuring between themselves as they watch him stumble away. “You’ll regret this!”

It’s an empty threat. You barely hear it, in fact, because Eddie is finally turning to you, his shoulders dropping. His face softens the moment he looks at you.

“Are you okay? Did he- Where did he hurt you?” He asks again. People are dispersing but you pay them no mind because Eddie’s hands hold your face and it stings when he runs his gloved thumb over the gash on your cheek. You wince and his grip on you tightens, as though you might slip away if he lets you.

As his arms wind around your shoulders, you push your face into the embroidered crest that sits by his heart.

“You’re okay,” he tells you firmly, sweet words murmured into your hair. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Your father’s booming voice cuts through whispering strangers like a whip. Eddie moves away from you so quickly that you almost choke.

Tears mix with old blood and you want to scream. You want these strangers to leave your garden, you want Eddie to clean your wounds, you want to run away.

You cannot have what you want.

Two and a half weeks ago, your father replaced your knight via a letter.

Ser Munson has been reassigned.

After two nights of bed-rest in your chamber, wherein you were seen only by your mother and two alchemists, your new knight - an older man, as old as your father and then some - made himself known at your door. He informed you of his new appointment as your sworn protector. When you asked after Eddie, he closed the door.

Two lonely weeks entailed many downward spirals. One evening after countless days spent rotting, refusing the attendance of your mother or father, you find yourself staring blankly at your reflection in the glass beside the chest that houses your dresses. The girl looking back is gaunt and her eyes are bloodshot. There’s an old cut on her bottom lip, close to healing but you’re sure you’ll bite it open again soon enough, splitting the skin so that deep red plumes can burst through and begin the process again.

You think about Eddie. What would he say if he could see you now? Over the weeks you’ve spent more hours than you can count thinking about how he’d held you, the words spoken into your hair, low enough to avoid unwelcome ears. His hands had gripped you so firmly that you’d almost felt whole again after Lord Carver’s grubby paws had violated you so horribly. Now you’re hollow.

His reassignment was surely your punishment: how dare you let yourself be so distracted that you humiliate a noble Lord to the point of such anger? How dare you humiliate him such that he wants to hit you, bite you, kiss you, hurt you?

Meals delivered by your maids go uneaten. You do not speak to your new knight, only catching a glimpse when he opens the door for attendants.

At the dawn of a Thursday, your mother delivers the news that you are to stay behind while your parents visit your sister. You’re not sure which one of the four it is, but you do not care. With them gone, maybe you can go out; it’s early summer, after all, the weather is glorious, and you’re gasping for some sunlight and some respite from this stupidity.

When the sandbag splits, old hay spills onto the muddy ground.

Eddie’s sword is freshly sharpened and slices through the woven material like a hot knife through butter. He imagines Lord Carver’s face where the bag is tied together with string and watches it fall limply to the floor.

Outside in the courtyard, the sun is hot and shade is rare, and sweat beads on his forehead and drips to his chin. Other knights spar around Eddie, practising for nothing. His new position in the Kingsguard is, quite obviously, a downgrade, but only a few of his fellow knights have tried to get the why out of him: why have you stopped tailing the eldest daughter around? Why are you now forced to watch the southern walls in the dead of night? How did it happen? What did you do?

He chances a glance upwards, to the higher balcony along the wall, squinting under the sun. He doesn’t know if what he sees is you, standing in the shadow, or a trick of the light.

Your parents have been gone for two days, and the castle is like a ghost town. It’s never like this; even on late night escapades through the hallways, there are always maids at work, cleaning ladies and cupbearers. Guards on constant rotation, your father’s advisers wandering the halls having hushed conversations.

Tonight, though, there’s nothing. Your family’s absence is a moment of respite for the staff, who get a rare few evenings off to venture into town for some fun. You’re completely alone.

The long corridors look almost blue. The full moon is rising over the horizon and you’re enjoying an evening of freedom.

With most of the court staff out of the castle walls, you can’t be sure if you’ll find what you’re looking for tonight. He may have gone off with them, with his friends in the guard, down to a pub, getting drunk because he can, stumbling half-blind into a brothel like the rest of them do.

You shake the thought off because it turns your stomach, despite having no claim over the boy. It’s true that he may have gone but you’re searching anyway, because you’re driving yourself mad with guilt, and secretly you’ve missed him horribly.

You miss knowing he’s right outside your door, only ever a few paces away if you need him. You miss the blooming pink across his cheeks whenever you tease him, his stumbling answers and poor attempt at staying stony-faced and stoic. And you miss the smirk, though you’re sure he thinks he hides it well, that creeps across his face whenever you finish your teasing.

It’s your first time in this corner of the castle. Almost twenty-two years of living here, you’ve never had a reason to venture to where the knights stay. It’s a long way from your own wing - you’ve been walking for ten minutes and you’ve only just spotted a door. You’re treading softly in your favourite ruby slippers which, though you’d never admit it even to yourself, were surely chosen on purpose. You dressed yourself this evening, so there’s no use blaming your maids for the decision to drape you in scarlet.

As you come to a stop outside the room, you hold your breath and listen. You haven’t seen a single knight - not even your own new one - this whole time, but there’s somebody in there, and it sounds like they’re pacing.

Your hand reaches for the handle but just as you touch the iron, it twists on its own and the door flies open. You stumble forwards, losing your balance, but a familiar hand steadies you.

“Your highness?” He breathes, helping you back up. “What the- What are you doing here?”

You look at him. The man staring back at you is wide-eyed, those browns as pretty as ever but framed by new, dark circles. It’s difficult to see in the low light but he’s more tired than you’ve ever seen him. And though he seems sleepy, he’s dressed up in most of his on-duty getup, without the cape and sword.

“Eddie?”

“I thought the- Aren’t you supposed to be seeing your sister?”

“No, I… I stayed behind,” you tell him. A half-lie.

He looks back at you blankly. “Well,” he sighs. “We should… I should escort you back to your chamber.”

“No,” you say firmly. He does not invite you inside but you step over the threshold anyway, pushing past him into what you assume must be his bedroom.

It’s a plain room. The bed is low with old sheets, and there’s one candle burning on a table by the window. On the wall above his bed, he has hammered what looks like a letter into the plaster. And to the left of that-

“Is that mine?” You point plainly to the embroidery hoop. Even in the near-darkness you cannot miss the rosy flush you ignite across his face.

He scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Yes.”

It’s a small hoop, one you must have done years ago. A deep red rose, your favourite.

You look at it for a moment, and then to him. “Where have you been?”

He drops his hand. “I was reassigned,” he tells you.

“Why?”

“I don’t-”

“Why?” you press. He sighs and leans in the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest.

“After the… Incident with Lord Carver, your father thought it best that I be moved.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he sighs, “I’m on the nightwatch.”

“The nightwatch?!” you parrot. Even you, with only superficial understanding of the mechanics of your father’s guard, know that that’s one of the worst jobs. “But you… Why would he punish you?”

“Ask him,” he says bitterly, and so quickly that you know he regrets it instantly. “Sorry,” he corrects, “That was out of order.”

“Don’t apologise,” you say back, stepping past him into the wide hallway. It’s a brighter blueish-grey now, the moon nearing its highest spot in the night sky. You stop, turning to look at Eddie, and there’s a beat of silence.

He’s watching you quietly, and it takes him a moment to realise that you wish him to follow you. Under the moonlight you’re effervescent, your skin almost sparkling. The soft glow of the moon reflects a million times in your eyes like tiny diamonds. You’re so pretty it’s difficult to look away.

Eventually he closes the door behind him and falls into a familiar step, just behind your left foot. You walk and talk as you meander through random hallways, clearly unsure where you’re going but he says nothing, silently grateful to see you again and willing to walk every hall of the castle if it means stretching out the time before he has to leave you again.

“Why do you say that?” he asks. You turn your head to look at him, lost. “You told me not to apologise.”

You huff, striding forward. “You don’t have to respect my father around me, Eddie. It’s not like he respects me, or anything.”

“I don’t understand,” he says quietly. You bristle, frustrated that you’ve allowed the conversation to move to you. You’d intended to find out where he’d gone, not tell him about this.

“He can quite easily forget about me,” you tell him over your shoulder bitterly. “I’m happy to forget about him for a few days.”

“I… I don’t understand,” he repeats, and it irritates you double.

“For God’s sake,” you spit, stopping so abruptly that he almost crashes into your back. You spin and stare him down. “I’m a disappointment, okay? They left for their trip, and they left me behind. I’m useless. No man likes me, not enough to marry me, only stupid stableboys have ever come close to me. Something went wrong somewhere and now I’m here, heir to the throne and without a husband. And it’s. Your. Fault.” You jab your index finger to his chest for emphasis, but it’s meagre because you can feel the tears returning and you want nothing less than to be seen crying by Ser Munson.

You cross the remainder of the hallways alone, Eddie left behind. Whether by choice or because of shock you don’t know, and frankly you don’t care. When you finally return to familiar halls, you push your way into your chambers and slam the heavy door as hard as you can behind you.

After a few minutes of pacing, having make-believe arguments with yourself in hushed tones, there’s a soft knock. So soft you almost miss it, but the eerie quiet of the castle has you jumpier than usual.

“Sweetheart,” you hear through the thick wood. “Let me in? Please?”

Maybe it’s your fear in the silence, or maybe it’s the way the rare sweetheart makes your stomach drop; either way you cave, rushing over and heaving the door open.

On the other side of the threshold, Eddie stands, hair unruly like he’s run his hands through it a few times. The curls stick out at odd angles and stand out dark against his alabaster skin.

Something in his eyes makes you break. The tears come thick and fast and before you can hide or apologise or close the door, arms wrap you up and his hand is on your back, smoothing patiently up and down.

It’s not the most comfortable hug; his armour is mostly leather and cloth but the toughness of it all makes it difficult to completely lean into him. As though he senses that, he pulls back, though his hand lingers on your arm where he gives you a squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, palms smudging wet tears across your face in an attempt to dry your eyes. “That was so mean of me, I’m sorry.”

“I just want to know what you mean,” he says, his eyes sadder than you’ve ever seen them. You dreaded this inevitability the moment you let the blame fall from your lips, but you owe him that much.

You sigh, look down at your feet, and resign yourself to truth.

“Father… He loves me, but he loves the throne just as much. And I’m the eldest, and I’m almost twenty-two, so…”

In your peripheral vision you see him sag, his shoulder dropping in premature realisation.

“He brought all those men here, and not one of them was even slightly as interesting to me as you.”

Eddie looks at you, at the tears that periodically drop from your cheeks to the floor, listens to you sniff and hiccup, and wonders how on Earth you exist, let alone how you’ve landed here, with feelings so profound for him of all people.

“That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me,” he tells you honestly. You look up at him and the sight winds him: you’re crying, and it’s sad and stressful and difficult but you’re so beautiful.

You giggle and to him, it’s the ringing of a thousand bells by a thousand angels. It’s golden and brilliant. “I’m surprised,” you say, your smile lingering. “You’re really very lovely.”

He steps forward and reaches up, taking your chin in his gloved hand. You look back at him and sigh without meaning to as he moves his hand to cup your cheek and wipes stray tears away with his thumb. It takes your mind back to loud music, seven goblets, and a wine-stained thumb between his teeth.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells you quietly. There’s no one around but this still feels painfully scandalous, like glass that could - and will - shatter at any moment. No sudden movements.

You smile into his palm. “Stop it.”

“It’s true,” he says as his thumb moves across your skin, over the remnants of the cut across your cheekbone, over expanse of skin to your lips.

You watch him as he takes a deep breath in.

“I wasn’t reassigned,” he admits to you. You match him, breathing deep through your nose, preparing for the truth. “Well, I asked to be reassigned. I had to plead, really, because your father… He’s a good man.”

You roll your eyes without thinking and feel your bottom lip quivering again, the tears reemerging.

“He told me I’d never be able to see you again,” you tell him in a whisper.

“That’s my fault.”

“What?” You lift your head upright and he drops his hand, bringing it to his hair instead to run it through the curls again.

“I asked that I be kept away from you.”

“Why?! Why on earth would you… What could possibly possess you?”

“I couldn’t go through that again,” he says. “I couldn’t be near you. It was too… Too painful, and I let it get the better of me when I punched Lord Carver.”

“You were protecting me,” you say flatly. “That’s- That was your job.”

The emphasis hurts. “I know,” he sighs, “But… I wanted to kill him.”

“I don’t understand,” you tell him. You despise the whimper your words come out with, the way your jaw clenches to hold back more tears. What you can see of his neck above the collar of his thick tunic and under the cover of ringlets of tired hair is blotchy, coming up rosy in uneven patches. Is he stressed? Nervous? Both?

Your vision blurs with tears and your nose burns. He looks back at you softly, just like always, his eyes dark and inviting. Your lip wobbles again and you hear his breath hitch in the quiet.

“Let me show you,” he offers as he holds your cheek again. You cannot help but lean in, head tipping to the left to feel the expanse of leather over your cheek, his thumb dancing softly across your skin.

“No, I- You have to explain yourself, I don’t-”

“Please?” He looks at you with those fucking eyes of his and you want to kick him and kiss him all at once. “Do you trust me?”

The urge to kick him persists but you nod anyway. Perhaps the kicking is not a frustration aimed at him but at yourself instead: why can you not tell him how you feel? Why does the possibility of what he’s about to do scare you so much?

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit to him in a whisper. You feel naked before him, though there’s layers of thick velvet and scuffed leather between the two of you, a hundred barriers of material, an aching yawn of distance that you find yourself disliking immensely.

Can Eddie read your mind? It feels that way right now - you only uttered six words but he seems to understand you entirely at this moment. He drops his hand from your face, takes a step back, and as you watch him wordlessly unbuckle his armour, your stomach contracts and your soul becomes hollow in anticipation. He removes the belt that the sword usually sits on, and then his leather gauntlets, pulling each finger from the gloves and placing them, too, on the table. As he peels off each piece of his uniform, creating a growing pile on the wood and on your floor, you see, for the first time since that night when you were nineteen, the bloom of his flesh under his billowing undershirt. He’s paler now than he was then, though the moonlight seeping in through the cracks between heavy curtains over your windows is no match for the golden wash of colour he had once basked in. If you had any sense you’d laugh at the display before you: endless metal defences and leather covers come away from his body and pile noisily beside him. But you’re transfixed, fingers fidgeting, bottom lip absentmindedly between your teeth.

You do not notice him glance at you every so often. Between removing each greave, he looks up at you again, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the flurry of blood to his cheeks. He’s baring himself, and you’re looking at him like he’s edible; perhaps, to you, he is.

After many minutes filled only by the sounds of deconstructed armour, metal and leather, he’s free of it, and he stands before you in a loose shirt and cotton slacks. His pale chest is visible behind the deep, un-tied collar and your fingers itch, fidgeting still, yearning to know what it feels like.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”

“I saw you like this, once,” you say quickly, voice so low it’s almost a whisper. You’re looking at everything - his arms, his legs, neck, chest, hands - except his eyes.

He’s taken aback. “What?”

“Years ago. I was nineteen. You were outside-” You turn to look through the open balcony door behind you, at the bright white gleaming down on the stone beyond. “-polishing. It was so beautiful out there, but I remember watching you for ages.”

You turn back, eyes on his finally. As ever, they’re wide and deep brown and beautiful. “Sorry. I know that’s strange. And forbidden, I guess.”

“No,” he breathes, taking a step towards you. “No, it’s fine- It’s okay.”

The air is thick and between that and your corset, you can barely breathe. He’s inching closer and it’s difficult to know where to look.

Nobody has ever been this close to you before. Not truly; you kiss your father and mother on the cheek before heading to bed each evening, you give your sisters fleeting embraces, you've fooled around with stableboys and, of course, you once loved to lean into his space whenever you teased Eddie, but this is different. Someone electing to be so near, choosing to breathe your air and not flinching or pulling back, instead lingering just to let his eyes dance over yours once more - it’s new, and it’s addictive.

He’s breathing your air but you’re also breathing his. The hills of his cheeks are mere whispers from your own, and his nose, crooked at the bridge where it once broke, nudges yours so lightly that you ought not feel it. It takes your breath away anyway.

At the sound of your gasp he smiles, only slightly, but you’re so close you see it in his eyes. Crows' feet emerge, wrinkling happiness beside his temples, and you can’t help but return it. As you fight the urge to close your eyes you watch him as he watches you, bated breaths and whimpers. All of a sudden he meets your gaze and you stumble where your foot had been resting on your other ankle. The heel of your slipper slides across bare skin and your balance goes, but before you can panic or cry out, you are pulled in breathless by his strong arm around your back. There may be layers upon layers of fabric but you feel it anyway, the electric jolts up your spine where his palm presses firm into your waist. Whether he means to or not is unclear, but you’re chest-to-chest with him now, the firm bones of your corset pushed against his shirt.

Your fingers spread across the fabric of his shirt. Without meaning to, you venture upwards, fingertips meeting the small smattering of coarse hair there, under the cotton. You watch your hands like they’re moving on their own, until his finger, hooked beneath your chin, tilts you up to meet his eye again.

It’s happening, you think to yourself. But then his arm, still around your middle, tightens briefly and he’s gone.

You watch him cross your room, the few steps he takes to your bed suddenly a criminal distance, too far, far too far. He sits upright on the edge of it, legs parted.

“Come here,” he says, his voice a melodic tug at your core. You move to him, sliding each of your slippers off on the way, and stand hesitantly between his knees, holding your breath without thinking to.

You can’t look at him. You caught a glimpse of his eyes and the way they’re looking up at you and you can’t. It’ll surely kill you.

He thinks you’re perfect, standing here, towering over him, relenting. His tough palms smooth over the layers of deep red velvet that lie over your hips, and for a moment he allows himself to relish in the small noises of shock you’re making before he urges you to turn around.

“You know,” he begins as his deft fingers untie and release the intricate ribbons at your back. “It wasn’t your fault.”

You turn your head towards him, as far round as you can. “What?”

“The… What happened, that afternoon. The way he spoke to you…” Eddie’s fingers still for a moment and you hear him take a deep breath. “The way he touched you. I don’t know what your father- what His Majesty said about it, but it wasn’t your fault.”

His left hand begins pulling at the ribbons again, but his right rests safely on your waist, as though he’s demonstrating something: how you should be touched, the way you deserve, soft and kind and gentle and wanted.

You hum in agreement.

“And I truly am sorry I punched him,” he says. “It- If I’d just told him to back away, it never would have become such… Such a thing, a big deal.”

“Eddie,” you breathe, grateful that you can get a lung-full again. You turn back to him in his grasp and take his face in both hands. Your palms are warm but they’re nothing compared to the flames of his cheeks, which almost burn under your touch. “I’m not mad that you punched him. I wish I’d done it, truly. But I’m never mad that you want to protect me.”

Your hands on his face startle him. You both sense it in the moment, how unlike you this is, to touch him so willingly and so carefully.

“I don’t think you needed me to protect you,” he says quietly, a smile emerging though he tries his best to hold it back. “Your elbow seemed to do a good enough job of that.”

Ah! The sound of your feather-light laugh fills a yawning gap in his chest that appeared two and a half weeks ago. It sounds even more beautiful than before, a twinkling spark of a sound, just for him.

“You’re funny,” you tell him. “I’ll always need you, Ser Munson. Don’t worry about that.”

He looks up at you from his seat on the edge of your bed with eyes that sparkle like the sky outside. Perhaps it’s the reflection of the faded stars painted onto your ceiling, or perhaps it’s just the sight of you.

Both of his hands are on your waist, now, as you stand between his legs. There’s a lot of material in your skirt, though, and it feels too distant still, so you reach behind your back to pull the remainder of the ribbons keeping your corset on, and pull it over your head. Eddie helps where he can from such a low vantage point, and as soon as it’s off and disregarded on the floor, his eager fingers are pulling the velvet dress down and away from your body.

“Fucking hell,” he heaves, “How many things do you have on right now?”

“You’re one to talk,” you giggle. “It took you five whole minutes just to free your arms.”

“Okay, but that’s important. I don’t want to lose my arms. This must weigh a tonne, and… For what?”

You hold his cheek in your left hand again while he unties various laces and undoes buttons. Your skirt has fallen away, as has the underskirt and the other, thicker layers. You’re left in your underdress, a simple white cotton embroidered at the collar. It’s nicer than the one he caught you in all those weeks ago, moments before your life seemed to tilt and slip away beneath you.

Under the fabric, your nipples harden in the cold, jutting out and catching Eddie’s eye.

“Is this okay?” He asks, pulling you in anyways, standing you safely between his knees, his wide hands tentative on your hips. “We don’t have to-”

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Please, yes.”

His hands slide over the hills of your behind to the backs of your thighs. He’s still looking up at you, eyes drooping when your fingers dance through his hair.

“I meant it, though,” you say. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” he sighs, standing slowly. “I have all the time for you.”

The moonlight bleeds a sharp bluish hue but it doesn’t matter. Right now, as he says those lovely words, the boy is a golden ball of light, humming pinks and warm ochre. Your yearning arms wind over his shoulders as his breath mixes with yours once more, his nose nudges the swell of your cheek, his hands press firm into your waist. He’s slow with it, tantalising, keeping you whimpering and desperate, until he finally dips into you, lips on yours with a surprising urgency.

It’s magic, you are so sure of it. His mouth moves over yours with certainty: he wants to be here, he wants to kiss you. He’s wanted to kiss you.

All those fairytales that your wiry old school teacher told you were real, about spells and conjurings and spirits: it’s all real, surely, and it’s in this feeling. There’s no other way you can understand it, though in truth your brain isn’t entirely clear because his fingers are smoothing lower, bunching your dress in his fists to pull the fabric up over the stretch of your legs. All the while his kisses never cease; in fact, once you feel the cool air over the material of your underwear, you gasp and welcome his tongue with your own. Air is worthless to you now; all you want is Eddie.

Much to your dismay, he seems to disagree, pulling back from you to take a breath and lift your dress over your head. He whispers up and you raise your arms, letting him undress you quietly, and once he has, you daren’t open your eyes, instead winding your arms across your chest. You feel the nighttime breeze across the backs of your thighs and you tense knowing that you’re bare in front of him.

There’s a slow beat before you feel his hands again. You hear the dress discarded on the stone floor and then his rough fingers are gently, oh so gently, holding your waist. It’s like he thinks you could break.

“Can I touch you?” he whispers.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Of course you can.”

You expect more solid grabs of flesh, hands smoothing over the expanse of your stomach, maybe even venturing upwards, but you take in a surprised breath when you feel his mouth on your sternum.

His rough hands hold your lower back and he kisses, framing each of your breasts with rows of feather-light pecks, dancing blossoms of affection. You drop your hands to his hair as you let out a breath of satisfaction, tangling your fingers in the curls as his mouth rises.

The whine of your name that leaves your lips is met with his hands tightening, fingers almost curling into the flesh of your back. His kisses turn eager, frantic, crossing the mounds of each of your breasts. His hands leave you to pull his shirt over his head and it’s too much all at once: too much to see, feel, know. You can’t take it in before he’s kissing you again, less than kind as his arms pull your bare chests flush.

Your fingers explore new terrain, which is littered with freckles and white, years-old scars that stretch over his alabaster skin, each one a story that you hope he will tell you one day.

“Eddie,” you pant. He returns the sentiment, breathing your name over and over into your mouth as he sits back down and pulls you into his lap.

The rough of his slacks sends an unfamiliar jolt up your spine when your hips meet his. In the heat of the moment he’s pulling at you a little rough but your gasp draws him out.

“You good?”

“Just… Slow down,” you tell him, resting back on your heels with your hands on his broad, bare shoulders.

“Sorry,” he says. His face is flushed pink and his dark eyes are drooping. “Want to stop?”

“No,” you respond, too quickly to keep your cool. You shake your head. “No, I just- I’m scared I’ll go too fast. I like you too much.”

“I told you,” he says, moving in with his eyes on you. You nod, almost imperceptibly. He kisses your collarbone and then your shoulder. “I have all the time in the world for you.”

“What if someone catches us?”

He pulls back again and reaches up, moving hair from your face and putting it behind your ears. Tidying you up. Fussing over you. It’s nice.

“I promise that everybody who would even think to come anywhere near this room tonight is gone until at least tomorrow afternoon.” He kisses under your jaw, and it returns the shivers back down your spine. “They’re too busy getting drunk. Nobody’s thinking about us.”

“You promise?”

He kisses your chin. “I promise.”

A few years ago, your father entertained a visitor from one of the bigger cities. They had been on a ship for some years and they brought goods the likes of which you’d never seen before: round, vibrant, sharp fruits, powders that made food taste wildly different, and, your favourite, a small collection of fireworks.

In the light of a small bonfire, your father helped the visitor set the wooden tubes alight. They flew off into the air and sparkled, fizzed, popped. It was a display that you couldn’t help but gawk at, enjoying the sizzles and the colours in the deep January sky.

That’s what this feels like. His lips plotting a map across your bare neck, up over your jaw, until they reach your mouth, it feels like seeing fireworks. You keen into his mouth as he licks across your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth gently before letting go, meeting your tongue with his own. His hands at your back pull you in and that flush returns between your legs. He keeps you moving slowly, a lethargic push and pull across his crotch. The dips and folds of the tough fabric there, paired with the growing hardness beneath, give you a friction that you chase instinctively. It’s coupled with a litany of praises whispered into your skin between kisses, and the combination is clearing your head and sending you dizzy.

“That’s it, you’ve got it,” he coos, “Nice and slow for me, yeah? Just-”

Through drooping lids you watch him, his face scrunching in pleasure as you rock against him. It is not lost on you that this feels just as good for him, but you can tell he’s holding something back.

His face relaxes, and he meets your eye. “Hey.” He nudges your nose with his own and takes a deep breath. “You have to breathe, deep breaths. Doesn’t feel half as good if you stop breathing, promise.”

You let out a sigh and a twinkling giggle and he smiles, wide enough that you can see his dimples. He continues showering you with sweet praises, urging you towards oblivion. Look at you. I don’t even need to tell you what to do. You’re so beautiful.

“Fuck- My god.”

The pace quickens as you chase the abyss. His hands don’t move, keeping you anchored to him, moving you back and forth. It’s bliss like you’ve never felt; your own hand could never get you this far. The friction of his pants between your thighs is perfect and your need is ferocious as your stomach winds like a coil.

“C’mon,” he encourages, “You can do it. You’re doing such a good job, c’mon-”

You fall forwards and rest your forehead on his shoulder, whimpering something desperate into his neck as your stomach tenses and bends. Please, Eddie, please, please, please.

A white-hot light sears the darkness behind your eyelids as you come apart for him. He’s calling you all sorts of filthy things but you can barely hear him, brain too occupied by the burning in your belly and his hands, which are seemingly everywhere all at once.

“Good girl,” he whispers into your hairline. He scatters kisses there as you catch your breath.

“Thank you,” you sigh. “Thank you.”

He laughs and you feel it reverberate through his chest.

As you slouch into him, feeling returning to each limb, you feel a foreign yearning in your gut, a relentless feeling that prompts you to squirm. Wriggling, your restless hands paw at his arms and his back and they move lower, until you meet the waistband of his slacks.

You whine into his neck when he won’t move to accommodate your impatience. His hands lure you back from your resting place so he can look at you, with your kiss-swollen lips and happy eyes.

“I need to know that you want this,” he whispers. He rests your foreheads together, the tip of his nose nudging yours.

All you can do is whine. You’re too elated to care to form words, but Eddie’s not having it.

“I need to hear you say it,” he tells you sternly. His eyes do not betray him: they’re steely and suddenly darker than ever.

You dip your head to kiss his jaw, nosing at his cheek, lips and teeth dragging along his skin.

“I want you, Eddie,” you tell him. His fingers tighten at the nape of your neck and pull you back, gentle but firm, as he watches you speak through obsidian eyes. “Please.”

He says nothing as he gives you one more kiss, soft as anything to the pillows of your lips, before helping you off his lap and laying you between the pillows at the head of your bed. You curl up there, the breeze colder still against the wetness between your thighs, which you squeeze together as you watch him stand.

He’s all lean muscle and long limbs. You let yourself gawk for the first time since that night on the balcony; you usually have to ration your glances at him, and he’s always covered by so many layers, so you allow yourself this luxury.

He knows you’re watching, so he makes a little show of it, bending down to get rid of the slacks. Before he does, you notice that the brown has deepened around his crotch with the stains of your pleasure. Acknowledging this makes you shiver, and though you feel you should be disgusted, it’s oddly comforting instead.

When he looks over at you, finally bared and unflinching, he takes a moment to take you in.

You’re still glowing, perhaps more so than before. Some of your hair is stuck to your face, plastered there in the heat of your first orgasm, but the rest of it is laid out around your head like a halo. It’s unfair that you can be so casually magnificent. You’re also not looking at him - well, not meeting his eye, anyway. The tip of your index finger is between your teeth as you take in the sight before you, Eddie as hard as he’s ever been, just for you.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

You look up at his face and break out in a grin. “Absolutely.”

He’s slower than you want, leaning over you, his knees on the comforter beside you, mouth lazy as he gives you kisses. You take and take, happy under his touch.

His hands are everywhere again. Your skin is on fire, aflame from the praise and the affection and the attention. The sensation of being so close to another person while naked like this is achingly unfamiliar but learning it is nice, new, natural. Though it’s nothing like anything you’ve ever experienced before, you’re finding that you like it. You like smoothing your hands over his back, feeling the dips and peaks of his muscles there, or around to the slight pudge of his stomach, just above a thatch of hair similar to your own. You like the feeling of his palms on your shoulders, down your arms, across your waist. You like that when he kisses you, you feel the nudge of his nose beside yours. You like that he appears breathless to you, like your kisses are preferable to air, especially when he becomes restless and impatient.

Above you, his hand moves south, fingers burying their way between your legs. Without realising it, you’ve been squeezing them together, desperate for any relief you can find, but his fingers are certainly better. They push your knees apart so that he can climb into your space, his waist framed by your thighs, the weight of him crashing into you as he dips again to kiss you silly. You wind your arms around his neck and pull him in, enjoying the proximity rather than fleeing from it, and feeling desperate without shame.

One hand hooks under your thigh while the other plants firmly on the mattress beside your head.

“You ready?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“I’m going to go slow,” he tells you, his lips moving against yours lest he get too far away. “Just tell me if you want to stop, please?”

“Yes,” you pant, “Yes, of course, please-”

The hand beneath your thigh escapes and he holds himself as you wind your arms under his, around his chest, pulling him in tight.

It’s definitely slow. A slow, tantalising push between your thighs, filling that gaping yearning within your gut. He’s big, though it barely takes you by surprise because of course he is.

He’s panting, biting his lip above you. “Fuck-” he gasps, “Shit- You okay?”

You nod as fervently as you can because words are escaping you and all you can think about is him, hovering over you, pushing into you, breathing your air and nudging your cheek.

“You feel- You feel so good,” he breathes, pushing further. You nod in agreement and tug him closer still, until he’s in as far as he can go, filling you to the hilt.

The proximity dazzles you as you open your eyes and examine his face. The scrunch between his brows, the freckles across his crooked nose, his teeth biting firm into his lip. It feels only natural to lean up and plot a path of kisses across the hills of his face, bright, happy kisses that relax him until he can kiss you back. He lets the weight of his body fall into yours, keeping some pressure on his arm so as not to crush you entirely, but the feeling of closeness is too comfortable for him to forego.

He speaks into the flesh of your cheek when he says, “I’m going to start moving, okay?”

“Yes,” you pant, and he does, pulling slowly away before pushing back. The friction of the movement over your clit adds to the swelling feeling of fullness each time he returns to you, and the pleasure is almost overwhelming. You take heavy breaths until they become moans, matched by his own noises. Your head is empty and all you want to do is become him; being here, underneath him, is never quite enough. Instead you wish you could, in this moment, under the stars and the moon and wrapped in the night breeze, merge with your knight and stay here forever.

Your lazy daydreams are interrupted when he groans and mutters some kind of praise into your hairline: You’re doing so well. Fuck, so good. And then, to your surprise, you feel his free hand traverse the expanse of your body, between the two of you, over the hill of your stomach until the pads of his fingers find your clit.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Perhaps you haven’t melted together, but this somehow got even better. His cock moves just as quick as he draws lucid circles with his middle and ring fingers over you. He kindles the flame like an expert as his mouth drops kisses messily across your own lips. That’s it: everything is messy, lazy, desperate. He moves and kisses and whispers please, come on, come for me, are you okay? I know you can do it, you feel so good, you’re beautiful.

The hot wire returns. It burns as it coils, tighter and tighter around an abyss in your gut, tugging on each limb like you might implode and become a black hole right here in your bed.

“Eddie, oh my god-”

“Come on.”

“Unngh- It feels s- So good-”

“Come on, sweetheart.”

His movements never relent as you come, the wire burning out in a white-hot bang. You yelp, moaning his name, and he keeps going through it all, kissing you silly all over your face. It’s only when you start to squirm that he slows, brings his busy hand out from between the two of you and smiles. He allows himself a moment to watch you, face lax and mouth agape, sweaty brow and hair a mess, before he taps your hollow cheek with his knuckles.

You open heavy eyes to look back at him and watch as he smirks down at you and brings two messy fingers to his mouth. He’s still inside you and he feels it, the way you squeeze him just slightly as he tastes you on his tongue, making a little show of it for you. He hears you gasp, panting like a dog, and even the moan that leaves you when he pulls his fingers free and they glisten in the low light. “Holy shit,” you breathe, and he breaks out in a grin before he can stop himself. “Holy shit, Eddie.”

“Happy?” he asks.

“Happy? Fuck yeah, I’m happy.”

His laughter is deep and loud, a rumble from his chest that makes you grin back at him.

“What about you?” you ask, eyes drooping again, bringing the back of your hand to your forehead. It burns there, like you have a fever. You must look a state.

“I’m more than happy,” he says, smiling. “You up for a little more?

You look at him. “Hm?”

“I, uh… I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock,” he admits, flushing, “And you… You feel so good, and I’d like to… Y’know.”

He feels bad for a second when your eyes widen and you look down quickly. “Oh, Eddie, shit, did you not- Oh my god, I’m so selfish, are you okay?”

Your hands are everywhere all of a sudden, pawing at his arms and his chest, your fawning interrupted by another bellowing laugh. When you giggle back, he winces, feeling it in the way your body pulls him tighter.

“I’m fine,” he assures you, “But I want to try something.”

“Of course,” you say.

“You sure you’re okay to keep going?”

“Yes,” you sigh, “I want to help you, I want you to feel good too.”

“Hold on, then,” he says, threading an arm between your back and the sweat-damp mattress. You wind your arms back around his neck and yelp when he swings you around, all the while keeping his cock firmly inside your walls.

“Fuck,” you splutter, planting your hands either side of his head.

He likes this view. Your face hovering over his, your knees either side of his waist. He holds you by the hips, feeling the curves and dips, pushing impatient fingers into the flesh at the base of your back.

“God, you are gorgeous,” he says. He likes this view, too, watching you flush and bat your eyelashes, made nervous under his gaze and by his lovely, genuine words.

“Not too bad yourself,” you respond, smiling, lifting one hand to push curls from his warm face.

This feeling is new but it’s lovely. Gravity pulls you onto him and it feels as though he’s somehow even deeper than before. His hands at your ass fist at the flesh there and he tells you he’s going to help you, that you may be worn out and that’s okay, and as he helps you lift yourself upwards, you get the hang of it.

You plant your hands firmly on the expanse of his chest and drop yourself down before pushing yourself back up again. It helps to sit upright so you do, letting him hold you and watch you and god, his face is a picture.

He’s scrunching his nose again, eyes tight as he huffs each time you drop onto him. He’s droopy and blissful as you move up and down, circling your hips just a bit, letting him guide you. It burns after so long but it’s nothing compared to the warmth in your chest watching him near the edge. His stomach tenses, the muscles flexing between your thighs, as his breathing becomes more ragged. And suddenly his arms come up your back and pull you down flush and inside your walls, his cock sits as far in as he can push it. You feel him stiffen and shudder and the warmth as he comes inside, hugging you close, his forehead on your shoulder.

He warns you as he pulls out, and then you lie still, spent, limbs going soft together. The sky is a pale blue-green now, the sun soon to cross the horizon. You can hear birds, and the soft morning light coats your skin in a kind of effervescent glow.

Eddie’s breathing lulls you into a doze, but after a short while he stirs. The space between your core and his is sticky and damp and it’s uncomfortable for a short moment, until he tells you quietly that he’s going to get up and get a rag. He moves you softly onto your back and you sigh, a happy, contented sound, watching him move around your space so comfortably.

He returns from the water basin with a damp cloth, cleaning the remnants of your night from between your legs. You wince when he does, only because you’re tired and sore and the cloth is cold, but he apologises and kisses the inside of your knee.

“Eddie?”

He’s at the basin again, rinsing the rag. “Mhm?”

“Do you really think everyone will be gone until the afternoon?”

You catch him smiling at your question, like he knows what’s coming.

“If you want to play it safe, lets say noon.”

“And what time is it now?”

He looks over to the clock, which sits above your mantlepiece, ticking softly.

“Early,” is all he says. “Early enough.”

“Stay with me?”

He drops the rag over the side of the basin and pads over to you. The mattress dips as he rejoins you, this time lifting your sheets to bury the two of you beneath them.

“I told you,” he says quietly, kissing the peak of your shoulder and pulling you in, his arm around your waist, “I have all the time in the world for you.”

The castle is bustling. People rush here and there, carrying armfuls of floral arrangements, buckets of wine, heaving plates of food. Your home is lively and noisy and your mother is pacing, directing the placement of each bouquet and chair.

In your chamber, the noise seems far away. Your maids finish tying your corset and your shoe ribbons before filtering off to complete other tasks. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above your fireplace. Red really is your colour.

There’s a resolute knock at your door. The maids stand to attention and move out of your way as your knight pushes the doors open and you step through to the hall.

“Thank you, Dustin,” you say to him.

Your new knight, a replacement both for Eddie and for the man who took his place all those months ago, bows kindly at your regards. He’s young, younger than yourself and Eddie, but keen and worthy and you’re more than happy.

And then he appears, your beacon, a gorgeous vision of handsome beauty.

Eddie, Ser Munson, your knight. Or, rather, your former knight. He’s been promoted to fiancé.

He stands at the top of the stairs, looking back at you like you hung the stars. To him, you may as well have. You are all he has eyes for now, especially now, after giving up his duties and telling your father: Your daughter is my true and only duty.

“My god,” he breathes. You step over to him, too giddy to maintain any air of grace or class. Your step is more like skipping, your love for him giving you far too much energy to merely walk to him.

He holds his arm for you and you take it, leaning up on tip-toes to give him a chaste kiss to the cheek.

“How do you do it?” he says in a low voice, dipping his head so you can hear him as the two of you descend the stairs, Dustin in step behind you.

You’re smiling while you cling to his arm. “Hm?”

“How do you keep getting more beautiful?”

“Just think, Munson,” you say in a whisper, “By the time we’re one hundred, think of how beautiful I’ll be by then.”

“I dread to think,” he says sarcastically, squeezing your arm with his. You look up at him and the noise and fervour of the castle falls away. He looks back down at you and smiles, and it’s truly the only thing that matters.

The engagement party, your sisters, your parents, your birthright - what is any of it for, what does any of it mean, when you have the one thing you ever wanted?

author’s note Hey! Thanks for reading (or scrolling all this way). It's been so long since I uploaded my last fic and I’ve been lurking ever since - I miss u all but there isn’t really any room in my life for writing anymore. I have loved doing this and thank you all so so much for reading everything! I’ll be about, so the blog will stay and you can read whatever you want whenever you want. I love ya, I’ll miss ya, see ya l8r!

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

Text

Squeaky Clean 8

Warnings: non/dubcon 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: Steve Rogers

Summary: You start work as a maid but you’re not prepared for the mess your client brings with him. (maid AU – plus!reader)

Note: Oh Steverino.

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 ❤️

The rhythm of flesh echoes in your head. It isn't until you open your eyes that the world is still. It's over.

Your teeth chatter as you exhale, eyes glued to ceiling as you languish in the aftermath. The smell of sweat drowns you, the shadow of his touch stain you. Your skin is raw from his ravenous exertion and your insides are shredded.

It hurts just to roll your eyes around their sockets. You tilt your head carefully and look down at Steve’s arm strewn across your middle. His heat swelters over you like arid desert air.

You wallow like that for a time. Your consciousness stirs your restlessness. As your chest wracks tightly, you push away his embrace and sit up. You need space, just for a second.

You get one leg over the edge of the bed before he has you by your arm, just above the elbow. With ease, he yanks you back down. You tremble and let out a yelp.

"Please, I'm just going to the bathroom."

"Stay," he insists.

"I--" you begin but it's meaningless.

His hand trails up your arm and tickles across your shoulders. He purrs as he draws himself flush to you. He nuzzles your cheek and pets your other. His lips brush your ear as he whispers, "on your side, baby."

You tense but obey. You hide behind your eyelids as he grazes over your hair and pushes it flat. He slips his other arms beneath your and bends it to cover your throat. His grip hovers but does not squeeze.

His other hand traces the length of your body and he latches in your hip. He pushes until your arch your back.

You clutch the corner of the pillow as he drags his fingertips around your ass and strokes himself hard. He pushes his tip along the crease of your cheeks and leans against you as he finds your entrance. He pushes a finger along the front to steady himself as he impaled you with a sigh.

You turn your face into the pillow and whine. His intrusion is even more torturous than before. He clamps down on your throat and puffs into your hair as he bottoms out. His other hand cups your stomach as he quickly falls into a rut.

The slapping skin batters your ears and body alike. You try not to hear, not to feel, but that only makes it worse. His fingers flutter down your pelvis and he delves between your lips.

You gasp as he flicks over your clit. You spasm and choke on your whimpers. He swirls his fingers as he hammers into. You feel him in your stomach as your nausea swells again.

You clasp onto his wrist as he toys with your clit. He growls and puts you on your stomach again. His hips pound against your ass as he plays with your clit, tangling your nerves into a ball.

"Fuckkk...." he rasps as his weight flattens you against the mattress. "You're so good, baby."

You bite down and let out a fractured moan as your body surrenders. You cum into the pillow. He does not stop.

You sink down into the darkness, breath clouds you as it traps in the cotton, and you dig your nails into the pillowy cushion. When it ends, you swear it's not. The stinging impact against your ass radiates still.

He slides free with a groan and leaves you empty, dripping with him. That sickly trickle adds to your shame. You don't move. You can't. Whenever you do, it just triggers him, like a snake waiting to strike.

The bed bounces as he gets up. Your heart slows but not beneath that constant rush of terror. Just enough to breathe.

His feet slap the floor as he paces and hums. He clears his throat as he circles like a lion. You brace yourself for another pounce.

"Hi, yes," he says firmly and your eyes snap open. You turn your head and see only his shoulder as he spins on his heel. "I just wanted to report a now show."

You blink and turn onto your back. You groan as you push yourself up, watching him as you sit in the puddle of his desecration. He holds the phone to his cheek and sighs, a convincing show of exasperation.

"Yeah, uh, my cleaner didn't show up today," he repeats, "uh huh. Yes, it's Steve Rogers. That's right." He nod and clicks his tongue. "You haven't heard anything?"

He listens as you crawl to the edge of the bed. He sniffs and tubs his nose, dragging his hand down his chin. "No, no, it's fine. You know, I don't think it was working out.... yeah, uh I'll have to think about it before that. Sure. Yes." You try to parse together the other side of the conversation, "thanks. Alright, yeah, you too."

He hangs up and heaves. He grins and blacks the screen. He tosses it away and faces you.

Your phone buzzes in quick succession. You flinch. He calmly crosses the apartment and picks it up. He brings it to you. The display flashes with the agency's ID.

"Answer it."

"What did you do?" You babble.

He shoves the phone at you. You take it and swallow dryly. You slump and stare at the phone as you put it to your ear.

"Hi--"

"Hello," Jan's voice is rigid with anger. "Where are you?"

"I'm--"

"You know, it doesn't matter. You skipped the day and that's a firing offense--"

"What? I--" You are keenly aware of Steve right beside you.

"After yesterday, I shouldn't be surprised. You wanted out and you think you can just play hooky like a teenager. That's not how this work, hon. Do you understand you may have lost us a prestige client?"

"But--"

"You are fired. I don't have time for this, I have to try to salvage what you've ruined."

The line clicks. You stare at the floor and lower the phone. You bend over your lap and hide your face. It's all so methodical. He planned this. All of it.

You just don't get why. Why you? You put the phone down carelessly and slowly drop onto your side. You out your back to Steve and curl up with the mess on the bed.

"Everything okay?" He taunts.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #maid au #series #drabble #squeaky clean #captain america #avengers #marvel #mcu

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admiringlove · 1 month ago

Text

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. confessions and tangled limbs beneath a silvered moon—an evening of aching worry, soft-spoken love, and the kind of comfort that feels like coming home.

➵ warnings. mdni after a certain point; implied sex at the very end; really sacrilegious ngl; shirtless gojo boom shakalaka yes gawd; oral sex (receiving); ball dancing; mentions of blood; mentions of familial abuse; mentions of alcohol, etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; SLOWBURN (NOT ANYMORE 😼😼); slight inaccuracies in the wizarding world because i did make some stuff up for the sake of the crossover; etc.

➵ word count. 14.7k.

➵ author's note. oh god i can't believe it's going to end after one more update, send help, this is an emotional distress signal ⚠️⚠️

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

“Funny little fella, ain’t he?” Hagrid says, voice low and rumbling like the soft crackle of the hearth, as Twig balances on the edge of the old wooden table that has, over the years, bowed slightly in the middle from too many tea mugs and too many elbows leaned across it in comfort.

The air inside the hut smells of moss and pine, of damp earth and wet bark and something vaguely like treacle, perhaps from the half-eaten rock cake resting near the window sill. The wind outside is faint now, a whisper more than a howl, brushing gently at the thatched roof, as though even the forest has finally decided to go quiet for a while. Peace, after too long without it.

You sit cross-legged on the rickety stool opposite him, your spine aching a little from the hard wood, but you hardly notice. Not when the fire burns low and steady in the hearth, casting slow-moving shadows that play along the edges of Hagrid’s vast frame. Not when Twig, his leaf-colored body barely the length of your hand, is turning his head from you to Hagrid with such exaggerated exasperation that you can't help but grin.

Your smile curves slow, wide, tired in that fond sort of way—the kind you only wear for people who’ve known you too long to be fooled. You pick up the heavy chipped mug from the table and sip the tea, still far too strong, the taste of it bitter and woody on your tongue. It’s the kind of tea that scratches at your throat going down. But you drink it anyway. Because here, in this hut that’s always a little too warm and smells perpetually of wet dog, you are always safe.

“He behaves more and more human each day,” you murmur, watching as Twig preens under Hagrid’s praise, puffing out his thin chest. “It scares me.”

Your voice is light, teasing, but beneath the humor there’s something quieter. A recognition. Of time passing. Of change.

“At least he still eats insects like a normal Bowtruckle.”

At that, Twig spins around to face you and freezes—his expression, despite being etched in bark and moss, is unmistakably offended. His tiny arms fold across his chest, and Hagrid lets out a laugh that rattles the tin spoons on the shelf.

“’M glad you bring him around twice a week to meet his siblings,” Hagrid says, still chuckling, his eyes crinkling beneath thick lashes, his beard moving like heavy curtains when he grins.

You tilt your head toward him, placing the mug down with both hands, your fingers lingering on the ceramic’s warmth. “I come to meet you, Hagrid. Really.”

The words leave your mouth softer than you intend them to be. They hang there, gentle, unassuming. Honest. Always honest.

“I’ll miss you. You know that, right?”

Hagrid blinks once, then twice. His broad shoulders stiffen as though bracing, before he inhales through his nose and sniffs once, hard. He turns his face slightly away, looking somewhere past the edge of the table, toward the single window with its fogged glass. Outside, the sunlight is beginning to slant golden, catching in the brambles that curl against the hut like old hands refusing to let go.

There’s silence for a moment. The kind that fills every space like slow-moving water.

Then Twig chitters. Loudly. Emphatically. He points one thin finger at Hagrid’s hunched back as if to scold him for not responding quickly enough.

Hagrid sighs, deeply, the sound low and gravelly in his chest. “Can’t believe yer all grown up, now. Sayin’ the most emotional things,” he says, voice rough as tree bark. “Felt like yesterday when you came stormin’ in here after gettin’ hexed for the first time by those pureblood brats. Had to scare ‘em into never callin’ you slurs again when you were in second year.”

You sit up straighter, your brows lifting, startled. “That was you?”

His eyes twinkle as he finally turns to face you, something proud and a little mischievous settling across his features. “Well. The Gojo kid helped,” he adds, offhandedly.

You exhale a laugh, that ache in your chest—the one that’s been there since the war technically began—softening slightly.

Hagrid moves to take your mug, but you reach for it instinctively. “I’ll wash it—”

“Not in this hut, you won’t,” he huffs, snatching it away with a practiced ease, already walking toward the washbasin. It’s a dance the two of you have performed for years. You offering. Him refusing. You insisting. Him triumphing.

“I’ll write you letters,” he says, over the sound of running water, his voice a little too casual to be entirely sincere. “Though they’ll probably be illegible, with the way I spell.”

You stand, smoothing your robes absently as you nod. “And I’ll read and reply to them nonetheless.”

He dries his hands slowly, then crosses the room in long strides and stops just short of you. His hand is gentle, careful, as it ruffles your hair. You close your eyes briefly, breathing in the scent of smoke and damp cloth and pine that clings to him like an old, familiar lullaby.

“I’ll miss ya, kid. Truly,” he says, so quietly it might not have been said at all.

Your chest tightens. You nod, offering the smallest, saddest smile. “Seven years gone by too soon.”

“Truly,” he repeats.

The word hangs there between you like a charm spun of golden thread. Final, but not without warmth. Outside, the sun slips behind the trees, and inside, the fire keeps burning. Twig hops up onto your shoulder and chirps once, sharply, as if declaring the moment over—but you linger just a second longer.

You’ll carry this room with you for the rest of your life.

And Hagrid will always be waiting here. Where things once were simple. Where goodbyes are only ever temporary.

“Run along now,” Hagrid says at last, his voice gruff but kind, carrying the gentle firmness of someone trying not to hold on too tightly. He waves a hand toward the door, though it’s more a gesture of affection than dismissal. “Ball’s in three hours, ain’t it? Don’t girls need more time getting ready?”

You glance at him, one brow arching upward, your lips already twitching into a grin. “You speak like an old man, still,” you say, folding your arms across your chest.

Hagrid snorts, but you can see the way his face softens—creased and sun-weathered and lined with a hundred memories, many of which have your younger self tucked inside them. The tiny version of you who used to sit on this very table with your feet dangling and your knees scraped, talking about hippogriffs and spells and potions with the same urgency.

“Well,” he says, leaning down to scoop Twig from the table with surprising tenderness for someone with hands that size, “can’t deny I’ve got the knees of one.”

Twig chirps indignantly, wriggling before leaping back to your shoulder in a fluid arc, as if insulted to be manhandled in such a way. You reach up and steady him with one finger, brushing a bit of dirt from his tiny spine, and he chitters as though to scold you both.

Hagrid chuckles. “He’s got a bit of you in him, y’know. Stubborn.”

You tilt your head as the door creaks open with a slow groan, letting in the cool breeze of late afternoon. The sky is starting to bloom pink and lavender at the edges, the first stars winking in against a blue that’s just beginning to bruise. Somewhere in the distance, the sounds of the castle—echoes of laughter, footsteps on stone—carry faintly through the air, softened by the trees.

You linger a moment in the doorway, half in shadow, half in light.

“I’ll see you soon,” you say.

“You better,” Hagrid replies, and though his voice is light, there’s something in it—something thick and raw—that makes you pause.

You look back at him. At the fire glowing behind him, the shelves cluttered with jars and strange creatures, the quiet weight of seven years spent growing up beneath this roof in ways you never could have predicted.

And you nod. Once. Firmly.

“Always,” you say.

Then you turn toward the path, with Twig riding your shoulder like a sentinel until he makes his way to your pocket. And you make your way back toward the castle, where the rest of your life is waiting.

The castle glows golden in the lull of the evening, light slipping through the stained-glass windows in streaks of honey and crimson, the stone corridors drowsy with the hum of last-minute preparations. You move slowly, fingers grazing the cool stone banister of the staircase as you ascend, mind half-lost in thoughts of the night ahead—of charmed candlelight, the faint rustle of silk, the delicate clink of glass on glass. You imagine Gojo waiting by the ballroom archway, his grin just a little too confident, his tie knotted too tightly around his throat, a nervous twitch at the edge of his mouth he’ll pretend isn’t there. You imagine how it will feel to dance with him in front of everyone—for once, not hiding, not pretending to be anything less than what you are to one another.

Then you hear your name.

“[Y/N]!”

It’s Shoko’s voice—ragged, out of breath—and it slices through the quiet like a spell gone sideways.

You stop midway up the steps, your shoes scuffing gently against the worn stone, heart instantly ticking faster beneath your ribs. Shoko is below you, hurrying with a letter crumpled in her grasp, her usually calm features drawn tight with something that’s not quite panic—but close. When she finally reaches you, two steps down, she’s panting, chest rising and falling beneath the open collar of her school shirt.

Your breath catches.

“It’s Gojo,” she says, and her voice trembles slightly, like she’s trying not to sound as worried as she is. “His father sent him a letter a-and—”

“And?” you echo, already swallowing around the stone that’s lodged in your throat. “Is he alright? He was supposed to see me before the ball. I thought everything was fine—he told me the Auror application went through, that he passed the first round without issue.”

You’re speaking too fast, voice pitched slightly higher than you’d like. You hate that it gives you away.

Shoko holds the letter out to you. You take it with hesitant fingers, the parchment already creased from where she’s been clutching it too tightly. Your eyes skim over the elegant handwriting, all too familiar—the kind of neat, clipped penmanship only pureblood patriarchs seem to possess. And there it is, halfway down the page: “urgent matter of utmost importance.” And then further down, the words that make your chest seize.

Fraternizing with Muggle-borns.

You blink once, twice, as if that might change what you’ve read. But the words stay, still and unrelenting.

You look up at her slowly. “D’you think... his father found out? About us?” you ask, your voice quiet. Not out of secrecy. Out of fear.

Shoko exhales, her lips thinning into a flat, tired line. “I wouldn’t put it past that man,” she says, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “One whole year since everything happened, and he still hasn’t let Gojo forget that he didn’t graduate early like he wanted him to. Still breathing down his neck like he’s trying to drag him into some war that hasn't even started yet.”

You stare back down at the letter in your hand, its ink glinting slightly in the candlelight. Your fingers curl tighter around it.

“He found a place of his own,” you murmur, half to yourself. “He moved out. He doesn’t even go home anymore unless it's a holiday.”

“And thank Merlin for that,” Shoko mutters. “At least he doesn’t have to listen to his bastard father's cribbing every summer now.”

The silence stretches for a moment. Your shoulders feel heavier, as if the worry is slowly trickling down your spine, weighing every step forward.

Then you ask, still staring at the letter, “You think he’ll show?”

“To the ball?” Shoko replies, taking the last two steps up so she’s level with you now. She rests a hand on your shoulder, firm but warm, grounding you. “Of course he will.”

You turn your face toward her slowly, eyes searching.

She offers you a small, half-smile. “Gojo might be an asshole, especially to his father, but he’s never disappointed you. Not once. You know that. Besides, he’s Head Boy. You’re Head Girl. You’ve got responsibilities tonight. He won’t miss it. Not for the world.”

You want to believe her. And somewhere deep down, maybe you already do.

Still, you clutch the letter in your hand like it might disappear. Like if you keep holding it, you can somehow protect him from the weight of it. The threat it contains. The things it implies.

“I’ll see you in the ballroom,” she says, gently patting your shoulder before turning back toward the corridor.

You nod, watching her descend, the letter still pressed tightly in your fingers, the words now carved into your bones. And when she’s gone, you stand there a moment longer, alone in the soft hush of the staircase, the castle rustling with anticipation around you.

You give the Fat Lady the password, voice meekly small. She nods regally and swings open with a theatrical sigh, as if she too knows what's coming. What you're walking into.

The Common Room is quieter than you’ve ever known it to be. The fire burns low, a gentle, crackling murmur that lulls the room into a hush, its golden light stretching long and soft across the stone walls and the cardinal red of the area. The worn rugs underfoot muffle the weight of your steps, the kind of rugs whose fibers hold decades of laughter and sobs and spilled pumpkin juice and firewhiskey. It all feels more like a memory than a place—like something that's already begun to drift into the past even as you're standing inside it.

You pass the scattered armchairs and study desks—most now empty, abandoned in the scramble for ball preparations—and make your way up the stairs, past dormitories where someone is already trying to charm the wrinkles out of their dress robes, past windows flooded with early evening light. The castle is still. And your heart, for a moment, is too.

Your hand closes around the handle of your door—your door, because you’re Head Girl now, and that comes with a private room and a thousand quiet responsibilities. You step inside, and the door clicks shut behind you.

And you stop.

There’s something in the air. A stillness, or perhaps a silence so full it feels like a held breath. Like the castle is waiting, too.

The room is warm, and it smells faintly of parchment and pine and the perfumes you'd tested with Shoko earlier. The fire is already lit in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across your desk, where two unopened letters sit—neatly arranged in their placement. You recognize the handwriting immediately. One in neat, tidy strokes: Utahime. The other, messier, slanted, too rushed to be formal but unmistakably Toji.

You don’t open them. Not yet. You cross the room slowly, tracing a finger over the windowsill, where condensation beads against the glass. Outside, the sky has begun to shift—blue deepening into plum, gold melting into violet. It’s the kind of dusk that makes the world feel like it’s made of wax and dreams.

You should be getting ready. But you can’t stop thinking of him.

You turn around, pressing your back gently to the door. Letting yourself feel the weight of it. Letting the moment settle around you like snowfall. Your eyes drift to the bed, where your dress for the ball is laid out carefully—a sliver of midnight silk and stitched stars. You’d planned to get ready slowly, maybe with Shoko braiding your hair and teasing you about how smitten you are, maybe with Gojo sneaking in late and trying to peek before the night even begins. You were going to laugh. To twirl for him. To kiss him at midnight, just to be cliché.

But now? Now you clutch the letter Shoko handed you and read it again, its words already etched behind your eyes. His father. That damned man.

An urgent matter of utmost importance. Fraternizing with muggle-borns. Fraternizing with you.

You swallow. The words feel like smoke in your lungs.

You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to rip the letter in half and cast it into the fire, to pretend like the last year hasn't all led to this: to watching him leave, again, with no guarantee he’ll come back untouched.

Your breath trembles in your chest. Is he okay? You wonder if he's cold. If he's bleeding again. If his father raised his wand or his voice or both. But then you remember how he changed.

Because in the past year—since everything fell apart and everything else was rebuilt from scratch—he found his voice again. You gave it to him. Or maybe, he found it for you.

Dumbledore had destroyed the locket Horcrux with a basilisk fang that none of you ever asked too much about. (��Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” he’d said with that twinkle in his eye.) The Ministry had sounded the alarm soon after—declaring an official state of war. The hunt for Sukuna’s Horcruxes began. A race against time, and what lingers in shadows.

The tomb had been sealed—by the Japanese Ministry of Magic, no less. Locked under layer after layer of spell-work and secrecy. But it wasn’t enough. Because dark things had begun to stir again. And the Ministries watched. Investigated. Every wizard who even whispered in the wrong direction was now under scrutiny.

It was exhausting, what survival had turned into. But somehow, you’d all endured.

Gojo, now one step closer to becoming an Auror. Geto, less distant lately, but closer to chasing creatures across the globe very soon. Shoko, her steady hands set on healing, already halfway to St. Mungo’s. Utahime and Toji—letters mostly consistent—training together under war-hardened instructors, sending back tales of dueling sessions and coded jokes that only made sense to you three.

And you, still in the thick of it. Still waiting. For what, you’re not sure. Maybe for tonight.

You walk to your desk and sit, finally exhaling. Your fingers trail across the letters, but you don't open them. Not yet. You press a hand to your chest instead, grounding yourself.

He’ll come. Gojo might be late. He might be arrogant, or reckless, or infuriating. But he is never untrue. He shows up. Especially for you.

Still, the thought persists. What if he doesn’t? What if this is the night you lose him because his father doesn't want him 'fraternizing' with a muggle-born?

You close your eyes. The ache that swells in your chest is too vast to name. But you feel it soften, just slightly, when you remember his voice—bright and laughing and untouchable. When you remember how he kissed you, the night after everything, and told you he was tired of pretending.

You remember the way he held you as if the world might end. And then, how it didn’t.

You press your forehead to the edge of the desk. Breathe. Let the night begin, at least.

You press your lips into a thin line, slow and contemplative, trying to hold the shape of your worry in your mouth. It's a poor disguise. It bleeds through anyway, out of the corners of your expression and into the rest of your posture, coiled in the way your shoulders hunch forward, in the slow, reluctant way you rise from your seat.

The dress waits for you, draped carefully over the foot of your bed like it’s been watching this whole time. Midnight blue, charmed to shimmer faintly under candlelight, the hem stitched with tiny embroidered stars that catch on your fingers when you touch it. It’s beautiful. Or it would be, if you weren’t sick with dread.

You remember how your mother dragged you to the tailor’s over Christmas break—how she’d insisted, waving a hand like an accusation when you said you didn’t care what you wore. “No daughter of mine, especially one who’s Head Girl, is going to turn up to a ball looking like she rolled out of bed in the evening.”

You hadn’t argued. You’d let her fuss and scold and order six rounds of fittings, and then later, back home, you’d watched her fold the dress into tissue paper with a kind of patience you didn’t understand.

Now, you step into it like you’re stepping into armor. The silk slips up your skin like an incantation, weightless but final. You don’t look at yourself in the mirror yet. You can’t—not when your chest is still tight with worry, when Gojo’s name feels like it’s etched into the inside of your ribs.

Your fingers work automatically, muscle memory guiding them as you gather your hair. Shoko taught you how to do this one—a loose twist at the nape of your neck, a few strands left out to soften your face. She’d always been better at this kind of thing, had always rolled her eyes at your inability to charm your curls into anything that didn’t resemble a bird’s nest. She said she’d help you tonight. Promised she would.

But you don’t want to call for her now. You imagine her rushing through the corridors just to get that damned letter into your hands, hair a mess, still in her old sweater and skirt from classes, and you can’t ask her for anything more. Not when she’s already done so much. Not when you’re the one who’d ruin her night with your sour mood if she were here.

So you do it yourself. Slowly. With fingers that tremble more than they should.

In the mirror, your reflection blinks back at you—pale, drawn, unsmiling. You swipe a smear of rouge onto your lips, then your cheeks, the way Shoko showed you. It doesn’t feel right. The color is too warm, too lively for the cold knot in your stomach, but you leave it. It makes you look less like someone who’s worried that the boy she loves is bleeding out alone in a place no one can reach.

Your thoughts don’t leave him. Not for a second.

You imagine him standing in front of his father again. That house—Gojo Manor—isn’t a home with his father around. It’s like a tomb. All glass and cold and silence. And his father’s voice, sharp like knives honed for generations. What did he say this time? What did he do to him?

You try not to picture it, but the images come anyway. Satoru with his hands clenched at his sides, back rigid. Satoru with his voice raised, finally—too late. Satoru, proud and alone and never asking for help even when he needs it most.

You know him. You know how deeply he hides the hurt. How easily he can bury it under a smirk. But not from you. Never from you.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides.

You slip into your shoes without grace, tugging them on more out of habit than care. They match your dress exactly—your mother’s insistence again—and the heel adds an inch, maybe two, to your height. You hate how dainty they feel tonight. How flimsy.

You step away from the mirror. You don’t give yourself more than a glance.

Because what does it matter, really, how you look, when the person you’re doting on might not come? When there’s a part of your chest that won’t stop bracing for the worst?

He’s supposed to be here. He’s supposed to walk in, all windblown charm and stupid jokes about how long it took you to get ready. He’s supposed to grin and twirl you and tell you that you’re a vision. He’s supposed to remind you, just by existing, that there is still something good and bright and absurd in the world.

But the mirror offers no answers. And the silence in the room has only grown thicker.

You stand still in the middle of it all, your breath shallow, your shoulders squared as if preparing for battle instead of a ball. And in the mirror, behind the rouge and the hair and the dress stitched just for you, is a girl who cannot stop worrying.

And loves him, more than she can say.

You leave the room feeling like a corpse dressed in silk.

The moment the door clicks shut behind you, the warmth of your private quarters slips away like a dream at dawn. The stone corridor greets you with cool stillness, and each step downward feels like gravity is working harder than usual to keep you tethered to the earth.

Your dress whispers with every movement, brushing softly against your ankles, but it might as well be funeral robes for the way you feel. Beautiful. Hollow. Like someone has scooped the heart out of your chest and replaced it with wet, heavy cloth. You're walking, yes, descending the familiar staircases of Gryffindor Tower with practiced grace, but you feel detached from it all—as if you're watching someone else from the corner of the ceiling, a girl in satin trying not to cry.

This night is supposed to be different. It's supposed to be a celebration, the last grand thing before the end. The ball, a Hogwarts tradition, meant to give the seventh-years something to hold onto, something to remember that isn’t sadness or nostalgia. As Head Girl, you’re meant to be the first to arrive, the first to dance with your date. And Gojo—Gojo, your date, your partner, your person—he’s supposed to be there too, grinning like a fool, offering his hand with dramatic flourish, like you’re in one of those fairy tales your mother used to read when you were little.

But instead, all you can imagine is a version of this night where he never comes at all.

Or worse, where he does show up late, bruised and bleeding and battered, the edge of his father’s fury carved into his skin. It’s happened before—fights you weren’t meant to witness, scars he never wanted to explain. And now, with the war stirring in every corner of the wizarding world, with his Auror applications, with the weight of his family name shadowing every step he takes—it feels too possible.

The corridor is quiet. Too quiet for the hour. There’s still half an hour before the ball begins, and the halls reflect it. Most students are elsewhere—meeting their dates in the Courtyard under the soft lilac glow of spring dusk, giggling outside Common Rooms, fumbling with corsages and breath mints. There’s laughter, faint and far-off, but it doesn’t reach you here. Only your own footsteps, soft against the stone. One more turn and a short flight of stairs, and you’ll be at the Great Hall.

You’re not really looking where you’re going anymore. Your thoughts are heavy, your limbs heavier. You think about the letter again, how official it had looked, how cold. You think about the words written there—fraternizing with muggle-borns—and your stomach tightens.

Then—

“Looking a little blue there, Fawkes. What, your date didn’t show?”

The voice is casual, almost teasing. But it slices through the haze in your mind like sunlight through fog.

You stop. Dead in your tracks. Breath catching like a snare. Your head snaps up. No one’s there.

Your brows knit, breath held, heart stammering in your chest like a bird against glass. You stand very still. You know that voice as if it were the very breath you take.

“Satoru,” you say quietly, voice trembling around the edges, “Take the bloody cloak off.”

And just like that—he’s there. As if the world exhales.

He peels the Invisibility Cloak away with a dramatic flourish, letting it pool in one hand. And it’s him. It’s really him. Gojo Satoru, standing in front of you in dress robes dyed the same deep, endless blue as yours, the color of sky between dusk and midnight. The velvet catches the candlelight in waves, rich and soft and utterly regal. The collar is high, the fit perfect. His bowtie’s a little crooked. His hair, though clearly combed, is already mussed again, messed somehow beautifully by the cloak. But he’s here. He’s whole.

And just like that, the pieces of you begin to knit themselves back together.

You don’t wait. You don’t think. You throw yourself into him with all the force of someone who has lived the last hour in fear, in grief, in panic. Your arms fly around his neck, face pressing against the warm skin of his nape, your whole body lifting off the floor as he catches you. He holds you effortlessly, arms anchoring you to him like the tide never left.

You breathe him in—pinewood and sugar and the strange, subtle scent of old spellbooks and late-night fires. Your feet dangle a few inches above the ground. You never want to move again.

“I thought you weren’t going to come,” you whisper into his throat. The words are broken, splintered with emotion. “I-I thought you went back home to see your father—”

He pulls you back just enough to look at you, his hands still firm on your waist as your feet touch the ground again.

“Fawkes,” he murmurs, soft, wry, “Do you really think I’d miss this for that sick man?”

Your brows lift, lips part, the words not quite forming.

“I didn’t bother going,” he continues, brushing a piece of hair out of your face with an absent, familiar touch. “Suguru saw the letter. Gave it to Shoko. I’m guessing they both panicked. I, however, was frolicking around in the Room of Requirement. Didn't know until twenty minutes ago that the letter got to you.”

He smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. But it’s a real smile. One only you get to see.

And you—you look at him, really look at him, and you feel the glassy sheen rising in your eyes. You almost say it. All of it. All the nightmares, all the fears, all the things you felt in your bones when you thought he was gone. But instead—

Instead, you just hold onto him, tighter this time, until the world feels safe again.

“I thought I’d have to watch you bleed again,” you whisper, the words trembling, fragile. “And heal you in the Room of Requirement well after the ball is over.”

The memory is too fresh—blood on your hands, the shakiness of your hands as you tried to see the wound Dobby stitched unevenly, Satoru's jaw clenched to stop the shaking. The Room had shifted itself countless times into something solemn, with a basin of clean water, a jar of dittany, and enough silence between you to drown in as you healed him multiple times throughout the past year and a half.

But now, his hand cups your face like he’s anchoring himself too, like the feel of your skin beneath his fingers is the only thing tethering him to this moment. “Trust me,” he says, voice low, steady, the kind of serious he only gets when he’s making promises you know he’ll die to keep. “You’re never doing that again. I’ll make sure of it.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, your breaths meeting in the narrow space between you. You close your eyes. His fingers drift to the nape of your neck, warm and careful, and for a moment the world outside falls away. There’s no letter, no father, no war. Just this: his breath against your lips, his heartbeat pressed against yours.

“Let’s give these boneheads the greatest waltz they’ll ever see, yeah?”

You huff a breath, a half-laugh slipping out before you can stop it, the corners of your mouth curling despite yourself. “Only you would think ballroom dancing is as serious as that.”

“Fawkes,” he says, grinning as he leans back just enough to meet your eyes properly, thumb tracing the soft curve beneath your cheekbone, “This is a battlefield. And I always win. Lucky for you, we’re finally on the same side. No more sulking over Quidditch cups that I stole from you. You get to win, too.”

And gods help you—you believe him.

When Satoru’s hand settles at your waist—familiar, warm, like it belongs there—and your fingers find their place on his shoulder, it hits you. This is real. This is happening. You let your other hand slip into his, and when the music begins, the two of you begin to move, steady and relaxed, under the soft golden light of the chandeliers. Everyone is watching. The entire school. Professors, classmates, ghosts drifting by the arches. They all see it now—what was once quiet and private and hidden away in stolen moments is now etched into the center of the Great Hall.

Over everyone's heads, just past the tall windows, you catch sight of the lawn outside—transfigured into something out of a dream. An entire section of grass just before the castle has been transformed into a glowing grotto, thick with charmed rosebushes, their blossoms heavy and luminous. Dozens—no, hundreds—of actual living fairies flit among the petals, their wings scattering delicate light with every movement. The soft glow of their bodies flickers like stars among the blooms.

It’s beautiful. All of it. But none of it matters, not really—not when you're looking up at him like that.

And with the way he looks back at you, it must be obvious. There’s no masking the softness in his gaze, the subtle smile tugging at the corners of his lips, the way his grip steadies you like he’s terrified of letting go.

Your heart beats loud in your ears, almost louder than the music, louder than the polite clapping from the edges of the room. You think of all the times you stepped on his toes while practicing in the Room of Requirement—your face burning with embarrassment, his laughter echoing in the enchanted space like he didn’t mind one bit. You think of McGonagall’s exasperated sighs as she called your entire year a “babbling, bumbling band of baboons” while trying to teach you the basics of the waltz. You remember the unfortunate Hufflepuff who got picked to dance with her—how the whole room had whistled and laughed, and how Satoru and Suguru, being their insufferable selves, had spent minutes trying (and failing) to say “babbling, bumbling band of baboons” five times fast, until you glared at them from across the room hard enough to make even Satoru fall quiet.

And now, here you are. Dancing perfectly in step with him. No missteps, no laughter, no nerves. Just the two of you, like you’ve always been meant to be.

"You're doing great," he murmurs, voice low, warm breath ghosting just beneath your ear as he guides you across the ballroom floor. "No toes being sacrificed tonight. I remain miraculously unmaimed. Truly, a historic feat."

"You’re such a twat," you reply, lips twitching despite yourself, barely managing to keep your grin at bay. "I practiced."

"Mm, by waging an all-out assault on my foot bones," he says, tilting his head with that infuriating smugness that makes you want to both kiss him and hex him. You sigh, leaning in just slightly, the motion subtle enough to go unnoticed by the onlookers, but not by him. He feels it—your weight, your warmth—as he spins you gently, hand returning to your waist with the same familiarity it always has, like he knows exactly where you’re meant to be.

"And to think," he continues, tone suddenly lighter but tinged with real curiosity, "you actually took my mother up on her offer. You're going to work under her soon. Still can't wrap my head around it."

"Well, it felt right when I said yes," you murmur, blinking up at him as he pulls you a little closer. He looks radiant like this—dressed in midnight-blue, surrounded by golden candlelight, the chandeliers overhead catching in his eyes and turning them bluer, brighter, something not quite of this world. You wonder how anyone could be so breathtaking. You wonder if he knows. You wonder if he knows that he’s always been your safest place, your most stubborn choice, the loudest part of your quietest hopes.

"It still feels right," you add.

"Really?" he arches a perfectly groomed brow, pulling back just enough for the two of you to separate, hands still clasped, before the music has you stepping back into his space again, movements smooth. Practiced. Perfect. "Because I don’t recall it ever sounding right."

“Satoru,” you sigh, exasperated in the way that only he can draw out of you. There’s a softness behind the exhaustion, though, a curl at the edge of your mouth that betrays your affection. He hears it in your voice, feels it in the way you say his name—not just as a word, but as a knowing. His grip on your waist tightens, barely, like he can’t help it.

“I think,” you say, voice low now, quieter just for him, “I was chasing St. Mungo’s because it was the most impossible thing I could think of. And for a while, I thought I had to do the impossible. I thought I had to be the best.”

"Classic you,” he mutters, half a smile tugging at his lips. “Always sprinting toward the hardest thing in the room, just to prove you can survive it.”

You huff a short laugh against his shoulder. He tilts his head again, and this time, the smirk is genuine.

“But you do realize,” he says, and his tone shifts into something drier, more amused, “that working under my mother is going to be way harder than becoming a bloody Healer, right?”

“She intimidates you, doesn’t she?” you tease, brow raised.

“She terrifies me, with how brilliant she is,” he says flatly, then spins you again, laughing under his breath. “And now you’re choosing to spend your days with her. That’s bold, even for you.”

“And yet,” you hum, resting your cheek briefly against his shoulder as the music swells around you, “I’ve survived you. Can she really be that much worse?”

“Oh, love,” he grins, the glint in his eyes unmistakable as he pulls you closer by a breath, so close now you can see the flecks of silver and storm in that impossible blue, “you have no idea what she’s like when she’s working. You remember the woman with the research on consciousness transference? The one you told, posing as my mother, that you'd read her paper?”

You blink, head tilting slightly. “Of course. She was sweet. And had cute glasses.”

“She transferred to Paris,” he says grimly. “Voluntarily. Mid-project. Didn’t even say goodbye. Packed her bags and left an owl to my mother saying something along the lines of being sorry that she wasn't capable enough.”

Your lips part, brows lifting. “Oh.”

He lifts a hand, runs it through his hair in mock despair. “You’re going to be at the Department of Mysteries, Fawkes. Mysteries. That alone sounds like a threat. Unspeakables will report to you. You’ll be the intern to the Head of Magical Research at the Ministry of Magic.” His voice lowers, more to himself now. “Everything will change.”

And then he glances away, jaw clenched, eyes flicking to where the flickering candlelight dances along the polished floor of the Great Hall.

“You might become,” he says, quieter, like it’s something he’s been choking on for weeks, “too busy, even for me.”

You don’t say anything at first.

Because suddenly, it all clicks. His dramatics. The jokes, the subtle jabs at your new position. The casual sighs, the "oh great, my mother gets you and I get none of you" comments. His pouting. All the mock-complaints about how your schedule would be “as bad as Dumbledore’s.” The way he’d avoid talking about the future whenever it involved separate buildings, separate lives.

You soften. You melt. And when the music comes to an end, and the two of you slow to a stop in the middle of the floor—still in each other’s arms, surrounded by the fading echoes of strings—your hands are already moving. One rises to his face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye, anchoring him in place.

“Satoru,” you whisper, gently.

He doesn’t look at you at first, not fully. Not until you say it again, firmer this time, with a voice like certainty.

“I’d always find you.”

His eyes meet yours, and in them you see every doubt and fear he’s been hiding beneath that endless bravado. The vulnerability behind the jokes. The ache behind the grin.

“I’m never going to be too busy for you,” you say, and it’s not a promise. It’s a truth. Steady. Inarguable.

And in that moment, for all his words and his wit, Gojo Satoru is quiet.

There is a beat of silence—thin and luminous—held delicately in the air like the last exhale before sleep. And then, softly, like feathers drifting to the floor, the Great Hall fills with polite applause.

You and Satoru step back from the center of the floor. The world resumes in pieces—violin strings beginning anew, voices humming softly, footsteps shuffling as other students prepare to follow in your stead.

You glance at the floor as it begins to fill again, this time with familiar faces: the Prefects and their dates, moving in careful synchrony to the tempo Professor Flitwick conducts with his wand from the orchestra pit. You watch Suguru, his hair neatly tied back, his expression oddly solemn, as he walks forward with Shoko, whose hand is looped through his arm with practiced ease.

There had been a quiet resistance in Suguru, when Satoru, after being made Head Boy, had offered him the Slytherin Prefect badge in his stead. He had accepted it reluctantly, with a quiet grumble and a narrowed gaze, muttering something about not wanting to be anyone’s replacement. But he had done it anyway, for Satoru, and maybe for Shoko too, though he’d never admit it aloud.

Satoru is quiet beside you, his body humming with some unreadable emotion, his hand still loosely brushing yours as you both observe the dance floor. His voice, when it comes, is hushed—barely audible beneath the murmurs of conversation and the soft waltz of the orchestra.

“I don’t want to share you tonight.”

The words slip from his mouth like a secret. A confession not born of insecurity but of need, of tenderness so quiet it trembles in the open air.

You turn to look at him, fully now, the folds of your dress brushing softly against his robes. There is something in your gaze that you’re certain only he understands—a soft, solemn knowing. You reach for his hand, and without needing to think, your pinkie finds his.

A hook. A promise. A quiet entanglement.

“Then don’t,” you whisper, your voice like warm parchment. And he hears what you don’t say. He always has.

Then comes the look.

That look—the one you’ve exchanged a hundred times over the years, across candlelit corridors and beneath star-drenched ceilings, behind pillars and under Invisibility Cloaks, in classrooms long after curfew and kitchens with stolen pastries between you. That look that had once meant Are you thinking what I’m thinking? or Meet me at the Room of Requirement.

But this one—this one is heavier. Older. It has gravity now.

It carries the weight of battles survived and time bent around shared laughter and unbearable pain. It speaks of nights in the Room of Requirement when you healed him, quietly, when he wouldn’t go to the Hospital Wing. It speaks of hands held during morning meetings, of letters shared across months apart, of grief and rage and becoming something softer in the aftermath of an incoming war.

There is no longer mischief in the look.

Now, there is something sacred.

“I told you he’d show up,” Shoko says once she’s off the dance floor—well, what was once a dance floor. Now it’s a crowded, chaotic mosh pit of sweaty seventh years bouncing along to some wizarding band you don’t even know the name of. The music they’re playing sounds like a cross between a banshee’s wail and a goblin’s wedding. It’s ungodly. And sort of brilliant.

You’re stationed near one of the snack tables, chewing on a Puffskein-shaped puff that you now realize is filled with mushrooms. You nod mid-bite. “Forgive me for assuming my boyfriend might get his ass handed to him for fraternizing with a muggle-born. Which, as you know, is yours truly.”

Shoko rolls her eyes and reaches over, swiping a thumb along the corner of your mouth to wipe off a stray crumb. You grin. “Look at you. Such a gentleman.”

“This is what I have to do when Gojo’s not around. Merlin help me,” she mutters, thoroughly unimpressed.

You laugh, turning your gaze toward the pit where Satoru and Suguru are making absolute fools of themselves. They’re both jumping around like the floor is lava, limbs flailing, sweat-damp dress shirts slowly untucking. It’s exactly what McGonagall predicted: a pair of babbling, bumbling band of baboons. And it’s glorious.

You’re about to reach for a cup of punch when Shoko grabs your wrist.

“I spiked it,” she murmurs. “Snuck into the kitchens earlier. Firewhiskey.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I thought you liked it when I drank.”

“I do,” she says. “But you’re probably going to sneak off with Gojo and do some unspeakably filthy things, and I want that to be a sober decision.”

“You’re abhorrent,” you say, smacking her arm gently. Maybe too gently.

She just shrugs, already reaching for the punch herself. “If the goblet fits.”

You huff, and then glance back at Satoru—who is definitely not dancing anymore. Not really. He’s just standing there, barely pretending to bop to the music, eyes flicking over to you every few seconds like he’s trying not to drown in the wait.

Shoko follows your gaze. “You should go.”

“It’s too soon, isn’t it?” you say, lips pulling into a frown. “What’ll it look like if both the Head Boy and Head Girl vanish halfway through the Graduation Ball?”

“It’ll look like two people who’ve done their part and finally let themselves breathe,” she says, no hesitation. “You danced. McGonagall’s satisfied. The Hall didn’t burn down. You upheld all your ceremonial duties. Go.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then—

“Go,” she says again, softer this time, and her smile is all fondness and approval, like she’s handing you a hall pass you never had to ask for.

You look at her one last time before turning to find him. And, of course, Satoru’s already making his way through the crowd toward you, loose-limbed and glinting with mischief.

“Thank you, Shoko,” Satoru says in that ridiculous sing-song voice of his as he grabs your arm and starts tugging you away.

“Next round of butterbeer and firewhiskey is on you when we all go to Hogsmeade after graduation!” she shouts after you.

You glance over your shoulder just in time to catch her smirking, and you throw her a grateful smile—soft, glowing. Then you’re gone, swept up in Gojo’s momentum, your sapphire-blue dress catching the candlelight and scattering it in gleaming shards across the corridor as the two of you break into a half-giddy run.

Laughter spills out of you like it’s been waiting all night. The halls are quiet this far from the Great Hall, echoing with your footsteps and the rustle of your dress, and for a moment it feels like you’ve slipped into some hidden pocket of the castle—just the two of you, weightless and breathless.

“Where are we going?” he asks, voice light with laughter. “We both have our own rooms now, you know. Or, if you’re feeling fancy and flexible, we’ve got the Room of Requirement.”

“Well,” you say, a little breathless, smiling at him like you’re both eighteen and eighty, like you’ve known this version of happiness your whole life, “Room of Requirement. Might be our last chance to be in it before we leave.”

Something shifts in his expression when you say leave—not sadness exactly. He nods once, solemn beneath all the playfulness, and squeezes your hand.

“Then let’s make it count.”

When the Room reveals itself to you, it is exactly the same. Of course it is. This place has always known what you needed.

The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, muffling the last echoes of laughter from the corridor, and suddenly the air is still—warm, quiet, nostalgic. As if the castle itself is holding its breath.

The olive green sofas are where they’ve always been, clustered in a loose semicircle around the wide hearth. The fire crackles low in the grate, casting honeyed shadows along the deep grain of the floor. Your heels sink slightly into the worn rug as you step forward, and the scent of ash and old books meets you like an old friend. To the right, the longtable still stands—its wood marked with ink stains and scorch marks and the faint carved initials of a boy who thought no one would notice. Beside it, the pinboard remains half-empty: a few leftover parchment notices from earlier in the year, the last of the Marauders’ requests curling at the corners. A weathered stack of Ministry reports lies untouched at the end.

You glance at Gojo, who walks just behind you, his steps strangely soft for someone usually so loud. He doesn’t say anything anymore, even though you'd been joking around in the corridor. You can't stay anything, either.

And that’s the part that feels strange—off, even. The silence. Not the comfortable kind that used to sit between you while you worked side by side on homework or dueling strategies, but something more brittle. Like if either of you speaks too loudly, the air itself might crack.

Because of course this place is the same.

But you aren’t.

Your eyes drift toward the far wall, where the training dummies still stand. The dueling space is cleared, polished, almost sad in its emptiness. Weirdly, it reminds you of the night in the catacombs, wand drawn and heart pounding, watching Satoru dodge curse after curse like it was nothing. You remember the moment he faltered. The way the air had gone cold and strange, like something ancient had stirred.

You remember what followed.

And of course Gojo had refused to stay quiet after everything unfolded. You don’t blame him. He’d done everything he could to protect Suguru from the Ministry’s wrath—stepped in front of him when his mother came, argued in closed-door meetings, written statement after statement on classified documents until his hands cramped from holding the quill.

Mirai hadn’t been pleased. That was putting it lightly.

Neither had Gojo’s father. You still remember the way his voice reverberated through the spiral staircase at the end of sixth year, bouncing against the stone like some cold echo of judgment. You remember standing there—hidden, as Gojo spoke to Mirai and Dumbledore after his father had angrily stomped off—when the story was told, in full, for the first time.

Six, or actually seven, students. A hidden map. A sealed tomb.

The tomb.

The tomb of Ryomen Sukuna.

Mirai had been furious. She’d kept her voice even—of course, she had—but you could feel her anger radiating like heat from her skin. That her son had been dragged into this. That you had. That all of you had gone on what should have been a suicide mission and returned with only a few scars, one bleeding boy and a story no one else would believe. She was furious. And yet, she was surprised, too. Not by what you had done, but that you’d survived it.

She had called it recklessness. Naivety. Arrogance. Maybe it was all of those things. But still, she hadn’t let the Ministry touch you.

You wrote her a letter that summer. Formal, cautious, lined with genuine thanks. You hadn’t expected a reply.

But she had sent one. With it, came the offer to work under her as an intern.

A position that felt impossible to say no to. A clear path ahead paved for you.

Your gaze lingers on the longtable again—on the pieces of parchment still scattered there. Most of it is Ministry related now. Over the course of the year, Gojo had turned the Room into something else. Less a hideout, more a headquarters for whatever your friend group was. When Mirai refused to let him officially meddle in Ministry affairs, he simply found ways around her. He had opinions. And influence. And just enough charm to make himself impossible to ignore.

You don’t doubt it was his doing—the final seal on Sukuna’s tomb in Japan. You’ve never asked, and he’s never confirmed it, but the silence in his voice when you brought it up said enough.

Mirai still doesn’t trust Dumbledore. That much hasn’t changed. She’d said as much to his face in his office—stern, composed, her voice low and razor-sharp. But even then, she'd stopped in front of you in the staircase before she left, rested a hand lightly on your shoulder, and said, Thank you. Quietly. Like it cost her something. Like it mattered.

Now, standing here in the room that’s held all of that—your joy, your exhaustion, your worst nights and best ones—it feels like the past is echoing in every corner. The walls remember. The floor does, too.

Gojo breaks the silence first. But only barely. Just a small, tired sigh as he crosses toward the fire and drops onto the couch like a stone sinking into deep water. He tilts his head back, lets his eyes close.

You sit beside him, your hands resting on your lap. Neither of you speaks yet. Neither of you has to.

"It's weird, isn't it?" he murmurs, his voice soft enough to barely ripple the air. He glances back at the longtable again, the corners of his mouth twitching in some wistful, unreadable expression. “Being here like this. I felt like it would never end.”

His gaze drifts across the Room like he’s trying to memorize it—every line of the bookshelves, every flicker of firelight, every worn groove in the wooden floorboards. The Room looks back at him, steady and unchanged. As if it will keep this moment safe for him, just in case.

You lean your head against the back of the sofa, your gaze following the shape of his profile. His collar is slightly crooked. There’s a smudge of glitter—when did he get glitter on him?—still clinging to the edge of his jaw, probably from the ball. You let out a soft sigh.

“I didn’t want it to,” you admit. The words slip out too easily. “I’m sad that it did.”

Gojo doesn’t answer at first. Just breathes, slow and deep, before reaching up and tugging off his glasses. The blue of his eyes hits you like it always does—blinding and too honest, all the more startling in the low light of the Room. You grin despite yourself.

“What?” he says, already catching your expression.

“You were using the Six Eyes on me.”

“I wasn’t,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “How many times do I have to explain this? It’s not like I stare into your soul with it every time I take my glasses off.”

You raise an eyebrow. “But you could.”

“Okay, yes, I could—but I don’t have to right now. It’s just magic-sensing, energy-tracking. Down to the last atom, if I want.”

He leans over then, and he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him. He cups your face, thumb brushing along your cheek so gently it still makes your breath catch. His palm is warm. Familiar. Home.

For once, he isn’t smirking. Isn’t teasing.

“You thought I wouldn’t make it today,” he says. Quiet. Certain. It isn’t an accusation. Just fact. Just something he knows because he knows you.

You blink slowly, heart thudding too loud in your chest, as if it wants to answer for you.

And maybe it does. So you nod.

"Why is that?" he asks, voice quiet, as though afraid to scare the moment away.

His brows furrow, and he shifts closer—just slightly, but enough to draw your breath short. You’re impossibly near now. Your head remains nestled in the pillow, but your temple brushes his shoulder. When he looks down, you're already looking up, eyes searching his face.

“I got scared,” you murmur.

He doesn't interrupt. Just waits.

“Of what?” he asks, softer still.

You shrug, but it’s a brittle thing. “Everything,” you say, voice thin. “Your father. I read the letter, you know. It said ‘fraternizing with muggle-borns’ like it was some kind of disease. Like it was wrong to even speak to someone like me.”

His face darkens, jaw twitching.

You continue, gentler now. “I remember him. That day in Dumbledore’s office. The way he looked at me, like I was filth. Like I was taking something from him. H-he huffed in my face, like I wasn’t worth breathing the same air. Then he stormed out, before you even had the chance to explain everything to your mother.”

Gojo’s hand tightens slightly on the sofa cushion, but he doesn’t speak.

“And even that night,” you go on, more quietly, “when we snuck into the Ministry. When we used the Polyjuice. You... you were acting like someone I didn’t know. You didn’t feel like you. You breathed like him. Walked like him. You were him. I know it was part of the plan, but—Merlin, it scared me. I couldn't believe it. You acted just like the man who hurt you.”

He doesn’t say anything.

For a second, you wonder if you’ve gone too far. If you’ve dredged up something too heavy, too sharp-edged to hold in this soft, sacred space between you.

But then, he grins.

A wide, wolfish thing. That stupid, boyish smile you’ve seen on him since you were thirteen and he hexed a suit of armor to sing Utahime.

And you sit up, affronted.

“Satoru,” you start, indignant. “Stop smiling! Do you even understand how scared I was? I thought... I thought you’d show up all bloodied and bruised and I’d have to heal you, you stupid, stupid man! Why am I even with you—”

But then he’s grabbing you.

His hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling you in so fast you lose your words to the kiss. It’s warm and full of teeth, he nips your lower lip like he wants to anchor you here, in this moment, in him. His grin presses into your mouth, lopsided and shameless.

A sound slips out of him—half a hum, half a whimper—and when you pull away, breathless, his eyes are still smiling even if his lips aren’t.

“Satoru,” you whine, swatting his chest. “Why can’t you be serious for once?”

His grin softens. Fades, just a little, like morning mist.

“I am serious,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “That’s why I kissed you.”

"You're kissing me because you like kissing me," you fire back, eyes narrowing just slightly. “That’s different. I don’t like seeing blood on you, come on—”

“Fawkes,” he interrupts.

“No, you need to listen to me!” you barrel on, breath hitching a little. “You said it yourself. Everything’s going to change once we leave Hogwarts. Everything. You’ll be in danger all the time as an Auror. Your mother will be watching me and you, and your father—God knows he already keeps an eye on you, I swear he's got someone tailing you in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade—”

“Fawkes.”

“God knows what’ll happen if you make the slightest mistake. God knows how many more times I’ll have to sit you down and put you back together and pretend it doesn’t tear me apart, Satoru, because—”

“Do you ever shut up?” he asks, and though his words could be sharp, they’re not. His brow furrows, but there’s a flicker of fondness in his voice, like he can’t help it. “No, really. I love it when you talk, but don’t you think…”

He shifts again, closing the last inch between you, his hand splayed warm over your waist, thumb grazing the fabric of your dress like he can pick it apart, thread-by-thread, in seconds.

“…that we came here to be alone?” His voice drops, soft, low enough that it curls in your chest like a whispered spell. “And now you’re just arguing with me?”

You blink. He’s so close it’s dizzying.

And the worst part is—you are arguing. Which you hadn’t realized until he said it.

“…You’re deflecting,” you say, but it comes out breathier than intended.

“And you’re beautiful when you worry,” he murmurs, dipping his head so your noses brush again. “But I don’t want to spend, what could be, our last night here talking about my father.”

His lips hover above yours, waiting.

“Or blood.”

Your breath catches.

“Or what might happen if I lose you,” he finishes, quiet, sincere now. “Because I won’t.”

You don’t reply. You don’t have to. Because he’s on you already—pressing into your space, his hands anchoring you by the hips, his mouth seeking yours like you’re the only source of something vital. He kisses you like you are the last remaining piece of something long-lost. As if you are the thing that keeps him upright, keeps him whole. As if you’re the air he’s been holding out for all year. He kisses you like you make his lungs work properly. Like the war will never touch either of you and yet you’re the only balm for the wounds it left behind, as if it already passed.

And Merlin, the way he says your name when he pulls back, just barely, is holy. Sacrilegious, even. His breath is warm against your cheek. He’s looking at you like you hung the bloody stars.

“You,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours with the ghost of a grin, “need to stop worrying about me all the time.”

You blink, still trying to come back to earth. You exhale slowly, chest rising beneath your dress, your hands still tangled in the collar of his shirt like you’ll fall if you let go.

“That’s my job,” you whisper, looking up at him through your lashes, voice trembling with something raw and too soft to name. “You can’t just tell me to stop worrying when I love you.”

The words hang there. The moment after them is too still. His eyes widen slightly, but not with surprise—just the sharp, quiet kind of awe that only someone like him can wear so sincerely.

Your own eyes go wide a beat later, too late, when you realize what you’ve said. “Wait. You didn’t hear that.”

“Oh, Fawkes,” he grins, and it’s devastating—mischief curling at the edge of his mouth like he’s seventeen and untouchable and invincible all over again. “I heard that very clearly. Every syllable. Can you believe this is the first time you’ve said it?”

“No, stop,” you groan, eyes shutting fast as you collapse into him, hiding your face in the warm press of his chest. His robes smell faintly like cedarwood and the musky scent that’s been following him around since the ball began. You fist the fabric there, burying yourself like maybe if you concentrate hard enough, you can disappear into the weave of his shirt.

You squeeze your eyes shut, as if it might reverse time. A sharp breath rushes out of your nose and catches against his skin. He doesn’t laugh. He just wraps an arm tighter around you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through the soft strands of your hair with infuriating tenderness.

“Hey,” he whispers, coaxing. “Come on. Look at me.”

You don’t. So he cheats.

His hand glides down slowly, deliberately, tracing the edge of your neckline. He finds the strap of your dress with two fingers and pulls it gently aside—it slips from your shoulder, falling with a whisper of silk to rest against your collarbone and arm. He pauses, hand splayed over the bare skin there like he’s feeling for a heartbeat. Like he’s memorizing something important.

You look up then, finally. Your brows furrow, the soft crease between them deepening as you try to figure out what this expression on his face means. It’s not teasing anymore. It’s not pride, or smugness, or victory.

It’s something else. It’s something quieter.

“Satoru,” you say, and his name catches in your throat.

And he smiles—not the cheeky one, not the too-wide grin that spells trouble. No, this is the other one. The one reserved just for you. The one that’s all soft corners and unspoken history. The one that reaches his eyes like starlight hitting the surface of still water.

“I love you more,” he says, so easily it steals the breath from your lungs. His voice is low. Certain. It feels like it’s always been true.

He leans forward, forehead brushing yours.

“Way back since fourth year,” he continues, lips grazing your cheek now, “when you came to find me, and found this place with me in it.”

The Room hums around you, warmly familiar, as if it remembers that night just as clearly. As if it’s bearing witness again, watching from its walls like it always has. The fire flickers gently, casting shadows over the bookshelves and long-forgotten Marauder parchments tacked to the pinboard, and for a second—for one small, suspended second—it feels like you have all the time in the world.

“Satoru,” you whisper, breath catching against the space between your bodies, where the warmth of him lingers. “Don’t say things like that so lightly.”

The light dances across his face as he pulls back just enough to see you, to watch you—his grin lingering like a secret held between his teeth. His eyes, those impossible things, gleam like polished gemstones in the flickering glow, blue catching gold, catching silver, like moonlight bent through glass.

“You just professed your love to me,” he says, and the incredulity in his voice is somehow boyish and dazzling all at once, threaded with the kind of wonder that can’t be faked. “And that’s what you say when I do it in return?”

His fingers trace a slow line across your jaw, tilting your face just slightly toward his, like he needs to read every shift in your expression. You don’t resist. You never really do—not when he’s like this. Soft and unguarded and looking at you like you’re something preciously irreplaceable.

“We’ve done worse things than confess our love for one another,” he says, leaning in, so close now his nose brushes yours. The air between you is charged, delicate, trembling like a spider’s web in the wind. “More sinful, if you know what I mean.”

Your breath hitches. Your pulse stumbles.

“Satoru,” you say again, this time with a tone meant to scold—but your voice betrays you, quiet and flustered and full of something that unravels under his touch. He grins wider. That infuriating grin that you’ve loved since the moment you first saw it—back in fourth year, in this very room, when you found him before he could ask anyone else for help.

Because the things he says do something to you. They make the blood in your veins rush straight to your cheeks like it’s been summoned, like it’s something ancient and bound by spellcraft. They make your heart thud loud in your chest, a rhythm faster than any incantation can measure. And your eyes—Merlin, your eyes burn, hot and heavy, with a glossed-over sheen of something you don’t have the words for.

Maybe it's magic. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s something even older than either.

But you’re here, with him, and his hand is still on your bare shoulder, and his thumb is brushing the hollow of your collarbone like a prayer. And maybe he doesn’t say things lightly. Maybe he says them exactly when you need to hear them most.

“We can’t,” you whisper, voice breathy, a plea trembling between reluctance and longing. It comes out high and soft, the sound of someone losing a battle they’re not sure they want to win. “Not here.”

“Not here?” he echoes, and his eyebrow lifts, that stupidly wicked glint dancing behind his lashes. “You didn’t say that last time, love. When it was three in the morning and Nanami, Shoko and Suguru had gone back to their dorms—d’you remember that? You were on me like second skin.”

You groan, half-mortified, half-thrilled, and slap a hand over his mouth before he can keep going. “Satoru,” you hiss, your eyes squeezed shut, voice colored with exasperation—but your fingers tremble against his lips. You press a soft kiss to the back of your hand, resting it over his mouth like you’re trying to physically trap the memory between your palms.

He doesn't resist. He only smiles beneath your touch, slow and amused and unbearably fond, before gently peeling your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything. And then he moves.

It happens in quiet, deliberate motions. The kind that steal your breath without asking permission. One moment you’re sitting side by side, and the next, he’s guiding you down, the velvet-soft cushions of the Room’s conjured sofa cradling your spine as you lay there. The second strap of your dress slips down without resistance, catching against your upper arm, exposing your bare shoulders to the warm hush of firelight. You’re glowing under him, bathed in gold and shadow.

He leans over you, hands braced on either side, his breath warm against the hollow of your throat. “Don’t do things you know will have an effect on me,” he murmurs, the words curling like smoke into your skin. Then his lips—his maddening, knowing lips—graze just beneath your ear, pressing a kiss there, slow and deliberately sloppy. The kind meant to make you shiver.

And you do. A shudder works through you like a wave of mystique, pooling in your belly. Your hands find his back, curling into the folds of his shirt like you’re anchoring yourself.

But he’s already pulling away just enough to undo his coat—shrugging it off with the grace of someone who’s done this a hundred times, but who only ever wants to do it again with you. He tosses it to the floor like it doesn’t matter, like the whole world could be on fire and this is the only moment worth salvaging.

“Satoru,” you breathe, into the curve of his neck. It’s not a warning. It’s not permission either. It’s something else—need, maybe, or surrender.

He hears it. Of course he does. His hands are already moving again, mapping your body with the quiet devotion of someone who’s memorized a sacred text. He knows the places that make you arch into him, that make your mouth fall open, gasping. His palms slide along your waist, firm, grounding, and he squeezes your hips like he’s trying to remind himself you’re here. That you’re his.

And then—slowly, carefully—he reaches up to your hair. He doesn’t rush. He never does. His fingers brush over your scalp, undoing the pins or the tie holding your hair up, loosening each strand with an almost maddening gentleness. It falls around your shoulders in soft waves, catching the firelight like a halo, and he exhales, like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

His mouth finds your collarbone next. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just… deliberate. He kisses along the ridge of bone, slow, like he’s following a trail only he can see. His lips part as he works lower—kissing just under the hollow, down the line between your collar and chest. His nose brushes your skin as he lingers there, warm breath fanning just above the skin of your sternum.

And you feel like you’re going to unravel.

“Fuck’s sake, Fawkes,” he gasps, and a whimper hitches in your throat as he glances up at you through his lashes. There’s something wild in his gaze now. A storm you recognize. You’ve seen it before—in battle, in moments of anger, in the quiet seconds just before he kisses you like he might never get to again.

“If you look at me like that—”

“Like what?” he murmurs, pressing another kiss, just below where your dress dips. His voice is velvet and sin and honey. “Like I love you?”

And the best part is, he means it. You know he does Every word. Every look. Every kiss.

“You are everything, do you hear me?” he whispers, voice low and urgent, rough in that way it gets when emotion’s pressed so tightly into his throat it barely fits. He says it like it’s a confession, like he's in a trance, like if he doesn’t speak it aloud, it won’t be real. His hands slide beneath you, palms warm and searching, fingers grazing the small of your back, the dip of your spine, the soft place where your body gives way to trust.

You gasp—just a little, just enough. Your back arches in surprise, lips parted as your eyes fly open. “Satoru,” you hiss, not even hiding the disbelief in your voice, “are you.. are you reaching for my zipper?”

You don’t need to see him to know he’s grinning. That boyish, infuriating grin again that always comes just before he does something completely stupid or completely charming—often both. You do glance down though, and yes, there it is: that lopsided smirk, the one that dares you to stop him.

Before you can say anything else, you feel it—the brush of fingers, the slow tug of fabric. He’s not careless with it, not rushed. Your dress shifts down, slipping from your shoulders like silk being unraveled, and he watches it fall as if it’s sacred. As if the very act of undressing you is something he’ll remember all his life.

The cold air bites gently at your newly bare skin, but his eyes are warmer than fire. They catch the firelight, reflect it back in dizzying shades of crystal and ocean and sky, but when they meet yours—when he sees you, like this—they darken. Not with lust alone, but with something far weightier. Reverence. Awe. Wonder.

And then he kisses you again. Like he’s grateful. Like he’s starved.

His hands find you again—this time, bare. The slope of your waist, the soft lines of your ribs, the delicate edge of your hipbone. His palms are warm, but the heat that spreads through you starts far deeper. There’s no rush in him, only hunger in the form of patience. Like he wants to memorize this with his hands, his mouth, the weight of his body pressed against yours.

He leans back just slightly, long enough to look at you properly. His breath hitches, and he exhales in a soft puff that sounds like disbelief. He looks like someone watching a miracle unfold in front of him.

“You’re beautiful. And I want every part of you to know how much I love you,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Your breath catches on instinct. The words settle into your chest and stir something fragile—something that wants to bloom. Heat pools low in your stomach, curling like smoke, like magic. You feel the spell of the moment tightening around you, slowly, impossibly. You know this is the kind of memory that lives forever.

Then his lips find your throat, trailing kisses along the warm curve there, soft and maddening. His hands glide down your sides with the steady confidence of someone who knows your body already, who still wants to learn every new version of it again and again. They settle on your hips, anchoring you, grounding you, like he’s afraid you might disappear.

“W–wait,” you breathe, barely audible, your fingers reaching up to touch his chest as your legs shift beneath him. You try to sit, try to pull away—not because you want to stop, but because it’s too much, too fast, too tender. The kind of intimacy that stings, even in its sweetness. “Satoru…”

But he doesn’t let you move far. He kisses you again—your neck, the underside of your jaw—until you’re whimpering, trembling, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing holding you together.

“What?” he murmurs into your ear, and then his teeth find your earlobe, tugging gently. You let out a soft, broken sound, the kind that lives only in this kind of moment. The kind that makes you feel like you're being pulled apart and held together all at once.

You grab his tie. It’s instinctual, desperate. You pull at it with shaking fingers, and he stills, eyes meeting yours as he pulls back just slightly to watch. Your breath is shallow now, fluttering against your ribs, chest rising and falling like waves crashing to shore. You tug the knot loose and begin to undo the buttons of his dress shirt one by one—slow, deliberate, hands trembling slightly with each one.

He watches the whole thing like he’s under a trance. When you finally push the last button free, he exhales again, sharp and ragged, as if you’ve taken something from him and he doesn’t want it back.

“You always want even, don’t you?” he murmurs, voice hoarse with astonishment, with affection, with something just on the edge of ruin. That grin returns—crooked and dazzling—but there’s something soft behind it now, something that flickers like candlelight in a dark room.

And all you can do is stare at him—his hair messy from your fingers, shirt open, firelight painting shadows down his torso—and wonder how love could ever feel like this. How this is so much more. How the word ‘love’ doesn't even begin to describe this.

“I want you,” you whisper. The words escape you like an invocation, fragile and full of wanting.

He swallows hard—throat tightening as though your voice has caught there, lodged somewhere behind his tongue—and stares at you, really looks at you. The expression on his face shifts; the grin softens, melts away into something earnest and deep and tender. You see the flicker of disbelief cross his features, the way he breathes like he’s bracing himself for a truth too big to carry.

Then, slowly, reverently, he peels his unbuttoned shirt off, fingers unhurried. The fabric slips from his frame and lands somewhere near the coat he tossed aside earlier, but you don’t watch it fall. Your eyes are on him, and his are on you.

He leans down again, impossibly gentle now, as though every inch of you is divine. His mouth traces a path along your sternum, lingering there as if trying to memorize the shape of your heartbeat. He presses a kiss at the center of your chest, then another, just a little lower, and your hands move instinctively—to his back, to his arms, to anything solid enough to anchor you. His mouth ghosts over the peaks of your breasts, a breath more than a kiss, and you feel yourself tremble beneath him.

When he lowers himself to your stomach, you suck in a quiet breath, one hand finding its way into his hair. His grip tightens gently on your hips, grounding you in place as his lips graze the soft skin just above your waistband.

“S-Satoru—” your voice hitches, the syllables half-formed, like a spell slipping out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“Stay still, yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth against your skin, so quiet you almost wonder if you imagined it.

The warmth from the fire crackles softly in the background, casting ribbons of gold over the floor, over the green sofas, over the dark polish of the table and empty pinboard, over the bare skin of your shoulders and collarbone. You should feel warm. The room is warm. But there’s a shiver blooming down your spine as he hooks one finger beneath the delicate band of your cotton underwear.

You gasp, breath catching—more at the intimacy of the gesture than the gesture itself—and your mouth opens to say something, anything, his name maybe, but nothing comes. Just sound. Just air. Just the stunned silence of being wanted so wholly.

He looks up at you, pupils blown wide, lashes shadowing his cheekbones. The corner of his mouth lifts as he leans forward, nuzzling gently into the softness of your thigh, his fingers splayed out along your skin.

“Let me show you,” he says softly, “how much I love you.”

His fingers trail up the inside of your thigh, coaxing, tender. “Come on, love,” he whispers, “spread.”

And you do. Not because you’re told to. But because it’s him asking.

Because it’s always been him.

“Satoru,” you whisper, breath trembling as it leaves your lips, and your thighs part like the slow, deliberate blooming of a flower coaxed by morning light. It is an offering—an act of trust, of surrender.

He grins, with slight arrogance, but also with something deeper. Like he’s won not just a moment, but a battle. The sharp edges of his teeth catch the firelight, and there’s something feral in him now. But he's still him, still soft, still yours.

He leans down, slow as moonlight spilling across a windowsill, and his lips find the tender inside of your thigh. The kiss is gentle. Lingering. A benediction more than a conquest. You shiver, breath hitching, and your fingers slip into his hair, winding there like ivy drawn to the warmth of stone.

He doesn’t speak, not yet. But his hands are steady on your hips, and the air between you hums with something electric—sacred, almost. Like the quiet before a storm.

And in that moment, you know: you’ve never been seen like this before. Not just bare, but beheld.

The way his tongue drags across your folds—it's deliberate. Languid. Soft. Warm. It washes over you like a spell cast in slow motion, like you’ve stepped into the inevitable. There’s no start or end to it—just the overwhelming sense that this, whatever this is, was always meant to happen. Like gravity pulling two stars into orbit.

You don’t even notice when your eyes slip shut, lids fluttering like the wings of a moth drawn to flame. Your body gives in without resistance, melting into the cushions beneath you as if they, too, recognize the sanctity of the moment.

His hands never leave you. One anchors you gently, fingers curled firm but careful on your hip, as if to keep you tethered to something real while the rest of you begins to drift. You can feel it in the steadiness of his grip—a promise, unspoken but unmistakable. You're not going anywhere. Not now. Not while he's holding you like this.

Impossibly, he presses a kiss to your bud. Pleasure climbs your spine like fire racing through dry brush—hungry, wild, unstoppable. It licks at your nerves and curls low in your stomach, where warmth builds and blooms like some type of sin. You gasp unguardedly, as your fingers tangle deeper into his hair, holding on as though you're bracing against the tide. Your chest rises, breath stuttering, as your stomach tightens with the slow, overwhelming ache of it all, like something luminous unraveling you from the inside out.

He grins, and you can feel it. That wicked curve of his mouth against your skin, smug and devastating. The warmth of it settles like a brand on the most sensitive part of you, just before he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your thigh, impious and maddening all at once. Then, with agonizing patience, he returns to the rhythm that’s already undoing you, piece by piece, as if he’s rewriting you with every touch.

“Give in, come on,” he whispers, voice hushed and coaxing, as if he’s asking you to fall into a dream he’s carefully woven just for you. Then he’s back on you, diving into you with a hunger that borders on worship, his mouth finding that one place—that place—and the world splits open behind your eyes. You cry out, hips bucking, the sensation cresting like a wave too big to bear, and all you can do is cling to him, to the moment, to the heat building unbearably in your chest. Every kiss is weight, every touch is gravity, and you feel yourself starting to fall.

And you do. You give in, not gently, but all at once—like a dam breaking, like magic unraveling at the core. Everything inside you comes undone in a rush of heat and sensation, and it’s him—his arms holding your hips steady, his mouth coaxing the storm from you, his presence anchoring you in a moment that feels impossibly vast. It’s everything, everywhere, all at once: the weight of love and longing, of fear and safety, of joy so sharp it borders on ache.

You cry out, voice cracking on his name, moaning it like a prayer, like a spell only he knows the answer to. Again and again, you call for him—as if in naming him, you can ground yourself, tether yourself to the only constant you’ve ever truly known. And he stays there, with you, through it all. Through the trembling and the clenching, through the sob of pleasure that escapes your throat as if it’s been waiting to be set free for years.

Then, slowly, he rises, his touch lingering, his presence wrapping around you like warmth pulled from the fire. His face hovers just above yours, eyes searching—glowing with a smile gentler than mischief, something far more intimate than victory. And when he smiles, it’s not the cocky, sharp-edged grin you’re used to. It’s not playful, not teasing. It’s soft. Earnest. Stripped bare of pretense.

Like he’s looking at you and seeing something sanctified.

He leans in, brushing his lips to yours with exquisite tenderness. You taste yourself on him, warm and sweet like honey left too long in the sun. His kiss is patient, steady, as if he’s in no rush to leave this moment behind. As if this moment is enough to fill lifetimes.

When he pulls away, just enough to breathe the words against your lips, his voice is quiet. Devout.

“You did so well,” he whispers.

And the way he says it, you know he means it. Your heart stutters. Your lips part.

His fingers, still resting on your hip and waist, draw idle circles into your skin, grounding and tender. He doesn’t rush. He just looks at you—as if he can’t quite believe you’re real, or that you’re his, here, like this. The firelight flickers, casting amber shadows across his cheekbones, catching the pale blue of his eyes in its glow. He leans in again, slower this time, his lips brushing against yours like a promise. And when he kisses you now, it’s deeper. Hungrier. Like he’s asking, Can I? Will you let me?

You kiss him back—just as slow, just as certain.

Your hands move on instinct, rising to his shoulders, trailing along the dips and lines of muscle, fingers finding the hem of his trousers. You feel him shudder. His breath catches. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his voice low and hesitant and shaking with restraint.

“Tell me,” he whispers. “Tell me you want this.”

“I do,” you breathe. “I want you.”

A silence blooms. It’s thick. Golden and full of everything unsaid. Then, he shifts—his body pressing flush to yours, skin on skin, chest on chest. His hands sweeping beneath you, gathering you close as if you’re something to be held with devotion, not haste. You feel the slow roll of his hips, the deliberate way he kisses along your jaw, your throat, your chest—everywhere.

The air smells like firewood and silk and skin. There’s nothing left between you but warmth and breath and the kind of aching, beautiful certainty that only comes once.

And just before he enters you, he cups your face, kisses your cheek, your temple, your lips again. He murmurs something into your skin—three words. Soft and sure.

And then the rest of the night unfolds around you like starlight.

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