#royalty calculation | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 3 months ago

Text

roses bloom the prettiest in ruin

pairing – prime minister's son!gojo x princess!reader

summary : as the princess of a fallen monarchy, you were raised to uphold tradition, even in a world where your family’s power is little more than ceremony. as the son of the prime minister, satoru gojo was raised to rule.

your families have always been at odds—yours clinging to the past, his shaping the future. but satoru has never cared for politics, not when it comes to you. from the moment he met you, he’s been impossible to ignore—too bold, too persistent, too certain that your story was never meant to end in polite distance.

but in a world where power dictates fate, some lines aren’t meant to be crossed.

satoru has never been one to follow the rules.

tags –> oneshot, 8k wc, modern & royalty au, political intrigue, high society drama, forbidden love, slow burn but inevitable, gojo satoru is a menace but he’s your menace, power imbalance but he makes it so sexy, privilege and duty, crown and dagger, elopement but make it dramatic, longing stares in grand ballrooms, love like a loaded gun, he would burn the world for you, angsty but he's too freaky for the angst to actually angst

colletion m.list.

you were six years old when you first met him.

it was at a grand gala—one of those glittering, suffocating events where chandeliers dripped with light and the air smelled of imported champagne and expensive perfume. women in floor-length gowns whispered behind painted fans, their laughter soft and practiced, while men in tailored suits exchanged nods that meant more than words. your mother’s grip on your tiny hand was firm, guiding you through the maze of political smiles and calculating gazes. you were dressed in a satin gown the color of moonlight, your hair curled into delicate ringlets, a perfect little doll for the cameras. “posture.” your mother reminded, her voice a quiet warning against your ear, and you obediently lifted your chin. everything was rehearsed, every movement precise—but then you saw him.

a boy with hair like freshly fallen snow, sticking up in wild tufts as if he’d fought off every attempt to tame it. he stood apart from the other children, his tiny navy suit crisp but slightly disheveled, a stark contrast to his bored expression. a lollipop dangled lazily from his lips, his fingers tucked into his pockets like he had no interest in the stiff elegance of the evening. his eyes—impossibly blue, like the sky at its brightest—found yours, pinning you in place. you had been taught to be polite, to be charming, to be untouchable, but something about the way he looked at you made your heart skip. he tilted his head, considering you, and then grinned—wide and unapologetic, like he had just found something interesting in a room full of dull, gray figures.

and then, with all the reckless confidence of someone who had never been told no, he pulled the lollipop from his mouth and declared, “i like you! wanna get married?”

a hush fell over the room like a dropped veil, murmurs rising in its wake. your mother’s nails pressed into your palm, a silent warning, while prime minister gojo’s sharp gaze flicked toward his son with the weight of unspoken reprimand. but satoru only rocked back on his heels, unbothered by the sudden attention, his grin unwavering. your mind, young as it was, processed the absurdity of the moment—marriage? at six years old? but even then, you had been raised to know your worth, and so you gave him the sweetest, most well-practiced smile in your arsenal.

“silly,” you giggled, folding your hands in front of you like the perfect little princess you were trained to be. “princesses don’t marry commoners.”

for the first time, the boy’s expression shifted—not to disappointment, but to something else, something sharper, something amused. the grin stretching across his face didn’t falter; if anything, it widened, as if he had just been given a challenge. “then i guess i’ll just have to become a king.”

the murmurs that followed were no longer just of amusement. they carried something deeper, something weightier—speculation, curiosity, quiet calculations of what a union between the royal family and the prime minister’s bloodline could mean. your mother’s fingers tightened ever so slightly, enough to tell you that you had done something wrong, even if you didn’t quite understand what. but satoru, in all his childish arrogance, seemed entirely unbothered, as if the world would bend to his whims simply because he willed it to.

“a king?” you echoed, tilting your head in consideration. your tutors had taught you that kings were powerful, that they ruled with wisdom and strength, that they carried the weight of nations on their shoulders. but satoru didn’t look like a wise ruler—he looked like a mischievous prince, untamed and unyielding, someone who had never been denied a single thing in his life.

“mmhmm,” he hummed, hands on his hips, as if he could already picture himself wearing a crown. “and when i do, i’ll make you my queen.”

you only giggled, because at six years old, marriage was nothing more than a fairy tale, a distant dream wrapped in lace and golden crowns. besides, you knew—knew with the quiet certainty that only children possess—that your father would never allow it. still, something about the way he looked at you, with that unwavering confidence, sent a strange little flutter through your chest.

a palace attendant appeared at your side, quick and efficient, murmuring something about your father expecting you at his table. your mother’s sigh was nearly imperceptible as she turned you away from the scene, her fingers firm on your wrist. but even as you were led through the sea of glittering gowns and polished shoes, you could feel it—his gaze, lingering, unwavering, like a promise not yet spoken.

when you glanced back, he was still standing there, lollipop tucked back between his lips, watching you with an expression that made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t quite understand.

“i’ll come find you again, princess!” he called out, his voice brimming with the kind of certainty that didn’t allow for doubts.

and somehow, in that moment, you believed him.

true to his words, satoru gojo became a fixture in your world—loud, impossible, and utterly relentless.

satoru was always too much. too loud, too clever, too untouchable. he had that insufferable grin, the one that made you feel like he already knew how this story would end—like he had already seen you in white, standing beside him. from the moment he decided you were his, he followed you around like a stray cat who thought he owned the palace, when in truth, he only ever snuck his way in. the difference was that satoru wasn’t sneaking—he had the power to walk through the palace doors without consequence. his father, the prime minister, held the entire country in his palm, and satoru, his only son, carried himself like a prince, even without a crown.

“we should get married,” he told you every chance he got, as if it was inevitable. “i’d make a great king.”

“you’re no king, satoru.” you would scoff, adjusting the perfect bow at the back of your dress. “you’re a tyrant in the making.”

but he only ever laughed, because you never actually said no.

your fathers hated each other. the prime minister saw the royal family as nothing more than a ceremonial relic, a bloodline propped up by tradition with no real authority, while your father saw the gojo administration as a dictatorship in disguise, unchecked power wrapped in empty promises. the conflict between them was a cold war played behind closed doors, in councils and boardrooms where policy was made without your input. yet somehow, despite the quiet battle waged between them, you and satoru were always in the same rooms, always within reach of each other. whether it was diplomatic banquets, charity galas, or private functions where power was traded in hushed conversations, he was there. and oh, did he reach.

when you were eight, he stole your tiara during a diplomatic dinner and perched it atop his own head, flashing a smirk that made your cheeks burn. “look at me, i’m a king now.”

“give it back, satoru!” you huffed, arms crossed, lips pressed into a stubborn line.

“hmm… nah,” he hummed, tilting his head as if considering. then, with an impish glint in his eyes, he leaned forward and whispered, “but you can have it back if you give me a kiss.”

scandalized, you yanked the tiara off his head with a furious huff, your face burning as he cackled like a devil in silk.

when you were ten, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you away from the ballroom, dragging you through the empty halls until you burst onto the palace balcony. below, the city stretched endlessly, glittering against the night.

“you’re bored, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice softer than usual, those sky-bright eyes searching yours. “let’s run away.”

“don’t be ridiculous.” you scoffed, but you didn’t pull away.

instead, you let him hold your hand, let him be the one reckless thing in your carefully measured world.

when you were twelve, he found you curled beneath the oldest willow in the royal gardens, fists clenched in the fabric of your dress, trying to keep the sobs inside. another argument. another reminder that you would never be enough—not as a daughter, not as a princess, not as anything you were supposed to be. the sky was overcast, gray and heavy, the scent of rain thick in the air. you hadn’t heard his footsteps, hadn’t noticed him until he crouched in front of you, head tilting, gaze sharp and knowing.

satoru hated seeing you cry.

so, without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a lollipop, and unwrapped it with the ease of someone who did this often. “open,” he said, pressing the candy against your lips before you could argue, his tone light, teasing, but unyielding. the sugary scent hit you first—something cherry, something artificial, something that had no place in a world of gold-plated cutlery and imported delicacies. you hesitated, your pride warring with the quiet comfort he offered. but then, slowly, you parted your lips, and he pushed it onto your tongue, watching you like he was waiting for the weight in your chest to ease.

“sweet things always make you feel better.” his voice was softer this time, something careful beneath the teasing.

he was right. the taste melted against your tongue, sharp and cloying, and for the first time that day, the ache in your ribs loosened just a little. satoru grinned like he had just won something, bright and self-satisfied, always too pleased with himself. “see? tastes better when it’s from me, huh?”

you only nodded, small and quiet. he only laughed, the sound easy and unbothered, like the world hadn’t just collapsed around you.

in that moment, beneath a darkening sky, in a life that had never truly been yours, satoru became your first and only act of defiance. he became your escape. your rebellion. your one and only soft, sweet thing.

despite the tension in politics, despite the warnings and whispered disapproval, you and satoru always find each other.

your lessons are held in the same grand estate, halls lined with portraits of ancestors who once held the world in their hands. golden chandeliers hang heavy above you, casting a soft glow over the polished marble floors, the silence between lectures filled only by the ticking of antique clocks and the distant hum of the city beyond the palace gates. you see him in the brief moments between lessons, in the gaps between grand affairs, when the adults aren’t watching. but, of course, satoru never cares if they are. he walks into your space like he belongs there, like he has never once been told no in his life. and when he does, you pretend it doesn’t make the air in the room feel heavier.

“you’re such a fake,” he drawls one afternoon, lounging lazily in your study while you sit perfectly poised by the window. sunlight filters in behind you, casting you in a glow that makes you look untouchable, distant. “all that bowing and smiling—you don’t actually believe in any of that, do you?”

your fingers tighten over the silk of your skirts, nails pressing crescent moons into your palms. “it’s called duty, satoru. something you wouldn’t understand.”

he snorts, tipping his chair back on two legs, balancing with the ease of someone who never fears falling. “right. duty. you mean playing pretend.”

“i’m not playing pretend,” you snap, rising so suddenly that your chair scrapes against the floor, the sharp sound cutting through the still air.

but satoru only leans forward, elbow propped on the desk, chin in his palm, watching you with that infuriating, knowing look. “sure you are,” he says, like it’s fact. “you hate this. you hate them. but you smile and curtsy like a good little princess anyway.”

heat crawls up your spine, your breath catching in your throat. “what would you have me do? throw tantrums like you? break things until people listen?”

his smirk deepens. “at least i don’t lie about who i am.”

the words hit something raw, something you refuse to name. satoru has always been able to see too much, pick you apart with those impossibly blue eyes until you feel like nothing more than an open book in his hands. you hate that he can see through you so easily.

so you don’t answer. instead, you turn on your heel and storm out, the echo of your footsteps chasing you down the hall. when you reach your chambers, you throw the balcony doors shut behind you, and that night—for the first time in years—you leave them locked.

for a week, satoru does not show up.

no pebbles tapping against your window at midnight. no insufferable interruptions during your lessons. no infuriating, knowing glances across the dinner table when you’re forced to sit across from him.

at first, you tell yourself it’s a relief.

but the days stretch on, and the silence in your chambers grows unbearable. your eyes flick toward the balcony doors more times than you’re willing to admit, your ears straining for the sound of footsteps, of something—anything—that signals his presence. when you pass by the study, you hesitate just outside the door, waiting for a scoff, a teasing remark, anything to prove that he’s still there. but the room is empty, and all you have is the hollow weight of missing him.

when you finally unlock the balcony doors, the wind feels too cold against your skin, the vastness of the sky stretching too wide, too empty.

and then, at the next grand event, just when you begin to think that maybe he’s left you behind, that he had realized how asinine your friendship with him is, you feel it.

a gaze too familiar, too sharp, too knowing.

when you glance up, satoru is already watching you from across the ballroom, standing just beyond the golden glow of the chandeliers, half-shrouded in the dim candlelight. he is dressed in the sharp blues and silvers of his family’s colors, the embroidery on his suit catching the light, but his gaze is the brightest thing in the room. too familiar, too focused, too knowing—like he’s been waiting for you to notice him. the conversations around you dull, the clinking of crystal glasses and rustling of silk fading into something distant, inconsequential. because in a room full of dignitaries, of nobles and politicians vying for power, satoru looks at you like you’re the only one who matters. and it makes something tighten in your chest, something you refuse to name.

“your royal highness.” he greets smoothly, voice laced with amusement as he steps forward. the space between you is swallowed instantly, overtaken by his presence—too much, too overwhelming, like the weight of a storm pressing against your skin. he bows, just deep enough to be proper, but there is no real deference in the motion, no real submission in the way he tilts his head and looks at you through pale lashes. this is not a greeting; it’s a challenge.

“gojo.” your voice is even, perfectly poised, as distant as diplomacy demands. but he sees through it like he always does, like he always has, and you know this because his smirk deepens.

then, before you can stop him, he takes your hand—too bold, too improper, too much.

he lifts it to his lips, the movement deliberate, calculated, yet as effortless as breathing. your breath catches as his mouth brushes just above the lace of your glove, against the sliver of skin left exposed. his lips are warm, his breath soft against your wrist, but the effect is anything but gentle. it sears.

your pulse betrays you, a single, sharp beat against his touch.

his smirk spreads, slow and knowing. “you missed me, didn’t you?”

and the worst part—the part you loathe, the part that makes your throat tighten—is that you have no idea how to lie. not to him.

satoru gojo has always been insufferable.

he is a storm in human form—loud, reckless, impossible to ignore. but sometime between childhood games and midnight rendezvous, something shifts. the edges of him sharpen, shedding the remnants of boyhood, his limbs stretching into something longer, leaner, more dangerous. the mischief in his gaze is still there, but it is different now, laced with something you do not have the words for. something that makes your pulse stutter when he looks at you too long.

and yet, despite it all, he still finds you. always.

at thirteen, he corners you in the royal library, where the scent of parchment and ink lingers in the air. dust motes dance in the shafts of afternoon light, a quiet world away from the weight of courtly expectations. you are searching for an old genealogy record when fingers, long and deft, pluck the book from your hands with infuriating ease.

“you’re too stiff.” he murmurs, flipping the pages with little interest. “too dutiful. don’t you ever get tired of being perfect?”

“give it back, satoru.”

“make me.”

your patience snaps like a fraying thread. you lunge, reaching for the book, but he is already moving, slipping just out of reach, laughter curling in the silence. it becomes a chase, your breath quickening as he weaves between the towering shelves, always just a step ahead, always teasing. when you finally snatch it back, your heart is pounding, the heat of exertion warming your skin.

he is too close. the dim glow of lanterns catches in his eyes, his smirk lazy, triumphant.

“see?” he hums, voice smooth, teasing. “you’re more fun when you’re mad.”

at fourteen, he finds you on the palace rooftop.

it is past midnight, the city below pulsing with life, oblivious to the girl perched high above it—trapped in a golden cage lined with silk and duty. the wind tugs at your hair, whispering secrets you will never be free to follow. the stars scatter across the sky in cold indifference, the weight of history pressing against your ribs like an iron hand. up here, away from the watchful eyes of the court, you can almost pretend you are just a girl and not a symbol, not a piece on a chessboard carved long before you were born.

“you’re not supposed to be up here.” you murmur, your gaze fixed on the endless stretch of lights below, refusing to acknowledge the presence settling beside you.

“neither are you.” he counters, voice smooth as ever, careless as ever. he sits too close, shoulder pressing against yours, as if he belongs here, as if he always will.

his presence is warm in the cool night air, a stark contrast to the marble halls and empty courtesies you have known all your life. for a moment, neither of you speak. the wind rustles through the banners below, and the sounds of distant carriages echo faintly in the night.

“do you ever think about running away?” he muses, head tilting back, exposing the sharp angles of a jawline that is beginning to lose its boyish softness. his hair ruffles in the wind, a mess of white against the darkness.

“you’ve been talking about that since we were kids.” you sigh, fingers twisting in the fabric of your skirts.

“and you’ve been ignoring me since we were kids.” he points out, words laced with that familiar, infuriating amusement.

“maybe there’s a reason for that.”

he hums, entirely unbothered, as if he already knows the truth you won’t say aloud. “doesn’t change the fact that you never really leave, though.”

the words settle between you, quiet and heavy, pressing against the space where your heart beats a little too fast. you don’t respond because he’s right.

at fifteen, he crashes a diplomatic banquet, just to get a rise out of you.

he isn’t supposed to be here. technically, his father declined the invitation, sending his advisors in his place. but satoru gojo has never been one to follow the rules, especially when they tell him he can’t do something. so, of course, he waltzes into the ballroom as if he owns it, clad in midnight blue with a smirk that could start wars. the chandeliers cast a golden glow over the polished marble, music swelling in a practiced waltz, but the moment he steps in, the air shifts—people noticing, whispers beginning. his presence is an act of defiance, a quiet declaration that even the prime minister’s absence cannot erase the weight of his name.

you barely have time to react before he spots you, his grin widening like a cat who just found his favorite mouse. “your highness,” he drawls, stepping into your space as if he belongs there, as if you aren’t standing amongst foreign dignitaries who would love nothing more than to report this to your father. panic flares hot in your chest, but you refuse to let it show, only gripping his wrist and yanking him into the nearest shadowed alcove. he lets you, amusement dancing in his too-bright eyes, the scent of something expensive lingering on his skin. “what are you doing here?” you hiss, low and sharp, as distant voices hum just beyond the curtains.

“you missed me.” he answers, unbothered.

“i did not.”

“you totally did.”

you glare. he grins.

“besides,” he continues, leaning in, voice dropping to something low and private. “how could i miss the chance to see you all dressed up? you look…” his gaze flickers over you, slow, deliberate, appreciation flickering in those godforsaken, summer-sky eyes. “…stunning.”

your stomach flips, traitorous. you roll your eyes instead, fixing him with a pointed look, ignoring the heat that creeps up your neck. “if your father finds out—”

“who cares?” he shrugs, the picture of reckless ease, of untouchable confidence. “we’re just two childhood friends catching up, aren’t we?”

friends.

right.

but then, before you can snap back, he lifts your hand—bold, improper, scandalous—and bows his head, brushing his lips against the skin just above the lace of your glove. his breath ghosts warm against your wrist, lingering, deliberate, as if committing the shape of you to memory. a slow, teasing kiss, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he enjoys the way your pulse stutters beneath his mouth. you freeze, caught between outrage and something far more dangerous, something you refuse to name. his smirk deepens when he finally pulls away, watching you with eyes too sharp, too knowing.

“see?” he murmurs, amusement curling in his tone. “you don’t seem so bothered now.”

at sixteen, things shift again.

it happens during a fencing lesson, though neither of you are properly dressed for it. no heavy jackets, no masks—just wooden practice swords and the simmering tension that neither of you have the words for yet. the vast training hall is bathed in late afternoon light, golden streaks stretching across polished wooden floors, dust motes dancing in the air. you weren’t even supposed to spar today, but satoru had grabbed a sword off the rack, tossed you another, and grinned like he already knew how this would end. where you are disciplined, he is wild; where you are precise, he is unpredictable. he circles you now, blade tapping lazily against his shoulder, eyes bright with something electric.

“come on, princess,” he drawls, voice laced with challenge. “show me what all those lessons are worth.”

you do. you lunge, and he parries; you strike, and he meets you—wooden swords colliding in a flurry of sharp movements and breathless taunts. your footwork is flawless, your technique impeccable, but satoru is fast, too fast, slipping through your defenses like water through cupped hands. then, in a blink, he disarms you—sends your practice sword clattering across the floor. before you can react, he moves, pushing you back until your spine meets the wooden wall, his weight pressing just enough to keep you there. the air shifts, suddenly charged, his breath warm against your cheek, the scent of polished wood and something distinctly him curling in your lungs.

“yield.” he murmurs, voice thick with something unreadable.

you should push him away. should remind him of propriety, of duty, of the countless rules you are bound to. but you don’t—because his gaze is locked onto yours, and you can’t seem to look away. your heart hammers, pulse drumming loud in your ears, and for the first time, you realize how much taller he has gotten, how sharp the lines of his face have become. there’s something dark in his smirk now, something dangerous beneath the teasing edge. something you don’t have a name for yet.

“you know,” he murmurs, tilting his head, the dim glow of the lanterns casting sharp shadows across the planes of his face, “one day, they’re going to try to take you from me.”

your breath catches, fingers curling against the fabric of your sleeve. there is no mockery in his tone this time, no teasing edge to soften the words. just quiet, unwavering certainty, as if he has already seen the war they will wage over you, as if the battle lines have already been drawn. something cold slithers down your spine, something you don’t have a name for, because this—this is not the boy who used to steal your tiaras and drag you onto palace rooftops. this is someone else entirely, someone sharp-edged and merciless, someone who speaks as though he has already decided the outcome. someone you should fear.

“who?”

“your father. my father. the entire world.”

his voice is low, even, but the weight of it presses against you, heavier than the steel of his blade had been moments before. because satoru gojo has never been the kind of person who loses—not fights, not games, not people. and you know, with a sudden, sinking certainty, that he does not intend to start with you. his gaze flickers down, where your pulse jumps at your wrist, where the lace of your glove fails to hide the way your blood sings beneath your skin. he lifts your hand with ease, brings it to his lips, and presses another kiss to the exact same spot he always does—slow, deliberate, reverent. his lips linger just long enough for heat to unfurl in your stomach, for something traitorous to bloom in your chest.

“satoru—”

“they can try.” he interrupts, voice dropping lower, something wolfish curling at the edges of his grin. his breath ghosts over your skin, his hold unrelenting. “but i don’t share.”

then, as if nothing happened, he releases you. steps back. extends his hand, as if this is still the same fencing match, the same childhood game, as if he has not just shifted the very ground beneath your feet.

you don’t take it.

because suddenly, you are afraid. not of him, but of what you might become if you do.

something changed in satoru after that conversation and it must've had something to do with him suddenly messaging you to meet him in the middle of the night because you aren’t supposed to be here.

the castle is asleep, save for the flickering lanterns lining the outer walls, their glow barely touching the darkness beyond the royal gates. but there, just past the threshold of where he shouldn’t be, satoru waits—leaning against a stone pillar like he owns the place, bathed in moonlight and audacity. he sees you before you even step past the archway, his smirk unfurling slow and knowing, like he expected you all along.

“satoru,” you hiss, breathless with fury, your voice trembling as you glance over your shoulder, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “if anyone sees you—” your words falter, your mind racing with the consequences, the scandal, the way your father’s face would darken if he caught you like this. but satoru doesn’t seem to care. he never does.

“then let them watch,” he says, his voice pure sin, a slow, teasing drawl that sinks beneath your skin, twisting deep in your stomach. he’s taller now, broader, his beauty sharper, more lethal—something sculpted for war, not courtly dances. and yet, the danger in him doesn’t make you step back. instead, it pulls you in, like a moth to a flame, even as your instincts scream at you to run. his presence is overwhelming, his gaze piercing, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering, about to fall.

he doesn’t wait for permission. instead, he tugs you forward with infuriating ease, his hands rough yet deliberate, your body colliding with his before you can even think to resist. your fingers curl instinctively into the delicate fabric of your nightgown, clutching at it like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. his touch is heat against silk, against skin, the space between you vanishing before you can catch your breath. you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, the way his heartbeat matches the frantic rhythm of your own.

and then he kisses you.

it is nothing like the carefully instructed, polite kisses you’ve been warned to expect. there is no hesitation, no gentleness—only hunger, only greed, his lips pressing, parting, demanding like he has spent years waiting for this. and he has. your first kiss is not sweet or tender; it’s a wildfire, consuming everything in its path, leaving you breathless and dizzy. his hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, and you can’t help but melt into him, your body betraying your mind as you lean into the heat of his touch.

you should push him away. you should remind him of duty, of war, of the blood-soaked line that has long divided your families. but you don’t. instead, you let him press you against the cold stone wall, the chill seeping through your gown as his mouth abandons yours, trailing lower—along your jaw, down the column of your throat. his breath is warm, his lips softer than they should be, the contrast making you shudder. when he reaches the spot wrist he had been lavishing attention since forever, he bites, slow and deliberate, his teeth sinking in just enough to make your breath hitch.

he feels it, hears it—your sharp inhale, your pulse rushing wildly beneath his lips, your fingers clenching in his jacket—and he laughs, low and pleased, his tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. “you are so cute, your highness,” he murmurs against your skin, the words a silken promise, a loaded threat. “i might just ruin you myself before they could.” his voice is a whisper, a caress, and it sends a shiver down your spine, your mind racing with the implications of his words. but even as your thoughts scream at you to stop, your body betrays you, leaning into him, craving more of the chaos he brings.

before you turn seventeen, your fathers were at war.

not with swords, not with soldiers, but with power plays disguised as diplomacy, with whispered threats exchanged in the halls of government buildings. your father, the last vestige of a monarchy that no longer ruled, still held influence, still had loyalists willing to fight for the old ways. and satoru’s father, the prime minister, was the embodiment of the new world—modern, efficient, ruthless.

it was a battle for control, for legacy, for the future of a nation that no longer belonged to kings. but behind the headlines, behind the political chess match, there is this scandalous little thing going on between their heirs.

satoru is breathless against your lips, his hands pressing you against the cold marble walls of a grand ballroom. the air around you was thick with the scent of champagne and the faint sweetness of his cologne, mingling with the sharp chill of the stone at your back. hidden behind a velvet curtain, just out of sight, just out of reach, the muffled sounds of the gala outside felt like a distant dream. his fingers traced the curve of your waist, leaving trails of fire even through the layers of your dress, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours.

the dim light filtering through the curtain cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the glint of mischief in his summer sky eyes. you were trapped, not by his hands, but by the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“we shouldn’t be doing this.” you whispered, your voice trembling as much as your hands, but your fingers curled into his collar, betraying you. the fabric was soft under your touch, but the heat of his skin beneath it was enough to make your head spin.

satoru's breath hitched, a low, almost imperceptible sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting. the words were meant to be a protest, a reminder of the rules, the consequences, but they came out weak, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. you knew you should pull away, should step back into the light where everything was safe and predictable, but the way he leaned into you, his forehead resting against yours, made it impossible to move.

“then tell me to stop,” satoru murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw, his voice an invitation and a taunt all at once. his hands slid up your arms, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every inch of you, and you could feel the faint tremor in his touch. “but you won’t, will you?” his words were soft, almost a whisper, but they carried the weight of certainty, of years of knowing you better than you knew yourself.

and god, he was right. you couldn’t tell him to stop, not when his breath was warm against your skin, not when his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. the world outside the curtain didn’t exist anymore—it was just you and him, and the dangerous, exhilarating thing growing between you.

the older satoru got, the more he loved pushing you, breaking down every fragile, innocent piece of you until you were something else—something that belonged to him.

at seventeen, he kissed you in secret corridors, in the backseats of limousines, in his father’s estate where you were absolutely not supposed to be. each touch, each whispered word, was a challenge, a game he was determined to win. he thrived on the thrill of it, on the way your breath caught when he leaned in too close, on the way your eyes darted around nervously, always aware of the risk.

but no matter how many times you told yourself it was wrong, no matter how many times you tried to pull away, he always found a way to draw you back in. and deep down, you knew you didn’t want to resist.

“if they catch us, we’re finished,” you hissed, clutching at his wrist as he dragged you down a private hallway, past security cameras he had long since learned how to avoid.

your heels clicked softly against the polished floor, the sound echoing in the empty space, but his steps were silent, confident, as though he owned every inch of the estate. his grip on your hand was firm, unyielding, and you could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric of your glove. the hallway was dimly lit, the only light coming from the moon streaming through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the walls. you could hear the faint hum of the gala in the distance, a reminder of how far you’d strayed from the safety of the crowd, but satoru didn’t seem to care. he only smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he glanced back at you.

“then don’t let them catch us.” he said, his voice low and teasing, as though the idea of getting caught was just another part of the game. he stopped suddenly, pulling you into a secluded alcove, his hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders. the space was small, intimate, and you could feel the heat of his body even through the layers of your dress.

he traced the edge of your gloves with his fingers before slipping them off entirely, his touch light but deliberate, and you shivered as his lips brushed against your bare wrists. “you still taste sweet,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and sending a jolt of electricity through you. “but i want more.” his voice was a whisper, a promise, and when you gasped, his smile turned sharp, knowing he had you exactly where he wanted you.

at eighteen, the arguments start.

they are sharp-edged things, honed by frustration, by fear, by the unbearable weight of wanting something neither of you are supposed to have. they happen in hushed whispers behind closed doors, in stolen moments between political meetings, in the space between your duty and his defiance.

the fight happens in the royal gardens, beneath the cold glow of lantern light. the evening air is thick with the scent of jasmine, too sweet, too cloying, pressing in around you like a reminder that this—this moment, this thing between you and him—should not exist. satoru stands before you, white-haired and furious, the shadows casting sharp lines across his face.

“you’re playing pretend.” he snaps, voice low and angry, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“and you’re reckless,” you bite back, every word laced with frustration, with fear. “our families—”

“our families don’t get to decide what i want.” his voice cuts through the night like a blade.

“it’s not that simple, satoru.”

“it is.” he steps closer, unrelenting. “you just don’t want to admit it.”

and maybe he’s right. because no matter how many times you tell yourself this has to end, no matter how hard you try to keep your distance, you always end up in his arms.

one night, he climbs the palace walls just to see you, tapping against your balcony door like a fairytale gone wrong. moonlight pools over him, silvering the edges of his hair, making him look almost otherworldly. he isn’t supposed to be here, in your world, in your life—but he is, always, always finding his way back to you.

“you're insane.” you whisper, glancing toward the locked door of your chambers, every nerve alight with the possibility of being caught despite having done this dance with him a lot of times.

“so stop me.” he challenges, standing too close, breath warm against your skin, eyes dark with something you can’t name.

but you never do.

at nineteen, it becomes something worse—something all-consuming.

it happens in the dead of night, far from the glittering ballrooms and suffocating eyes of court, in a forgotten wing of the palace where the candlelight flickers against aged stone. you shouldn't be here, but then again, neither should he. yet, satoru stands before you, disheveled from the wind, hair messier than usual, his cravat undone like he had run through the city just to reach you. there is something feverish in his expression, something that crackles in the air between you, thick as a storm about to break.

"marry me.” he says, voice hoarse, desperate, the words landing between you like a live wire.

you laugh, light and brittle, because surely this is one of his reckless games, another push to see how far he can take you before you break. “don’t be ridiculous.”

but he doesn’t smile. doesn’t tease.

his gaze darkens, something furious and unrelenting burning behind those godforsaken, summer-sky eyes.

"i’m serious," he says, fingers tightening around your wrist, thumb pressing against the flutter of your pulse. "we could disappear. right now. no titles, no families. just us."

your breath hitches, a treacherous, shaky thing. because the truth is—you want to say yes. want to follow him wherever he leads, want to run until your name is just an echo, until you are nothing but his and he is nothing but yours.

but you can’t.

and satoru gojo is not the type to be denied.

at twenty, it becomes undeniable—you and satoru were never meant to be together.

your fathers made sure of that. your engagement to a foreign prince was inked onto paper, sealed with signatures and handshakes, a carefully calculated move to secure the monarchy’s fragile standing. meanwhile, satoru was no longer just the prime minister’s son; he was the rising sun of the nation, the man poised to inherit an empire built on power, not love.

but neither of you had ever been good at listening.

the breaking point came on the night of your engagement announcement.

the ballroom was suffocating beneath the weight of gold and glass, chandeliers spilling warm light over a sea of carefully curated guests. you stood beside your fiancé—a stranger who held your hand like a possession, like a duty—accepting congratulations with a flawless smile, a mask you had worn since childhood.

and then you felt it.

a gaze that burned hotter than the lights above, pulling at the frayed edges of your resolve.

satoru stood at the far end of the room, silent, still. his presence was a fault line beneath the glittering facade of the ballroom, a quiet promise that everything was about to break. the golden glow of the chandeliers softened nothing—the sharp lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled at his sides as if holding himself back. his expression was unreadable, carved from something colder than you’d ever seen, his usual mirth stripped away, leaving only something raw, something furious beneath the surface. and for the first time in your life, you couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

that terrified you.

you turned away, the weight of his stare pressing against your spine as you moved, each step measured, careful. past the marble pillars, through the gilded archways, down the quiet corridors where the walls didn’t have ears. your breaths came too shallow, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your throat, your hands trembling at your sides. the mask was slipping—cracking at the edges—and you just needed a moment. a moment away from the expectations, the duty, the suffocating weight of a future you never wanted.

but the second you stepped onto the darkened terrace, a hand closed around your wrist and yanked you into the shadows.

“satoru—!”

your gasp barely left your lips before your back hit the cold stone wall, the breath knocked from your lungs. the scent of him wrapped around you—something clean, something sharp, something familiar—and it made you dizzy. moonlight cut through the darkness, slashing across his face, catching the bright, seething blue of his eyes. his grip was firm, almost trembling, fingers pressing into your skin as if convincing himself you were real.

“tell me you don’t love me.”

his voice was low, ragged, the edges fraying with something desperate, something reckless.

you swallowed, your throat dry, your heart a wild thing caged in your ribs. you wanted to say it—to end this before it destroyed you both. but satoru was too close, his breath warm against your cheek, his presence a force of gravity you had never been able to escape.

“tell me,” he repeated, his voice an ache, a command, a plea. “and i’ll let you go.”

you couldn’t.

because you did love him—fiercely, recklessly, in a way that made it impossible to breathe. it wasn’t something delicate or gentle, not something you could tuck away behind locked doors and polite smiles. it was violent, all-consuming, a love that sank its teeth into you and refused to let go. a love that could ruin you, that already had.

his grip tightened, fingers pressing into the delicate bones of your wrist, and you knew he felt the way your pulse stuttered beneath his touch. “run away with me,” he whispered, voice low, raw, a plea wrapped in command. “leave all of this behind.”

for a moment, the world shrank to nothing but him—the way his breath ghosted over your lips, the sharp edge of desperation in his voice, the promise in the way he held you like you were something he would never surrender. like he would burn the world down before letting you go.

it was insanity. you were royalty. he was power itself. the country would burn for it.

but that night, when the palace fell silent and the world believed you were safely asleep in your chambers, you slipped out of bed and pressed your palm against the ornate mirror.

it clicked.

the passage behind it was cold, narrow, the air thick with dust and secrets. it had been there for centuries—an escape route once used by queens in times of war. but to you, it had always been his passage.

satoru had discovered it as a boy, slipping in and out of the palace long before he was supposed to. he had shown it to you when you were twelve, smirking as he dragged you through the hidden tunnels, laughing about how he could steal you away anytime he wanted.

now, years later, you were the one stealing yourself away.

you moved quickly, heart pounding, hands trembling as you pushed open the passage’s final door—out into the night, into the city that had never truly belonged to you. the air was crisp, thick with the scent of rain on pavement, the distant hum of traffic reminding you how far you were from the life you were supposed to be living. you had never been alone here, not really—not without guards, not without duty shackled to your wrists like golden cuffs. but tonight, the city stretched before you, dark and endless, a freedom you had never known how to grasp. and in that vast, unfamiliar quiet, he was waiting.

not at the gates, not where the guards stood watch. no, satoru gojo was leaning against the hood of a brand-new, custom-designed car, sleek and untraceable, its glossy frame catching the glow of the streetlights. his suit jacket was unbuttoned, tie loose around his collar, a portrait of effortless rebellion wrapped in money and recklessness. but it wasn’t the car or his defiant stance that made your breath hitch. it was where he was waiting. the old, abandoned chapel—the one the two of you had found as children, where you had once played pretend, weaving stories of running away, of rewriting fate, before you were old enough to understand how impossible that was. except now, as his sharp gaze found yours across the empty street, you realized he had never stopped believing in it.

“satoru.” you whispered, stepping closer, the word barely more than breath.

he didn’t speak. instead, he reached into his pocket, fingers curling around something small, something that had been weighing him down the entire night. for a moment, he only stared at it, thumb brushing over the edges, hesitant, as if still debating whether to do this—whether to let himself want this. then, with a quiet breath, he flipped open the velvet box, revealing what lay inside.

“marry me.”

your breath caught.

it wasn’t a question. he didn’t kneel, didn’t offer flowery words or grand declarations. he just stood there, holding it out, the blue diamond gleaming in the low light—impossible, priceless, his. he looked at it for another moment, then back at you, as if deciding, as if still waiting for some part of him to pull back.

but he never did.

you stared at him, stunned, breathless, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest like an iron hand. the world outside the chapel was still, the distant hum of the city muffled by the pounding in your ears. satoru stood before you, bathed in silver moonlight, sharp edges and reckless intent carved into his very being. his fingers were curled so tightly around the velvet box that his knuckles turned white, but his smirk—god, that damn smirk—never wavered. it was defiant, cocky, but underneath it, something deeper flickered in the ice of his eyes, something unspoken, something raw. he was waiting for you to understand, to accept that there was no going back after this.

"you said it yourself, didn’t you?” his voice was low, smooth, a blade sharpened with amusement and something darker. his lips curled, something dangerous in the way he looked at you, something wolfish—predatory in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. but his fingers, still gripping the box, betrayed him, tension coiling beneath the surface of his casual defiance. "princesses don’t marry commoners." he let the words settle between you, let them hang in the charged air like an accusation, like a challenge. then he took a step closer, slow and deliberate, gaze never leaving yours.

“so i guess it’s a good thing i’ve never been one.”

your heart slammed against your ribs, a wild, dizzying rhythm that sent heat rushing to your skin. the space between you shrank, the night folding in around the two of you, suffocating in its intensity. you had seen him serious before—calculating, determined, ruthless—but this was different. this was satoru stripped bare of pretense, of politics, of the role he had been born to play. this was him, standing in front of you, asking you to choose him, to burn down everything for him. the realization sent a sharp ache through your chest, twisting something deep inside you.

“you’re insane.” you whispered, but the words lacked conviction, your voice betraying the tremor beneath your carefully constructed walls.

his grin widened, wicked, knowing, a spark of satisfaction lighting up his too-bright eyes. “considering i’m about to whisk away the dearest princess of this country like a big bad wolf," he murmured, tilting his head, watching you through thick lashes, “i guess i am, but you'd let me anyway, won't you?”

he wasn’t wrong.

your fingers tightened around his, around the ring, around the impossible weight of what you were about to do. you didn’t even need to say yes—he already knew. the moment you let him slip that ring onto your finger, something shifted, something irreversible. satoru laughed, breathless, triumphant, his lips brushing against your knuckles, against the cold metal now resting against your skin like a brand. you felt it then—the silent vow, the inevitable destruction, the promise of a future you weren’t meant to have but would take anyway.

“see?” he murmured, lips ghosting just above the lace of your glove, his breath warm against your wrist. “fits perfectly.”

and then he drove—fast, reckless, free.

and you let him, because for the first time in your life, you wanted to be.

a/n : wrote this pretty fast when i was just yapping about it last night because this is what satoru brainrot & ovulation does to an idiot. if you see some errors please do tell & i apologize in advance, i stayed up all night writing this & now i finally get to sleep zzzz

also pls do tell if you are interested in the aftermath, i already have a rough plan on how it will go, just whole domesticity and fluffy stuff (as if he didn't corrupt you into eloping with him but let's not talk about that)

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #gojo x female reader #cross posted on ao3 #reader insert #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo fanfiction #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #jjk oneshot #gojo oneshot #forbidden love #jujutsu kaisen

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elikajinnie · 6 months ago

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Forbidden Taste - L.H

P: Slytherin!Heeseung X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Teasing, Hurt/Comfort, Suggestive Content, Angst, Misunderstandings, Jealousy, Myung Jaehyun Cameo, Incorrect Use Of Amortenia.

Synopsis: You’re not popular at Hogwarts, so why is Lee Heeseung, Slytherin royalty, so intent on having you? You don’t know, and you don’t question it—until jealousy and a pink potion threaten everything.

a/n: WHAT A JOURNEY IT HAS BEEN! Thank you all <3 all the members are now completed! (i changed the plot for this so many times, its insane)

want to read the other members? -> masterlist

You weren’t massively popular at Hogwarts, but people knew you. Not in the way that they’d scream your name in the corridors or seek you out during mealtimes, but enough that when your name came up in conversation, there’d be nods of recognition. Oh, yeah. Decent flyer. Smart enough to keep up in classes, but not obnoxious about it. You built your reputation in small, deliberate ways—early on, too. By the time you hit your third year, you realized it wasn’t just about house points or grades. If you didn’t carve out your place here, Hogwarts could chew you up and spit you out.

So, you made connections. Little alliances. You weren’t a name in bold letters, but you weren’t invisible either. A compliment here, a conversation there. Small, calculated acts of charm to ensure you weren’t just some shadow skulking through the hallways. Yet you never overdid it. Just enough to make sure you wouldn’t be forgotten.

And honestly, that was fine. You had your friends and housemates, the people who mattered to you most. The ones you could collapse with after a particularly grueling Potions lesson or laugh with over Butterbeer-flavored Bertie Bott’s Beans in the common room. It wasn’t the spotlight, but it was enough.

It’s weird how quickly that balance can shift, though. How one incident—one person—can flip everything upside down.

It really was funny—hilarious, even. You had no answer as to why he suddenly latched onto you, why he started pursuing you of all people. Lee fucking Heeseung. One of the most popular Slytherins in his year, practically Hogwarts royalty.

Usually, people would trip over their own feet for the chance to be seen with him. Heeseung had everything: pureblood lineage, one of the best Beaters Hogwarts had seen in years, a face straight out of Witch Weekly's Most Eligible Wizards list, and a charisma that could charm the scales off a dragon. He was smart, too—top of his classes in subjects he actually cared about—and everyone knew his family was filthy rich.

He was the kind of person others orbited around. Someone whose presence turned heads the moment he walked into a room. The kind of guy you were perfectly fine staying away from because people like him didn’t care about people like you. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, he chose you.

All because you ran into him one day.

It wasn’t even that dramatic of an encounter. You were late for Transfiguration, books piled in your arms, hurrying down the corridor like your life depended on it. And then—bam. You’d slammed into what felt like a brick wall. Except brick walls didn’t have arms that steadied you as your books tumbled to the floor, and they definitely didn’t have sharp jawlines and a gaze that pinned you to the spot.

“Sorry!” you’d muttered, scrambling to pick up your books, too flustered to even look him in the eye. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t throw out the kind of snarky insult Slytherins were known for. He just… watched you. And when you dashed off down the corridor, cheeks burning with embarrassment, you thought that was the end of it.

Except it wasn’t.

After that, Heeseung started showing up. Everywhere.

At first, it was subtle. A glance in the Great Hall that lingered too long to be coincidental. A smirk when you passed him in the corridors. Then it escalated. Sitting at your table in the library, asking casually about your Charms essay while his friends shot curious looks your way. Offering to walk you to class, claiming it was “on his way” even when it clearly wasn’t. Stealing a seat beside you in Herbology, leaning closer than necessary to peek at your notes.

It didn’t take long for people to notice. Whispers started following you wherever you went, growing louder with every interaction. Your friends pestered you for answers you didn’t have, and his admirers glared daggers at you from across the room.

And all you could think was, Why? Why you? Out of all the girls fawning over him—purebloods, Quidditch stars, girls far prettier and more polished than you—what on earth made Lee Heeseung decide you were worth his attention?

You tried convincing yourself that it was a joke. Some elaborate Slytherin prank that you’d accidentally wandered into. Any day now, you’d wake up to Heeseung laughing in your face, surrounded by his friends, as he revealed that all of this—every smirk, every casual wave, every time he leaned in close enough for you to catch a whiff of his expensive cologne—was just for his own entertainment.

But the days passed, and the teasing you braced yourself for never came. If anything, Heeseung’s attention only intensified.

“I could help you with that, you know,” he offered one day during a particularly grueling Potions class. You’d been furiously scribbling notes, trying to keep up with Professor Slughorn’s lecture. Heeseung was perched on the edge of your shared table, his hand propping up his chin as he watched you.

“With what?” you asked without looking up, determined not to let his lazy, amused tone fluster you.

“Your notes,” he said, gesturing at your parchment. “Your handwriting’s awful. What if you can’t read it later?”

You shot him a glare, but he just grinned. “I’ll manage,” you said, shoving your notes further away from him for good measure.

Moments like that became your new normal. Heeseung showing up uninvited, weaving himself into your day like he belonged there. Offering to help you study, sneaking your favorite dessert onto your plate in the Great Hall, throwing an arm around your shoulders like you were long-lost friends.

And yet, despite your initial resistance, you found yourself softening. Heeseung wasn’t as insufferable as you’d assumed he’d be. Sure, he was cocky—he wouldn’t be Lee Heeseung if he weren’t—but he also had this disarming charm about him. He listened when you spoke, remembered the little things you mentioned in passing, and had a way of making you laugh when you least expected it.

You acted normal around him—or at least, you tried to. You didn’t show how much he affected you, how your pulse quickened when he leaned in close, the playful smirk on his lips as he talked to you about some trivial thing. You didn’t let it show when he’d take your books without asking, holding them effortlessly with one hand as if they weighed nothing, and you definitely didn’t let him see how your cheeks burned when he casually brushed his fingers against yours as he handed them back.

You didn’t react when he helped you in Potions either, his voice low in your ear as he whispered which ingredients to add next, his breath warm against your skin. Even when your heart stuttered, you kept your face neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much he got under your skin.

And Merlin, did he love to push.

He’d ditch his friends without a second thought, his usual crowd of Slytherins calling after him as he veered off to sit with you instead. You’d hear their muffled complaints from across the room, but Heeseung didn’t seem to care. He’d just flash them that infuriatingly perfect smile—the one that screamed, I know exactly what I’m doing,—and plop down next to you like he’d been there all along.

“Don’t you have other people to bother?” you’d mutter, barely glancing at him as he propped his chin on his hand, watching you with an intensity that made it impossible to focus on anything else.

“Why would I, when you’re so much more interesting?” he’d reply smoothly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a way that sent your stomach into an uninvited freefall.

But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of a blush or a flustered response. Instead, you’d roll your eyes and pretend to be annoyed, even as you caught yourself glancing at him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

The truth was, Heeseung made it harder and harder to ignore him. He wasn’t just persistent—he was thoughtful in ways you didn’t expect. He remembered the tiniest details, like how you hated licorice wands or how you preferred studying in the library’s quieter corners. He went out of his way to make your day just a little easier, sliding your favorite pastries onto your plate at breakfast or swapping out your worn-out quills with brand-new ones from his bag.

It was infuriating. And endearing. And confusing.

Maybe it was the way he always seemed to know when you needed cheering up, or the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, or the way he looked at you—like you were the only person in the room that mattered.

But you weren’t ready to admit it. Not to yourself, and definitely not to him. So, you kept acting normal, pretending like he didn’t affect you as much as he did.

At this point, even your friends couldn’t keep quiet about it. Every time Heeseung walked into a room and made a beeline for you, their eyebrows would raise a little higher. When he’d flash you one of his trademark grins or casually sling an arm around your shoulders, their teasing smirks were impossible to miss.

“So, are you two a thing, or what?” one of your friends finally asked during a late-night study session in the common room.

“No,” you said quickly, maybe a little too quickly, and their skeptical look said it all.

“Well, he certainly thinks you are,” another chimed in, grinning as they flipped through their Charms textbook. “You do realize half the school thinks you’re secretly dating, right?”

You rolled your eyes, brushing it off. “He’s just… like that. It’s probably some sort of game to him.”

But even as you said it, you weren’t so sure. Because if this was a game, Heeseung was playing it far too convincingly.

And then he went and completely blindsided you.

It was after Defense Against the Dark Arts, a class you shared with him. You’d just finished stuffing your notes into your bag, about to make your way to the library, when he appeared beside you, his usual confident grin plastered across his face.

“So,” he started casually, leaning against your desk. “Want to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?”

You froze, blinking at him like you hadn’t heard him properly. “What?”

“Hogsmeade,” he repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You. Me. A date.”

Your brain stuttered at the word. A date?

“You’re joking,” you said, though your voice sounded a little less confident than you would’ve liked.

“I’m not,” he said simply, tilting his head and watching you with that annoyingly earnest expression that made it impossible to tell if he was messing with you.

“I… I can’t,” you stammered, feeling your cheeks grow warm. “I mean, thank you, but I don’t think—”

“Don’t think too hard about it,” he interrupted smoothly, cutting off your attempt at a polite rejection. “I like you. You like me—don’t even try to deny it,” he added quickly, smirking when you opened your mouth to argue. “So why not give it a shot?”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. “Heeseung, I—”

“Before you say no,” he said, leaning in closer, “think about this. What’s the worst that could happen? You have a good time with me? Sounds like a pretty low-risk situation, if you ask me.”

It was infuriating how he made it sound so simple, like agreeing to a date with him wasn’t the most intimidating thing in the world.

“I’m serious, Heeseung,” you said, trying to sound firm. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“And I’m serious,” he countered, his voice dropping slightly. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

The way he said it wasn’t pushy or aggressive—it was confident, certain, like he already knew you were going to say yes eventually. And maybe that’s what threw you off the most.

You glanced at him one last time before turning to leave the classroom, your lips pressed into a tight line.

And of course, he followed.

“Hey, wait!” he called, his voice echoing down the corridor as you walked ahead, refusing to look back.

“I said no, Heeseung,” you said over your shoulder, quickening your pace.

“And I said I’m not taking no for an answer,” he shot back, his footsteps ringing louder as he hurried to catch up with you. “You didn’t even give me a proper reason!”

“I don’t need to give you a reason!” you replied, exasperated, keeping your gaze fixed forward.

But he wasn’t giving up. He was persistent—too persistent. You could hear him muttering under his breath, probably running through a list of arguments to convince you, but before he could get another word out, you heard a loud, unmistakable yelp.

Pausing mid-step, you turned just in time to see Heeseung stumble over a loose stone jutting out of the floor, his arms flailing to keep his balance. He caught himself at the last second, straightening up and brushing off his robes like nothing happened.

“Smooth,” you said, unable to stop the amused quirk of your lips.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he muttered, jogging a few steps to close the distance between you.

But the second he got close, you picked up your pace again, determined not to let him win.

He didn’t stop, though. Heeseung was like a particularly annoying shadow, trailing after you with single-minded determination. Except this shadow seemed to have the worst luck imaginable.

Not five steps later, you heard a startled “Hey, watch it!” from a much shorter Ravenclaw student as Heeseung nearly crashed into them.

“Yeah, yeah! Sorry!” he called over his shoulder, not even slowing down as he kept his focus on you.

You didn’t bother hiding your grin this time, though you kept walking.

And then, just as he was about to catch up again, you saw it—a ghost floating lazily through the corridor ahead.

“Heeseung,” you said without stopping, your tone almost warning.

“What?” he asked, completely oblivious, his gaze fixed on you instead of what was in front of him.

You didn’t answer. You just waited for it to happen.

Sure enough, he strode directly into the ghost—a particularly dramatic one, judging by the loud whoosh and Heeseung’s subsequent startled shiver as he stumbled back.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, swiping at his robes as if it’d help.

“Maybe if you watched where you were going…” you said, finally stopping to face him, arms crossed over your chest as you raised an eyebrow.

He shook his head, his focus snapping back to you almost instantly. “I’ll watch where I’m going when you stop running away from me,” he said, his voice laced with determination.

You rolled your eyes, but before you could turn away again, he stepped closer, this time careful not to trip over anything or crash into anyone.

“Look,” he said, his tone softer now. “I know I’m being persistent. But it’s only because I really want you to say yes. Just one date. That’s all I’m asking. If you hate it, I’ll back off. But I think we’ll have a good time.”

For the first time, you hesitated. There was something about the way he looked at you—earnest, hopeful—that made it hard to brush him off like before. Heeseung wasn’t just being cocky now; he was being sincere. And it was that sincerity that made your resolve waver.

“One date,” he repeated, holding your gaze. “What do you say?”

You sighed, stopping long enough to turn and face him properly. His eyes were wide, his expression almost pleading but still holding that annoying confidence that made him, well, Heeseung.

“Fine,” you said, crossing your arms. “One date. But if I don’t enjoy it, that’s it. No more asking, no more following me around, no more…” You gestured vaguely toward him, “…whatever this is.”

His face broke into a grin so smug and victorious that you instantly regretted agreeing.

“Deal,” he said without hesitation. “But don’t worry, you’re going to love it.”

“Don’t push your luck,” you muttered, but the way his grin grew wider told you he’d already won this round.

“Alright, then,” he said, taking a step closer. Too close. You could feel the faintest brush of his robes against yours as he leaned in. “This Saturday, Three Broomsticks. Noon. I’ll even buy you Butterbeer.”

“Wow, how generous of you,” you deadpanned, but your heart was doing that annoying fluttering thing again.

“You’ll see,” he said, his voice dropping lower, teasing. “I’m full of surprises.”

Before you could fire back a snarky response, his hands moved, one settling on your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath hitched.

You weren’t sure what he was saying—something about how the Three Broomsticks had the best treacle tart, or maybe how he’d already booked a spot with Madam Rosmerta—but the words blurred in your head. All you could focus on was his hand, warm and firm, holding you in place. And his body, so close to yours that you could feel the faint heat radiating off him.

Your mind raced, trying to decide if you should pull away or just let him keep talking.

“…don’t tell me you’ve never tried the cinnamon hot chocolate there,” he said, his lips curving into another grin.

“What?” you blurted, blinking up at him, trying to drag your attention back to his actual words.

He chuckled, the sound low and soft, and you hated how it made your stomach flip.

“You weren’t even listening,” he teased, his thumb brushing lightly against your waist before he pulled back, giving you just enough space to breathe again.

“Maybe if you weren’t so close, I’d be able to concentrate,” you shot back, though your voice came out a little weaker than you’d intended.

Heeseung didn’t look fazed. If anything, he looked even more pleased with himself, like he knew exactly how flustered you were and wasn’t planning to let you forget it anytime soon.

“Guess I’ll have to tell you on our date, then,” he said, stepping back fully now, his smirk still firmly in place.

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks burned as you turned away, determined not to let him see just how much he was getting to you.

“Saturday,” he called after you as you started walking again, his tone light and cheerful. “Don’t forget!”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t need to. The truth was, no matter how much you tried to deny it, you knew you wouldn’t forget. Not with the way your heart was still racing.

Saturday came faster than you expected, and by the time you were standing in front of the Three Broomsticks, you were already second-guessing your decision. Why did you agree to this again? Oh, right—because Heeseung was annoyingly persistent, and some traitorous part of you was curious to see what a date with him would actually be like.

You adjusted your scarf, the chill of the winter air biting at your cheeks. The sound of chatter and clinking glasses spilled out of the tavern, and for a brief moment, you considered turning around and pretending you’d forgotten. But before you could so much as take a step back, a familiar voice called out behind you.

“You’re early.”

You turned to see Heeseung approaching, dressed in his usual green-and-silver scarf, his black coat tailored perfectly to him. His hair was slightly tousled from the wind, and he wore that same confident smile that made your stomach twist in ways you wished it wouldn’t.

“I’m on time,” you corrected, crossing your arms.

“Early, on time—same thing,” he said, coming to a stop in front of you. His eyes scanned you briefly, and for a second, you thought you saw something softer in his expression. “You look good.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you immediately regretted your decision to wear something classy. “Don’t start,” you muttered, brushing past him toward the door.

He laughed, catching up to you easily. “What? It’s a compliment!”

“Yeah, yeah.” You pushed open the door, grateful for the wave of warmth that greeted you as you stepped inside.

The Three Broomsticks was busy, as it always was on weekends, but Heeseung didn’t seem the least bit fazed. He waved to Madam Rosmerta, who greeted him like they were old friends, and led you to a small table near the window that had somehow been left open.

“See?” he said, pulling out a chair for you. “Perfect spot.”

You hesitated for a moment before sitting down, mumbling a quiet, “Thanks,” as he slid into the seat across from you.

For a few moments, it was quiet—well, as quiet as it could be in the bustling tavern. You busied yourself with looking out the window, watching as students milled about in the snow-covered streets of Hogsmeade.

“So,” Heeseung said, breaking the silence. “What’s your go-to order here?”

You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you care?”

“Because,” he said with a grin, leaning forward slightly, “I want to make sure you actually enjoy this date. Remember? You said if you didn’t, I couldn’t ask again.”

“Still sticking to that, by the way,” you reminded him.

“Noted,” he said, looking far too amused for your liking. “But I’m confident you’ll have a good time.”

“Of course you are,” you muttered, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

You ended up ordering Butterbeer and treacle tart—not because you particularly wanted it, but because he wouldn’t stop raving about it earlier that week.

When the drinks and food arrived, the conversation started off slow, but much to your surprise, it wasn’t awkward. Heeseung had a way of keeping things light and entertaining.

And, annoyingly, he kept making you laugh.

After you finished at the Three Broomsticks, Heeseung didn’t let the day end there. Instead, he insisted on taking you around Hogsmeade, claiming it was his duty to make sure you had the full experience.

“This isn’t my first time here, you know,” you said as he led you down the cobblestone streets, passing shop after shop.

“Yeah, but it’s your first time here with me,” he countered, flashing you that same cocky grin that had you rolling your eyes for the tenth time that day.

Still, you didn’t protest when he pulled you into Honeydukes, pointing out his favorite candies and piling a small bag with sweets you hadn’t even asked for. “It’s on me,” he said when you tried to argue, waving you off like it was nothing.

Next, he dragged you to Zonko’s, where he spent far too much time marveling over the prank items and showing you his favorites with the enthusiasm of a first-year discovering the place for the first time. You couldn’t help but smile as he rattled off stories of the chaos he’d caused with them in the Slytherin common room.

And then, just as you were debating whether or not to call it a day, it started snowing.

Soft, delicate flakes drifted down from the sky, blanketing the streets and rooftops in a thin layer of white. The air grew quieter, the hustle and bustle of Hogsmeade fading into the background as people paused to take in the sight.

You stopped walking, tilting your head back slightly to watch the snow fall. For a moment, you forgot about Heeseung entirely, your mind quieting as you focused on the tiny snowflakes melting against your skin.

When you finally looked back at him, he was staring at you.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He didn’t answer right away, his eyes soft as they searched your face. Finally, he said, “You.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What about me?”

“You’re just…” He trailed off, taking a step closer. His voice was quieter now, more serious. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

Your breath caught in your throat, and before you could even think of how to respond, he closed the space between you, his hand gently reaching for your scarf.

You stood frozen as he adjusted it carefully, his fingers brushing against your neck as he tightened it slightly to block out the cold. His touch was warm, his movements unhurried, and when he was finished, his hands lingered for just a second longer than necessary.

“There,” he said softly, his gaze meeting yours again. “Wouldn’t want you catching a cold.”

You felt your cheeks grow warm, and it wasn’t from the weather. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but your voice lacked its usual bite.

“And yet, you’re still here with me,” he teased, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You didn’t respond, turning your gaze back to the falling snow. But as Heeseung slipped his hand into yours, giving it a gentle squeeze, you didn’t pull away, cause you didn’t feel the need to fight him.

The rest of the walk through Hogsmeade passed in a comfortable silence, your hands still entwined as the snow continued to fall around you. You didn’t know how Heeseung managed to make it feel so… easy. Like holding hands with him was something you’d been doing for years. Like the tension that had built between you over the past weeks had melted away as quickly as the snowflakes on his coat.

He led you to the outskirts of the village, where the streets grew quieter, and the noise of other students faded into the background. The path was lined with trees dusted in white, their bare branches glistening under the faint light of the afternoon sun.

“It’s nice out here,” you murmured, your breath visible in the crisp air.

“Yeah,” Heeseung said, but when you glanced at him, you realized he wasn’t looking at the trees or the snow-covered landscape. He was looking at you again.

“What?” you asked, your voice softer now, a little less defensive.

He shrugged, his lips curling into that small, genuine smile you were starting to recognize—the one he didn’t use often, the one that wasn’t for show. “Nothing. Just… you seem different today.”

“Different?”

“Yeah,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly against the back of your hand. “Less scary.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “I’m not scary.”

“Tell that to everyone else who’s too afraid to talk to you.”

“Maybe I just don’t like wasting my time,” you said, smirking up at him.

“Well, lucky me, then,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You must think I’m worth it.”

Before you could say anything, though, he stopped walking, turning to face you fully. His free hand reached up to brush a stray snowflake from your hair, and you froze at the tenderness of the gesture.

“You’re really something, you know that?” he said, his voice low, his gaze steady on yours.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “You keep saying things like that,” you mumbled, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.

“Because I mean it,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And then, before you could overthink it, he leaned in—not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t.

The kiss was soft, warm, and fleeting, like a snowflake landing on your lips and melting before you could fully feel it. When he pulled back, his face was close enough that you could still feel his breath against your skin.

“I’ll take that as a yes to a second date,” he murmured, his tone teasing but his eyes holding that same sincerity that had caught you off guard from the start.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just rolled your eyes and tugged him along, back toward the village.

But the small smile on your face told him everything he needed to know.

As you and Heeseung continued down the snowy path, oblivious to everything else around you, neither of you noticed the three figures hidden just out of sight, watching your every move. They stood together, concealed by the shadow of the trees, their eyes trained on the way you and Heeseung interacted, the way your hands fit together so naturally.

It didn’t take long for the bitterness to fester. One of them, a girl with dark brown hair and a scowl that could cut glass, clenched her fists at her sides, watching the way Heeseung smiled at you, how easily he made you laugh.

"Of course she’s with him," she muttered under her breath, her voice laced with venom. "She always has to go after what’s not hers."

Beside her, another figure—taller, with blonde hair—narrowed her eyes at the scene. "We’ve all been trying for years. Why her? What makes her so special?" Her voice was low, barely controlled, and her gaze burned with resentment.

The third figure, a quieter one, with sharp eyes and a calculating expression, stood back, observing the situation silently. She was still for a moment before she spoke, her voice calm but filled with hidden malice. "Maybe it's time we remind him who belongs by his side."

The girl with the dark hair stepped forward, fists still clenched, the fire in her eyes growing. "Let’s see if we can’t change his mind."

They lingered in the shadows, watching as Heeseung pulled you closer, speaking in soft tones that made your smile widen. The sight of the two of you together twisted in their hearts, their jealousy and rage bubbling over. They knew that this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

None of you could have predicted what would happen next.

The next few days were a blur of contentment. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been this happy, or this at ease. Heeseung had truly surpassed every expectation you’d set for him. He was everything you didn’t know you needed in a boyfriend—gentle when you were stressed, confident when you were unsure, and always there to make you smile, even on your worst days.

When you studied together in the library, he’d always find ways to make learning feel less like a chore. Whether it was cracking jokes during boring Potions readings or helping you with Transfiguration, his presence made even the most tedious subjects bearable. And when you were working on homework together in the common room, you’d catch him looking over at you, that amused glint in his eye as if he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have you.

You’d even gone to his Quidditch match that weekend, which turned into one of the most exciting games you’d ever watched. Heeseung had played brilliantly, his focus unshakable as he zoomed around the pitch, expertly dodging Bludgers and scoring goal after goal.

When the match ended, with Slytherin emerging victorious, Heeseung found you in the stands, grinning widely as he jogged over to you.

“Good game?” you teased, unable to contain the excitement in your voice.

Heeseung shrugged, feigning modesty. "You know, I couldn’t have done it without my good luck charm."

Your heart fluttered as he slipped his Slytherin Quidditch jersey over your head, his hands lingering on your shoulders just a little longer than necessary. "This is for you," he said, his voice low but playful. “You made me win.”

You blinked, looking down at the jersey, which was too big for you but somehow made you feel like you were wearing a piece of him. “I didn’t do anything—”

“Yeah, but you were there," he interrupted, his fingers lightly brushing your cheek as he grinned. “That’s all I needed.”

But Heeseung had one problem—he never knew when to stop kissing. An innocent kiss shared with you would quickly turn into something far more passionate, the kind of kiss that left you breathless, with your heart racing in your chest. His lips would press against yours, and before you knew it, he’d pull you even closer, deepening the kiss with a soft but urgent intensity.

His hands would find their way to your waist, tugging gently as he pulled you closer, and you couldn’t help but melt into him. His kisses weren’t just kisses—they were all-consuming, leaving you dizzy.

It wasn’t long before his hair would become messy, stray locks falling into his eyes as he kissed you with that playful but determined energy. By the time you pulled apart, your lips would be sore, swollen from his insistence. And your neck? Covered with small, dark marks—hickeys left behind as reminders of every moment he couldn’t quite control himself around you.

But the world wasn’t fair to you.

One day, everything changed. You had walked up to Heeseung, as you did every day, eager to see him after class, to share a laugh, maybe steal a quick kiss. But when you rounded the corner, you froze.

There, in the hallway, Heeseung was kissing a Slytherin girl—her hands tangled in his hair, his arms wrapped around her in a way that was so familiar, so intimate, that it felt like a punch to your chest.

Your breath caught in your throat, your body frozen in place, as you watched the scene unfold in front of you. The warmth of his kisses, the tenderness you thought was reserved for you, was now being given to someone else.

And when Heeseung finally pulled away from her, noticing you standing there, your heart shattered.

He didn’t even look surprised to see you. His eyes met yours, cold and indifferent. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice flat.

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t breathe. You felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath you, leaving you dangling in the air, completely lost.

Then, the words you never expected to hear came tumbling from his mouth.

“I never had feelings for you,” he said, his tone casual, almost dismissive. “I never loved you.”

Your world tilted. The person you had trusted, the one who had made you feel special, had never felt the same. All those moments meant nothing. They were nothing but lies.

The pain surged through you like a tidal wave. You felt your chest constrict, your eyes stinging with the heat of unshed tears. Your voice broke as you screamed at him, “How could you? After everything?!”

But it didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

The girl with him—her smirk stretched wide, malicious and triumphant—stepped closer to Heeseung, hanging off his arm like she had every right to be there. Her eyes flicked to you, cold and triumphant, as if she reveled in your pain.

You didn’t even recognize the version of Heeseung standing before you. The boy you thought you knew—the one who had held you like you were everything to him—was gone. In his place was someone who didn’t care at all.

You turned on your heel, running away before the tears could spill. Your heart was breaking with every step, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look back at him, at them. You didn’t want to see the cruel smirk on her face, or the emptiness in his eyes.

You were heartbroken, yes, but beneath the sorrow was a rising tide of anger—burning, raw, and uncontrollable. How could Heeseung break your heart like that? After everything, after acting like you were the only woman in his life, like you were the one he couldn’t live without?

The memories played on a loop in your mind, tormenting you. The way he would pull you close and whisper that you were perfect for him. The way he’d laugh at your jokes, even the bad ones, and say that you made his days better.

It had all been a lie.

You paced the empty corridor, your thoughts spiraling into a storm of hurt and rage. Your fists clenched at your sides as tears streaked down your face. You wanted to scream, to cry, to find him and demand answers. How could someone who seemed so perfect turn out to be so cruel?

The image of him kissing that girl was seared into your mind, taunting you. The way she had smirked at you, so smug and triumphant, like she’d won some twisted game. The way Heeseung had looked at you—not with the warmth and love you were used to, but with indifference, as if you had been nothing but a fleeting amusement.

The days after that were some of the hardest you’d ever endured. You refused to let Heeseung see how much he had broken you, refused to let him or anyone else know how deeply his betrayal had cut. Instead, you buried your pain beneath a carefully crafted mask. You laughed with your friends, answered questions in class, and even managed to pull off smiles in the Great Hall. To everyone else, it was like nothing had happened.

But when you were alone, the mask slipped, and the weight of it all came crashing down. The nights were the worst, when you lay in bed replaying the moment over and over, like a cruel, inescapable nightmare. The sound of his words—I never loved you—echoed in your mind, shredding your heart all over again.

One afternoon, during Potions class, the pain overwhelmed you. Heeseung had walked in, all casual as if nothing had happened. He didn’t look your way—not even once—but that didn’t stop the memory of his betrayal from stabbing at your chest.

Your hands shook as you measured out ingredients for your potion, your vision blurring as hot tears threatened to spill. You couldn’t take it anymore. Quietly excusing yourself, you fled the classroom, muttering something about needing the restroom before anyone could stop you.

The moment you stepped into the dimly lit bathroom, the tears you’d been holding back came rushing out. You leaned against the sink, gripping the edges tightly as sobs wracked your body.

You didn’t even notice Moaning Myrtle until her soft voice broke through your cries.

“Rough day?”

Startled, you looked up, your tear-streaked face meeting the ghost’s translucent figure. She was floating by one of the sinks, her usual pout replaced with something almost... sympathetic.

You sniffled, quickly wiping your face. “Sorry, Myrtle. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Myrtle shook her head, hovering closer. “You’re not disturbing me,” she said quietly. “I know what it’s like to cry in here. To feel... forgotten.”

Her words hit you harder than you expected. For once, she wasn’t mocking you or complaining about her own misfortunes. She was just... there, watching you with a sadness in her ghostly eyes that mirrored your own pain.

“I just don’t get it,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “How could someone say they cared and then... and then throw it all away like it meant nothing?”

Myrtle tilted her head, her gaze softening even more. “Boys are awful,” she said matter-of-factly, her tone holding a mix of understanding and bitterness. “They make you feel special, and then they break you."

You let out a shaky laugh, though it was more bitter than anything else. “Yeah, well, he’s the worst of them.”

Myrtle floated closer, hovering just beside you as you leaned over the sink, your tears falling freely now,and she stayed there, silently watching as you poured your heart out in the empty bathroom.

When you finally wiped your face and straightened up, Myrtle gave you a small, sad smile. “He’s not worth it,” she said softly.

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak, and with a final glance at your tear-streaked reflection, you left the bathroom.

You kept watching hopelessly as Heeseung changed right before your eyes. Despite being a Slytherin, he’d always been different—sharp, confident, but never cruel. He treated others with respect, even when it wasn’t expected of him, and it was one of the reasons people gravitated toward him so easily.

But now… now he wasn’t the same.

You started noticing it in small things at first. He’d snap at younger students who accidentally got in his way, barking out insults that made their faces crumple in embarrassment. He’d push past others in the corridors with an air of arrogance that felt alien, not sparing them a glance or apology.

Then, it became more deliberate. In Potions, you overheard him taunting a Gryffindor girl for botching her assignment, his words dripping with disdain. During Quidditch practice, he shouted at his teammates with a venom you’d never seen before, his frustration palpable even from the stands.

It didn’t just confuse you—it confused everyone.

Heeseung had always been popular, not just because of his looks or his Quidditch skills, but because he was charismatic. He had a way of making others feel comfortable, seen, and valued, even if they weren’t in his social circle. But now, that warmth was gone.

You overheard students whispering about him. “What’s gotten into Heeseung?” one Ravenclaw asked her friend as they passed you in the hallway. “He’s acting like a total git lately.”

“I know,” her friend agreed. “He’s not like this. It’s so weird.”

And it was weird. Heeseung wasn’t like this. He wasn’t the type to knock books out of a first-year’s hands and keep walking, or to purposely humiliate someone in front of their peers just to get a laugh. But that was exactly what he was doing now, and every time you saw it, you felt that ache in your chest grow deeper.

What had changed?

You wanted to convince yourself it didn’t matter anymore. He wasn’t your problem. He had made that clear when he kissed someone else and shattered your heart in the process. But as much as you tried to turn a blind eye, you couldn’t.

This wasn’t just about you anymore.

Heeseung’s behavior was affecting everyone, and the boy who had once made you laugh until your sides hurt was now someone you barely recognized. Watching him spiral like this hurt more than you cared to admit.

But the question remained: why? What had turned him into this unknown version of himself?

The answer to that question was revealed to you one day, completely by accident.

You were on your way to your common room, distracted as you dug through your bag, mentally ticking off the homework you still had to finish. You weren’t paying attention to your surroundings, not until someone grabbed your arm and yanked you into an empty classroom.

You yelped, stumbling as you turned to face your captor. “What the—”

A Slytherin girl stood before you, her wide eyes darting nervously toward the door, as though she was afraid of being followed or heard. She placed a finger to her lips, hushing you before you could finish your sentence.

“What is your problem?” you hissed, yanking your arm out of her grip.

“Shh!” she insisted, glancing toward the corridor one last time before shutting the door behind her. Her actions were suspicious, like she was about to do something she wasn’t supposed to.

You crossed your arms, glaring at her. “Care to explain why you just dragged me in here?”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You’re Heeseung`s girlfriend.”

The mention of his name immediately sent a pang through your chest, but you held your ground. “Was,” you corrected sharply. “Not anymore.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Look, I don’t have a lot of time, so just listen. Heeseung’s not himself.”

You frowned, your skepticism evident. “I’m aware of that. Thanks for pointing out the obvious.”

“No, you don’t get it.” She leaned in, her expression serious. “He’s not himself because he’s under the influence of Amortentia.”

The words hit you like a slap, leaving you momentarily speechless. “What?”

She nodded, her voice urgent now. “That girl—Yoonhee—she’s been dosing him with Amortentia for weeks. That’s why he’s been acting so different.”

Your heart raced as you processed her words, disbelief swirling in your mind. “You’re lying,” you said, your voice trembling. “Why would she do that?”

The Slytherin girl let out a humorless laugh. “Why do you think? She wanted him, and she didn’t care how she got him. But it’s not just about making him fall for her. She’s using the potion to influence him, to turn him into someone else. She’s controlling him, and you’ve seen the result.”

Your mind reeled as the pieces began to fall into place. The sudden change in Heeseung’s personality, the cruelty, the way he’d dismissed you so coldly—all of it made a sick kind of sense now.

“She’s dangerous,” the girl continued. “And if someone doesn’t stop her, Heeseung’s going to be completely lost.”

You stared at her, your emotions a whirlwind of anger, confusion, and disbelief. “Why are you telling me this?”

She hesitated, guilt flashing in her eyes. “Because it’s wrong. I thought about staying out of it, but Heeseung doesn’t deserve this. And... neither do you.”

Your fists clenched at your sides as rage surged through you. The betrayal you had felt from Heeseung was now redirected toward Yoonhee, the girl who had manipulated him, stolen his free will, and shattered your heart in the process.

If this was true, then Yoonhee had taken everything from you—and from him.

You took a deep breath, meeting the girl’s gaze. “How do I stop her?”

The Slytherin girl’s lips pressed into a thin line before she said, “I’ll help you, but we have to act fast. The longer she keeps him under her control, the harder it’ll be to break him free.”

You suddenly narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms. “And how do I know I can trust you?”

She sighed, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “Look, I get why you’d be suspicious, but I don’t have anything to gain from this. I’m only telling you because…” She hesitated, looking almost embarrassed before continuing. “Because I’ve seen how Heeseung was with you. And then I’ve seen him with Yoonhee. And it’s not the same.”

Her voice softened as she spoke, her gaze meeting yours. “What you and Heeseung had—it was real. It was... cute, even. He was different when he was with you. Like he couldn’t stop looking at you, like you were the only thing that mattered. I swear, he practically had hearts in his eyes whenever you were around.”

Your heart clenched at her words, the image of Heeseung’s affectionate smile flashing in your mind.

“But with Yoonhee?” she continued, her tone sharp. “It’s fake. Everything about it feels wrong. He doesn’t look at her the way he looked at you. There’s no warmth, no care. It’s like... like he’s just going through the motions, like a puppet on strings. And the way she parades him around, acting like she owns him—it’s sick.”

Her voice grew quieter, tinged with guilt. “I should have said something sooner. I should’ve stopped it when I first realized what she was doing. But I didn’t, and now things have gone too far. I just... I couldn’t keep watching it anymore.”

You studied her face, searching for any sign of deception, but all you saw was genuine regret.

“You really think what we had was real?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded firmly. “I know it was. Anyone with eyes could see it. Heeseung doesn’t look at anyone the way he looked at you. And if you still care about him, even after everything, then you need to help him. Because what Yoonhee’s doing? It’s not love. It’s control. And it’s destroying him.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded. “Okay. I’ll help. But if this turns out to be some kind of trick…”

“It’s not,” she said quickly, her eyes steady and resolute. “I promise.”

“Good,” you said, squaring your shoulders. “Because if she thinks she can get away with this, she’s dead wrong.”

After speaking with Hyejin who had revealed everything—you went straight to the library, your mind set on one thing: finding an antidote to Amortentia.

You scoured the shelves, your fingers brushing over the spines of dusty Potions books, each title longer and more complicated than the last. "Advanced Alchemical Properties of Magical Infusions," "The Elusive Art of Potionmaking," "Rare Remedies and Their Applications"—none of them seemed to promise the straightforward answers you were hoping for.

Potions had never been your strong suit, and as you flipped through yet another heavy tome filled with convoluted instructions and obscure ingredients, you groaned in frustration.

Why did Potions have to be so complicated? Couldn’t it be more like Herbology—straightforward, clear, and easy to follow? You were confident you could have whipped up a solution in no time if that were the case. But instead, you were drowning in endless jargon about precise stirring techniques, moon phase timings, and ingredient substitutions.

And the worst part? Heeseung had always been the one to help you when Potions overwhelmed you. His natural skill in the subject had been your saving grace more times than you could count, and the irony wasn’t lost on you that now, when you needed help the most, he was the one you were trying to save.

After what felt like hours of fruitless searching, you let out another groan, slamming the book in front of you shut. “Why are there so many books on Potions?” you muttered under your breath. “Why can’t this be simple? Just a page with ‘Amortentia antidote’ in big bold letters—how hard would that be?”

You stared at the pile of books in front of you, exhaustion creeping in as you realized just how out of your depth you were. You needed help, and you needed it fast. But who could you turn to? Heeseung was out of the question, and you didn’t trust Hyejin enough to rely on her completely.

You racked your brain, thinking of anyone who might have the skill and knowledge to guide you. Your mind flashed to someone unexpected—someone you hadn’t considered at first but who might be your best shot.

Professor Slughorn.

He wasn’t exactly your favorite teacher, but he was an expert in Potions, and if anyone could point you in the right direction, it was him. The problem was convincing him to help without spilling the entire truth. After all, you couldn’t exactly admit that a student was brewing and using Amortentia without risking expulsion for everyone involved.

Still, you didn’t have many options. If you couldn’t find the answer here, then you’d have to take the risk and ask for guidance.

You were just about to leave the library, your mind still swirling with frustration, when you collided with someone. The impact sent you stumbling back a step, your bag nearly slipping from your shoulder.

“Oh! Sorry about that!” you said quickly, steadying yourself.

“No, no, it’s my fault,” the other person replied, their voice warm and apologetic.

When you looked up, you were surprised to find yourself face-to-face with Myung Jaehyun, a Gryffindor student. You didn’t know him particularly well, but you knew of him—he had a reputation for excelling in Potions, often earning praise from Professor Slughorn.

The proverbial light bulb practically lit up over your head as an idea struck you. Jaehyun could help.

You smiled, stepping closer to him, which made Jaehyun’s cheeks flush slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze for a moment. “Um... something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” you said, your tone light and friendly. “Actually, I was just thinking... you’re good at Potions, right?”

He nodded. “I guess? I mean, yeah, I’ve always done well in class. Why?”

“Well,” you said slowly, leaning in slightly, “I was wondering if you could help me with something. It’s just a tiny matter, really.”

Jaehyun blinked, clearly intrigued. “Uh, sure. What do you need?”

“I’m looking for a book,” you explained. “One that has information about antidotes for Amortentia.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Amortentia?”

You nodded, trying to keep your expression casual. “Yeah. I, uh... just need to look up something for a project.”

Jaehyun seemed to consider this for a moment before his face lit up. “Oh! I know exactly what you need.” He walked over to a nearby shelf, scanning the rows of books with practiced ease before pulling one out. He handed it to you, flipping it open to the right chapter. “Here. Chapter 14, page 237. It has a detailed section on love potions.”

You took the book from him, relief flooding through you. “Thank you so much, Jaehyun. This is exactly what I needed.”

Jaehyun hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat. “If you want... I could help you with the brewing process. It’s tricky, and, well, I’ve done similar antidotes before.”

You practically jumped at the offer, your enthusiasm catching him off guard. “Really? You’d help me?”

“Of course,” he said, smiling shyly. “When do you want to start?”

“As soon as possible,” you said quickly. “This is kind of... urgent.”

“Alright,” Jaehyun agreed, his smile growing more confident. “Let’s meet in the Potions classroom after dinner. I’ll bring the ingredients we’ll need.”

You nodded, clutching the book tightly. “Thank you, Jaehyun. Really. You’re a lifesaver.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again, his blush returning. “It’s no problem. I’m happy to help.”

With a grateful smile, you hurried out of the library. You finally had a plan—and someone to help you execute it.

After dinner, you made your way to the Potions classroom, your nerves buzzing. As you stepped inside, you saw Jaehyun already at one of the workbenches, his sleeves rolled up and his hands deftly working.

When he noticed you, he offered a small smile and gestured for you to sit next to him.

“You’re early,” you said, setting your bag down on the bench.

“Wanted to get a head start,” Jaehyun replied, his voice warm. “I figured the quicker we get this done, the better.”

You nodded, settling into the chair beside him. As you looked around the dimly lit classroom, a thought occurred to you. “Is it even okay for us to be here after class hours?”

Jaehyun chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Don’t worry. Professor Slughorn lets me stay after hours pretty often. He says it’s good-spirited of me to practice brewing and experiment.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Good-spirited, huh? That’s... surprisingly nice of him.”

Jaehyun shrugged, still focused on grinding the ingredients in front of him. “He’s not so bad. As long as you don’t blow up the classroom, he’s pretty lenient.”

You laughed lightly at that, feeling a bit of the tension in your chest ease. As Jaehyun began measuring out a vial of liquid and carefully adding it to the cauldron, you watched him work.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you asked, not wanting to just sit idly.

He glanced at you, his eyes crinkling slightly in a smile. “Sure. Can you chop those gurdyroots? They need to be sliced thinly—about this size.” He held up a perfectly cut piece as an example.

“Got it,” you said, grabbing a knife and the roots. You carefully started cutting, doing your best to match the size Jaehyun had shown you.

Occasionally, Jaehyun would give you instructions or correct something you were doing, his tone always patient and encouraging.

“You’re doing great,” he said at one point, glancing over at your neatly sliced gurdyroots. “I might have to recruit you as my brewing partner from now on.”

You snorted. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself. Potions and I have a... complicated relationship.”

Jaehyun laughed, his warm, boyish chuckle filling the room. “Well, you’re doing fine tonight. Just keep that up.”

The antidote was slowly coming together, the cauldron emitting a faint shimmer as the ingredients combined.

“Do you think this will work?” you asked softly after a while, watching the potion swirl in the cauldron.

Jaehyun looked at you, his expression serious yet kind. “If we follow the instructions exactly, it should. Potions like this are tricky, but I’m confident we can pull it off. And if something goes wrong, we’ll try again.”

His reassurance eased some of your worry, and you nodded. “Thank you, Jaehyun. I mean it. You didn’t have to help me, but you are.”

He shrugged modestly, his cheeks tinged pink. “It’s nothing. Besides, it’s kind of nice working on something like this with someone else for a change.”

You smiled at that, feeling a bit lighter for the first time in days.

After some time the potion was finally done. The cauldron shimmered with a silvery glow, and Jaehyun carefully ladled some of the antidote into a small flask. He corked it tightly and handed it to you, his smile warm but cautious.

“Here,” he said, placing it gently in your hands.

You stared at the flask, relief flooding through you. “Thank you, Jaehyun,” you said, looking up at him with a grateful smile. Without thinking, you leaned in and hugged him tightly.

Jaehyun stiffened for a moment, clearly caught off guard, but quickly relaxed and awkwardly patted your back. “You don’t have to thank me. Really.”

“I do,” you said, pulling back and clutching the flask to your chest. “I owe you one. Big time.”

Before he could respond, you turned and hurried out of the classroom, determination burning in your chest.

The Great Hall was buzzing with the usual hum of students talking and studying. You scanned the room until your eyes landed on Hyejin, sitting at a corner table with books and parchment spread out in front of her. She looked like she was drowning in notes, a quill tucked behind her ear as she scribbled furiously.

You approached her, sliding into the seat across from her. She glanced up, her brow furrowed in confusion until she saw the flask in your hand.

“You’ve got it?” she asked, her eyes widening slightly.

You nodded, setting the flask on the table between you. “I’ve got the solution. Literally.”

Hyejin’s tense expression softened, and she let out a small sigh of relief. “That’s good. Really good.”

You noticed her Herbology textbook then, along with her chaotic notes. The scribbled diagrams of plants and ingredients were barely legible, and she had several crossed-out answers on her parchment. She caught you looking and groaned, slumping back in her chair.

“Don’t judge me. Herbology is not my strong suit,” she muttered, rubbing her temples.

“Do you need help?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Hyejin gave a humorless laugh. “Desperately. Professor Sprout’s quizzes are impossible, and if I don’t pass the next one, I’m doomed.”

Smiling, you reached into your bag and pulled out your own Herbology notes. “Here. These might help.”

Her eyes widened as she saw the neat, color-coded pages you laid in front of her. “Oh my God, you’re an angel,” she said dramatically, grabbing them like they were a lifeline.

You laughed, leaning over to point out some of the key points. “Okay, this section on Venomous Tentacula—just remember that its sap is only dangerous when exposed to direct sunlight. Write that down.”

“Thank you,” Hyejin said softly after a while, looking up from her notes. “For this. And... for everything else.”

“You’ve already done plenty to help me,” you replied with a small smile. “It’s the least I can do.”

The next day, you sat on your bed, nervously fiddling with the hem of your robes. The weight of what was about to happen pressed heavily on your chest. You had given the antidote to Hyejin that morning, entrusting her with the task of breaking the spell that had bound Heeseung to Yoonhee. She’d reassured you with a confident smile that she could slip the potion into his drink during lunch, all without raising suspicion.

You could have been there yourself to witness it. You could have stood nearby, watching from the shadows to make sure everything went as planned. But the truth was, you were scared—terrified, even.

You couldn’t face Heeseung. Not now. Not after everything that had happened. What if the antidote didn’t work? What if he still didn’t feel anything for you, even after the spell was broken? What if... what if he hated you?

The thoughts spiraled in your mind as you sat there, staring at the wall of your dormitory. You felt ridiculous for being so anxious, but the idea of seeing him again, of looking into his eyes and not knowing what you’d find there, was almost too much to bear.

So you’d chosen to wait. To stay here, in the safety of your room, and let Hyejin handle it. She’d promised to relay everything to you afterward, and you trusted her.

A soft knock at the door startled you out of your thoughts.

“It’s just me,” your roommate said, poking her head inside. “You okay? You’ve been in here all morning.”

You nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just... not feeling great today. I think I’ll skip lunch.”

She gave you a sympathetic look before leaving, and you sighed in relief once the door closed again.

The waiting was unbearable. Minutes felt like hours as you sat there, your mind playing out every possible scenario. You tried to distract yourself by flipping through a book, but the words blurred together on the page.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, there was a knock at the door again—this time more urgent.

You jumped up, your heart racing as you opened it to find Hyejin standing there, slightly out of breath.

“It’s done,” she said simply, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.

You stared at her, your throat suddenly dry. “And? Did it work?”

Hyejin nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It worked. I saw it in his eyes the moment the potion broke. Heeseung... he looked so confused at first, like he didn’t know where he was or what was happening. But then Yoonhee tried to cling to him, and he pushed her away.”

Your breath hitched. “He did?”

“Yeah. And he asked her what she’d done to him. She tried to play innocent, but you could tell she was panicking. I don’t think anyone else noticed—it wasn’t exactly a scene—but Heeseung wasn’t buying her act. He left pretty quickly after that, though. I think he needed time to process everything.”

You sank back onto your bed, your mind reeling. Relief, hope, and dread all swirled together in your chest. Heeseung was free. He was finally free.

But now what?

Hyejin sat beside you, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Give him some time,” she said softly, as if reading your thoughts. “He’s going to come looking for you. I’m sure of it.”

You nodded, your hands trembling slightly as you gripped the edge of your bed. All you could do now was wait—and hope that when Heeseung finally found you, the boy you’d fallen for was still there, waiting for you too.

You didn’t leave your room for days. The sick, uncomfortable feeling in your body refused to go away. It was as if the weight of everything—your heartbreak, the fear—had finally caught up to you, pinning you to your bed and draining you of energy.

Your housemates noticed. They brought you food, their class notes, and even small trinkets to cheer you up, but nothing seemed to work. You mumbled thanks to them, forced weak smiles when they tried to joke, but the truth was, you felt numb.

Hyejin came by often, sitting on the edge of your bed and filling you in on everything happening outside the confines of your room.

“Yoonhee got caught,” she said one afternoon, her tone tinged with satisfaction. “Slughorn found out she’d been brewing Amortentia, and she’s been given detention for weeks. There’s even talk about revoking her Hogsmeade privileges for the rest of the year.”

You managed a faint smile at that. “Good. She deserves it.”

Hyejin nodded firmly. “She does. And honestly, people are starting to avoid her now. Her little group of friends isn’t as tight as it used to be. Guess that’s what happens when everyone finds out you’ve been manipulating someone with a love potion.”

Your smile faded as the conversation shifted to Heeseung.

“And... Heeseung,” Hyejin started carefully, watching your reaction. “He’s been... different.”

You stiffened slightly but said nothing, letting her continue.

“He’s been asking about you. Like, constantly. He’s desperate to find you. I think he’s even checked the library three times in one day,” she said with a small laugh, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “He’s back to being... well, himself. But he looks miserable, and honestly, he’s really worried about you.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to feel relieved, but instead, the sick feeling only deepened. You hated how much you still cared, how even hearing about Heeseung made your heart twist painfully.

“I don’t know, Hyejin,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “I just… I can’t see him right now.”

Hyejin sighed softly, reaching out to squeeze your hand. “I get it. I do. Take all the time you need. Just... don’t shut yourself out completely, okay?”

You didn’t respond, simply looking down at your blanket as Hyejin stayed with you a little longer.

It wasn’t until one evening, when the common room was quiet and your dorm was empty, that you finally let yourself cry. The frustration, the sadness, the guilt—it all poured out of you in heavy, silent sobs as you clutched your pillow.

You were happy Yoonhee had faced punishment. You were relieved that Heeseung was free from her influence. But you were also scared—scared of facing him, scared of what he would say, and scared of how much you still loved him, even after everything.

Before you knew it, the day of the annual Christmas Ball at Hogwarts had arrived. Normally, you would’ve been excited. Your mother had even sent you a beautiful golden gown, one that shimmered like sunlight when you first pulled it out of the box. You’d twirled in front of the mirror, imagining how the soft fabric would float around you as you danced.

But now? Now you had lost all reason to go.

The thought of attending made your stomach churn. The idea of walking into that grand hall, of possibly running into him—it was too much.

Unfortunately, your housemates had other plans. They weren’t about to let you stay locked up in your dorm forever, wallowing in shame and fear. After days of patient encouragement, they finally pulled you out of bed, insisting you at least attend a few classes. Begrudgingly, you relented, figuring it would stop their nagging if nothing else.

The morning started off easy enough. You didn’t have any classes with Heeseung today, which gave you some peace of mind. Still, you couldn’t shake the paranoia that he might show up out of nowhere.

And, honestly, that paranoia wasn’t entirely unfounded.

It was as if Heeseung had a built-in radar for you. More than once, you caught a glimpse of his dark hair in the corridors, his eyes scanning the crowds as if he were searching for someone. For you.

Every time, you ducked behind corners or slipped into empty classrooms to avoid him. It was harder than you expected, given his persistence. You had to wonder if he’d memorized your schedule or something.

By the time your last class ended, you were exhausted—not from the lessons, but from all the hiding and running. You slumped into your seat at dinner, barely touching your food as your housemates chattered excitedly about the ball.

“You’re still coming tonight, right?” one of them asked, nudging your shoulder.

You hesitated. “I don’t know...”

“Oh, come on,” another chimed in. “Your mom sent you that gorgeous dress! You have to go.”

You sighed, poking at the mashed potatoes on your plate. “I’ll think about it.”

But even as you said it, you doubted you’d actually go.

As the evening drew closer, you found yourself back in your dorm, staring at the golden gown hanging from your wardrobe. It truly was stunning, the kind of dress you’d dreamed of wearing to an event like this.

For a moment, you almost let yourself imagine it—dancing under the enchanted ceiling, laughter and music filling the air.

You shook your head, turning away from the dress. You weren’t ready for that.

Just as you were about to crawl back into bed, however, your dormitory door burst open, and your housemates barged in with determined looks.

“Nope, we’re not letting you sit this one out,” one of them declared, grabbing your arm and pulling you to your feet.

“What are you—”

“Listen,” another interrupted, “you don’t have to stay the whole night. Just come for a little bit. Wear the dress, take a few pictures, and if you’re really miserable, you can leave. Deal?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the hopeful, pleading looks on their faces stopped you. They just wanted you to have fun, to feel normal again, even if only for a little while.

“...Fine,” you muttered, earning cheers from the group.

Before you knew it, they were helping you into the golden gown, fixing your hair and makeup, and hyping you up like you were royalty.

“You look amazing,” one of them said, beaming as they adjusted the final curl in your hair.

You didn’t feel amazing, but you forced a small smile.

Your housemates dragged you down the corridors toward the grand hall, their excitement became contagious. Despite your initial reluctance, you found yourself starting to feel... a little excited, too.

When you finally stepped into the grand hall, your breath hitched. The space was utterly transformed, shimmering with holiday magic. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the enchanted ceiling, disappearing just before they touched the ground. The chandeliers sparkled like stars, and the tables were adorned with golden centerpieces. Everything looked like it had been plucked from a dream.

But then you saw him.

Heeseung.

He was standing near one of the refreshment tables, laughing softly at something a fellow Slytherin said. Emerald green suit, tailored to perfection. His hair, slicked back, revealed his sharp jawline and those intense eyes. But as your gaze lingered on him, you noticed something else—he looked tired.

It wasn’t until he glanced your way and his eyes locked onto yours that you realized you’d been staring.

Your heart jumped in your chest, and before you could even think about turning away, he was moving. Heeseung’s long strides cut through the crowd like a magnet pulled him toward you.

“Oh no,” you squeaked, panic bubbling in your chest.

You instinctively turned to your friends for help, but all you saw were their grinning faces and two very obvious thumbs up.

Ah, so they planned this.

You shot them a silent glare, but before you could even consider fleeing, a firm hand grabbed yours. Heeseung’s grip was gentle but insistent as he pulled you away.

“H-Heeseung—!” you started, but he wasn’t listening.

He didn’t stop until he’d guided you to a quiet corner of the hall, away from the prying eyes of your fellow students. The noise of the ball faded into the background as he turned to face you, his hands still holding yours.

Your breath caught.

Up close, he looked even more handsome, but those tired eyes, paired with the slight downturn of his lips, made your chest ache. He looked... vulnerable.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. He just stared at you, taking in every detail—the golden gown that hugged your figure, the way your hair framed your face, the faint shimmer of your lips.

“You look beautiful,” he said softly, his voice hoarse, almost as if he hadn’t used it in days.

You blinked, momentarily stunned. You weren’t sure how to respond, your thoughts still scrambling to catch up with the fact that he was here, holding your hands, looking at you like that.

Finally, you managed to mumble, “You look... good too.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up into a small, tired smile. “Thanks,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

Heeseung’s gaze softened as he opened his mouth to speak. “Y/N, I’m so sorry. For—”

You cut him off, shaking your head. “No, Heeseung. Stop. It wasn’t your fault. It was Yoonhee’s. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

He blinked, stunned by your words, but his expression quickly shifted to one of concern. “Then... why?” he asked softly, his voice trembling. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

You looked down, biting your lip, unable to meet his gaze. But he wasn’t having it.

Gently, he tilted your chin up with his fingers, forcing your eyes to lock with his. His touch was soft but firm, his eyes desperate. “Please,” he murmured, his voice low and pleading. “Please look at me, Y/N. I need to see you. All of you. I need to understand.”

You swallowed hard, his intensity making it difficult to breathe. Your heart pounded in your chest as you searched for the right words.

“I...” You hesitated, but his unwavering gaze gave you the courage to continue. “I was scared, Heeseung. Scared that... you wouldn’t like me anymore. That whatever we had before was gone. And it hurt. It hurt so much that I didn’t know how to face you. I felt so... drained. So tired. I had no energy for anything. It was like everything good was just gone.”

He listened intently, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek as tears spilled from your eyes. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to justify anything. He just... listened. Like he always did.

When you finally finished, a silence hung between you, heavy.

And then, without warning, Heeseung wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest.

You froze for a moment, startled, before slowly relaxing into his embrace. His scent—familiar and comforting—washed over you, and you felt like you could breathe again.

“Baby...” he whispered into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I would have waited forever for you to feel okay again. Because you’re the only woman I love in this world. The only one I’ve ever loved. And nothing—nothing—is ever going to change that.”

Your breath hitched as his words sank in, the sincerity in his tone breaking down the walls you’d built around your heart.

“I want a future with you,” he continued, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His hands framed your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears that had fallen. “I don’t care about anyone else. I never did. It’s always been you. Always.”

His words left you speechless, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

“I love you,” he said, his voice steady and sure. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you if I have to.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you nodded, a shaky smile breaking through. “I love you too, Heeseung,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Heeseung’s lips curved into a soft smile, his eyes glistening with relief and adoration. Without another word, he leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted. But you didn’t. Instead, you closed the gap between you, meeting him halfway as his lips pressed against yours in a kiss.

Your heart raced as your hands instinctively reaching up to grip the front of his emerald green suit. His arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you closer, like he was afraid to let you go. The kiss was slow, deliberate, as if he was reassuring you that this was real, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathless, his forehead rested against yours. Heeseung’s smile widened, his thumbs gently rubbing circles against your sides.

“I’ve been waiting to do that for so long,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with affection. “And I’ll never stop, as long as you let me.”

You laughed softly, your cheeks warming as you looked up at him. “You’re so dramatic,” you teased, though your tone held no malice.

“Maybe,” he admitted with a playful smirk, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

But before either of you could say anything more, a loud burst of laughter echoed from the main hall, reminding you both that you weren’t exactly in a private setting.

Heeseung chuckled, glancing over his shoulder before looking back at you. “Come on,” he said, grabbing your hand. “Let’s go somewhere quieter. I’m not done with you yet.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips quirking up. “Oh? And where exactly are we going?”

He grinned mischievously, tugging you gently along. “You’ll see,” he said, his tone light and teasing.

Heeseung led you through the dimly lit corridors, weaving between tapestries and statues until you reached a secluded alcove. It was quiet, away from the bustling energy of the Great Hall, and the faint sound of music and laughter felt like it was miles away.

Leaning casually against the stone wall, Heeseung tugged you closer by your hand, his other arm snaking around your waist as he grinned down at you. “Now this,” he murmured, “is more like it.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, feeling a bit giddy as he twirled a strand of your hair between his fingers. The way he looked at you, like you were the only person who mattered, sent your heart racing.

Before you could respond, you found yourself leaning up, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that was soft at first, but quickly deepened. His hand tightened on your hip as he pulled you flush against him, and you reached up, tangling your fingers into his perfectly styled hair, making it deliciously messy.

Heeseung groaned softly against your lips, the sound sending a thrill through you as his hand slid to the small of your back, holding you steady. The kiss was everything—intense, like he was making up for all the lost time, for all the days you’d been apart.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless and slightly disheveled, he let out a low chuckle. “There goes my hair,” he teased, his voice husky as he glanced at you, his lips still red from your kiss.

You smirked, smoothing down the strands you’d mussed up. “I think it looks better this way,” you quipped, earning a playful roll of his eyes.

“Yeah?” he said, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against yours. “Well, if it makes you happy, I guess I’ll allow it.”

Heeseung's playful nature shone through as he leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I could get used to this," he whispered, his breath warm and tickling against your skin. "You looking all beautiful and mussed up."

You smiled, feeling a rush of excitement at his words. "Well, if you like it, I might just keep it this way," you replied, a hint of challenge in your voice. "Although, I think I might enjoy seeing the look on your face if I went back to being perfectly put together."

With a playful roll of his eyes, Heeseung leaned in again, his lips meeting yours in a gentle kiss. But this time, his hands went to your dress, his fingers trailing along the neckline, subtly revealing more of your skin.

You giggled into the kiss, a sound of both pleasure and surprise. "Naughty boy," you teased, trying to hit his hand away, but Heeseung was unmoved, his focus solely on you and the kiss.

His hands continued to tease, gently tugging at the fabric of your dress, revealing more of your shoulders and collarbone.

"You know I can't resist you," he murmured against your lips, his voice low and seductive. "Especially when you look like this."

"I know you can't," you replied, your voice soft and filled with affection. "And I'm glad I have this effect on you." You could feel his fingers trace the curve of your waist.

Heeseung's eyes lit up as he saw the skin that had been revealed. With a smile that held both mischief and anticipation, he leaned in, his lips grazing the newly exposed skin.

He started with soft kisses, his lips brushing against your neck, his breath warm and enticing, a gentle tease, tracing the curve of your collarbone.

"You smell so good," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. "Like honey and spice."

His hands rested gently on your waist, his touch firm, as if you were something delicate he couldn’t risk breaking.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper as his lips pressed a lingering kiss to the base of your neck. “Do you know that?”

His words made your cheeks flush, and you shook your head slightly, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupted, his tone so sure that it silenced any protest you could muster. His lips returned to your skin, brushing over your shoulder where the fabric of your gown had slipped just slightly.

“I could do this forever,” he whispered against your skin, his voice carrying a hint of a smile. “Just... adore you.”

You shivered at his words, warmth pooling in your chest as you gazed at him. There was nothing rushed or impatient about him—just pure affection, as though he was savoring every moment with you.

“You’re impossible,” you mumbled, but the smile on your face betrayed the teasing edge in your voice.

Heeseung looked at you then, his dark eyes filled with so much love it made your breath catch. “And yet, here I am, completely yours,” he said with a boyish grin, leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, making you laugh softly.

A sudden scream sliced through the moment, making you both freeze. You turned to find Yoonhee standing in the hallway, her eyes blazing with rage, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, hatred radiating from every inch of her.

You quickly adjusted the straps of your dress, feeling a flush of embarrassment but finding comfort in the way Heeseung immediately wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.

"Yoonhee," Heeseung said, his voice calm but firm, his body still shielding you. "What are you doing here?"

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply against the stone floor as she walked toward you. "You," she spat, her voice seething with venom. "You ruined everything. You always ruin everything."

The words stung more than you expected, and you felt yourself shrinking back, but Heeseung’s grip tightened around you, giving you strength.

"If you didn`t exist," she continued, her voice rising. "Everything would have been perfect. Heeseung would have been mine. I would have had everything I wanted."

You shook your head, unable to comprehend the depth of her bitterness. "Yoonhee, What are—"

But she wasn’t listening. Her gaze never left you, her eyes full of hatred as she took another step toward you. "You don't deserve him. You’re not good enough. You’re nothing compared to me."

Heeseung, his expression hardening, finally stepped in to talk. "Enough, Yoonhee."

Her glare shifted to him, but there was no remorse in her eyes. Instead, she let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, really? You think you can just shut me up?" She turned back to you, her face twisted with anger. "You think you can steal him from me and everything will be fine? You don’t know him like I do."

You swallowed, your throat tightening at her words, but Heeseung’s presence kept you steady. His voice, low and firm, cut through her words. "You’re wrong, Yoonhee. You’ve always been wrong. This isn’t about you, and it never was. I’m with her because I want to be. You’re the one who needs to let go."

For a moment, there was silence, the tension thick between the three of you. Yoonhee stood there, fuming, but Heeseung didn’t flinch.

"You can’t do this, Heeseung," she hissed, her voice full of desperation now. "You don’t even know what you’re giving up. You think she cares about you? She’s just playing you like everyone else. She’s not even worthy of you."

Heeseung’s expression softened, but there was no uncertainty in his eyes. "You’re wrong, Yoonhee. She’s everything to me, and I’m not walking away from her."

Yoonhee’s shrill scream filled the room, and before anyone could react, she lunged at you. Her hands shot out, grabbing your arm and yanking you away from Heeseung with surprising strength. You stumbled back, her nails digging into your skin as she tried to shove you down. Her eyes were wild with fury, and for a moment, you froze, too stunned by the violence of her attack to respond.

But then, something inside you snapped. All the weeks of anger, hurt, and confusion flooded back. The betrayal, the humiliation, the endless nights of crying and wondering what went wrong—it all surged up at once. This was the girl who had stolen Heeseung right out of your life. The one who had used Amortentia to control him, to warp his feelings, to hurt you. The one who had made you feel small and insignificant.

No, you wouldn’t let her do this anymore.

With a fierce yell, you shoved her off, your fist flying instinctively. The punch connected with her cheek with a satisfying thud, the force sending her staggering backward. Her eyes widened in shock, hand flying to her face as she stumbled and almost fell to the ground.

Yoonhee gaped at you, her breath coming in short, furious gasps. "You... You bitch!" she snarled, voice shaking with rage.

But you stood your ground, heart racing, every ounce of your being wanting to scream and lash out. You felt the heat of your own anger, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You weren’t backing down anymore. "No," you said, your voice trembling but fierce, "you don't get to do this. You don't get to ruin everything for me and Heeseung. You don’t get to play with people’s feelings."

Yoonhee glared at you, hands trembling with fury. "You think you’ve won, don’t you?" Her voice was a low hiss. "You really think he’s yours? He’s not. He’ll always come back to me."

Heeseung stepped forward, voice cutting through the tension. "You’re done. I’ve told you before. I’m with her, not you."

Yoonhee looked between the two of you, her face flushing red with humiliation. The silence that followed was deafening. She was seething, but there was no more fight left in her. She stood there for a moment, glaring at you, and then, with a final look of disdain, she turned on her heel and stormed away.

You let out a breath, feeling your body go limp, the tension draining from your limbs. Heeseung moved towards you immediately, his arms wrapping around you as he pulled you close.

"Are you okay?" he murmured, his voice soft and concerned.

You nodded slowly, though your heart was still racing from the confrontation. "I’m okay," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "I just... I don’t know what came over me."

Heeseung pulled back slightly, cupping your face in his hands and looking into your eyes. "You did what you had to do," he said gently. "You’ve been through so much because of her."

"And besides I like seeing that side of you," he said, his voice warm and genuine. "The way you stood up for yourself."

You smiled, feeling a rush of warmth fill your chest at his words.

"I’m proud of you," he whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.

You held him tighter, feeling grateful for everything that had brought you to this point. "I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too," he replied.

a/n: i feel emotional now

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Taglist: @ilyunjina @nshmrarki @laylasbunbunny @kiripimaspillow

@wensurr @immelissaaa @simj4k3 @vegahrid @03sunoos

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@heeseungbabydoll @wondash @renjiishot @demigodmahash

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@starf4lls @obyyyy (@enhasunghoonishot )

Wanna be in the perm taglist? Lmk <3

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klaeusmoved · 2 years ago

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Klaus is the kid in ethics class trying to figure out how to drive the trolley just right so everyone dies

ㅤㅤ❛ well, we wouldn't want anyone feeling left out, now would we? a swift death is a gift i only give when i'm feeling particularly benevolent, though certain people don't appreciate the offer when i make it. ❜

#*furiously scribbling down calculations* they ALL /must/ die #answered.#hybrid royalty main

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astroeleanor · 1 month ago

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💸₊˚⊹Your 2H Ruler = How to Become a Money Magnet 💵₊˚⊹

If you’re not making the kind of money you want, you need to start using your 2H ruler. This placement shows how you can earn more money & the people/situations that will bring huge financial opportunities in your life.

If you ignore your 2nd House ruler, you risk chasing the wrong goals and wasting time. This planet shows your natural path to wealth: not the path others tell you to take. The more you align with it, the easier money flows.

So, let's figure out together how to use your birth chart to become a money magnet.

HOW TO FIND THE 2H RULER:

1) Locate the sign in your 2H. Calculate your chart HERE!

2) The planet that rules that sign is your 2H ruler (see table below for planetary rulerships.)

3) Locate the house the 2H ruler occupies in the birth chart. The house it's in, shows HOW you can make more money.

Example: Sagittarius 2H=Sagittarius is ruled by JUPITER=8H Gemini Jupiter is the 2H Ruler

2H RULER IN THE 1H: Build skills and image. Start a personal brand or business. Be seen, heard, and remembered. Who gives you money: Clients who like your energy. Followers, fans, loyal buyers.

2H RULER IN THE 2H: Invest in goods, land, or things that grow. Focus on slow, steady gains. Sell tangible services. Who gives you money: Bankers, traders, investors. People who deal in tangible assets (like gold, land, supplies). Buyers who want lasting value.

2H RULER IN THE 3H: Write, sell, teach, speak. Trade goods locally. Use phones, emails, short trips to build cash. Who gives you money: Siblings, neighbors, close friends. Writers, messengers, teachers. Local businesses or delivery services.

2H RULER IN THE 4H: Buy or sell real estate. Work in land, farming, food, or tradition. Build home-based businesses. Inherit wisely and protect it. Who gives you money: Parents, grandparents, elders. Real estate agents or property managers. Family businesses or ancestral wealth.

2H RULER IN THE 5H: Create art, games, entertainment. Start passion businesses. Teach kids, coach sports, organize events. Take smart risks. Who gives you money: Artists, athletes, performers. Gamblers, investors, venture capitalists. Lovers or romantic partners.

2H RULER IN THE 6H: Offer daily services people need. Heal, repair, clean, or fix. Focus on health, pets, or crafts. Build strong work habits. Who gives you money: Nurses, vets, cleaners, tech workers. Bosses who value hard workers. Clients who need regular help.

2H RULER IN THE 7H: Negotiate smart contracts. Form joint ventures. Sell directly to clients one-on-one. Who gives you money: Business partners, spouses, clients. Lawyers, agents, deal-makers. People who invest in long-term relationships.

2H RULER IN THE 8H: Manage inheritances, investments, loans. Work with taxes, banking, insurance. Handle mergers, estates, or debts. Trade trust for power. Who gives you money: Investors, lenders, financiers. Heirs, trustees, executors. Partners who share assets.

2H RULER IN THE 9H: Teach, publish, preach, or coach. Sell services across borders. Work with law, spirituality, philosophy, or higher education. Follow faith or big missions. Who gives you money: Professors, clergy, travelers, publishers. Foreigners. Legal workers or academic institutions.

2H RULER IN THE 10H: Build a public name. Climb career ladders. Start visible businesses. Become an expert people recognize. Who gives you money: Bosses, governments, CEOs. Industry leaders and high-status clients. Customers who respect titles and results.

2H RULER IN THE 11H: Launch group projects. Build big communities. Fund dreams through social support. Join causes that matter. Who gives you money: Friends, followers, donors. Clubs, political groups, online communities. Social movements and public funds.

2H RULER IN THE 12H: Work behind the scenes. Heal, help, or create art quietly. Invest in royalties, patents, hidden streams. Protect secrets and serve faithfully. Who gives you money: Monasteries, charities, hospitals, hidden patrons. Spiritual teachers, artists, healers. Quiet supporters or secret allies.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Your curiosity & engagement mean the world to me. I hope you not only found it enjoyable but also enriching for your astrological knowledge. Your support & interest inspire me to continue sharing insights & information with you. I appreciate you immensely.

• 🕸️ JOIN MY PATREON for exquisite & in-depth astrology content. You'll also receive a free mini reading upon joining. :)

• 🗡️ BOOK A READING with me to navigate your life with more clarity & awareness.

#astro community #astro observations #astrology #astrology signs #horoscope #zodiac #money #abundance #abundancemindset #manifest abundance #financial abundance #law of abundance #prosperity #astrology observations #astrology notes #astrology blog #natal chart #birth chart #astro notes

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noctil2 · 1 year ago

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Royalty calculation for record labels

Royalty Calculation for Independent vs. Major Record Labels: 5 Quick Contrasts

Curious about the differences in royalty calculation between independent and major record labels? Here’s a quick breakdown to help you understand the distinctions:

Contract flexibility

Independent labels often offer more personalized contracts tailored to individual artists, while major labels typically have standardized agreements.

Scale of operations

Independent labels handle fewer artists and releases, whereas major labels manage a vast array of artists and content.

Technology and resources

Independent labels may use simpler royalty management tools due to budget constraints, while major labels invest in advanced, proprietary software.

Revenue streams

Independent labels have diverse revenue sources, including physical sales and digital downloads, whereas major labels primarily focus on mainstream revenue streams like DSPs.

Transparency and reporting

Independent labels tend to offer more transparent communication with artists about royalty calculations, while major labels may have more sophisticated but less transparent reporting systems.

To Know More: https://blogs.noctil.com/royalty-calculation-for-record-labels/

#royalty calculation

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justevelynnnn · 21 days ago

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Starved

Summary: Viltrumite!Mark is an eater

Warnings: MDNI🔞, Mentions of cunnilingus, reader is afab, mention of Stockholm syndrome, tiny bit of voyeurism

A/N: I’ve been meaning to put more invincible stuff out but i’m just busy i swear😭

Anyways, I’ve really been wanting to write Viltrumite mark because i literally need him like asap. I’m not the best at writing him tho especially cause this is my first time so sorry abt that.

(Also idk the artist, i tried looking but if anyone finds them let me know!)

As much as you hated him, you loved how he treated you in bed.

Especially, while he ate you out.

The room itself, it was his, was huge and so was the bed. It was bigger than a king size bed on Earth, and it was oddly extremely comfortable and soft.

After this Mark, who wasn’t actually your Mark mind you, literally kidnapped you to make you his wife—very, very long story btw—you had to become accustomed to living here. Viltrum was….intense, but also beautiful, structured and clean. And, so was this guy.

Your Mark on earth was awkward and kind. He hated killing. This one? This guy? He did it like he was blinking, and when he laid eyes on you with that stare you couldn’t put an emotion on you knew it was over. One minute you were running from him and the next you were being carried in space somewhere.

But enough of that.

This Mark was considered royalty here so he could just do….whatever!

Others bowed to him. Conversations hushed when he entered rooms. No one dared to challenge him.

So, that’s why he doesn’t care where, but if he wants to eat you out he will. It doesn’t help that Mark was your ex on earth so you just let him.

The first time was after some weird dinner thing in the dining hall a week after you arrived. You didn’t follow what they were doing well because, well, you were still traumatized from literally everything that happened. Plus, Mark’s hand was on your knee under the table and inched up every other minute.

Everyone left and a viltrumite maid in rags started to clean up, but Mark couldn’t wait anymore so it seemed. His hand left your thigh finally and he stood up slowly. You didn’t move. Part of you was scared for what was to come next. You didn’t expect it when he proceeded to pick you up from your chair and lay you on the long table in front of him and pull your bottoms all the way off.

“What-” You gasp. The maid looked up and made eye contact with a glaring Mark. They promptly left.

“I want to taste the sweetness between your legs.” Mark said in his usual nonchalant way. He stood between your now bare legs with a hand under each knee. “I’ve been wanting to since I found you.”

Shock wasn’t even the beginning to describe how you felt then. This guy has only kissed you like once. Now he’s gonna eat you out? On this fancy table? You hardly registered that your bottom half was just completely bare with only the cold air on your skin bringing you back. It was just so sudden but part of you was thrilled. Excited even.

“Um, okay?” You sighed. What’s the use fighting him? “Are we just gonna….like, here? Now?”

Mark just nods once, expression unmoving.

You hate how he just lacks…personality. Sometimes he’s just a statue and it creeps you out with how he moved just so calculated.

He moves down so his head is between your thighs. His hands are pushing your legs apart so you couldn’t move even if you wanted to, and he immediately got to work. It was like he let himself go. Unraveling from a long day of masking as a strong, poker faced warrior. And you were concerned at first that Viltrumites just lick one long stripe each time like fucking robots but no. Nope.

Dare you say this Mark ate you out better than your own?

The way he used his tongue against you, flicking and dipping inside rhythmically had you on the verge of cumming minutes in. He groaned and moaned into you like he never tasted anything better. His nose brushed against your neglected clit every now and then which didn’t help.

You wondered why he avoided it, but quickly learned he was saving it for the end. When you started twitch and tried to move away from him he held you firmly in place and started sucking on your clit, occasionally letting his tongue flick against it as well.

Then you came like never before. You saw stars. You swore you did. And, the worst part was he didn’t even stop. He just kept going, slurping the juices that came out of you as you shook around him.

And then when you were done, gasping for air and still trembling a bit, he just pulled you up off the table and helped you put your skirt back on.

You couldn’t even speak. He just carried on and helped you to his room like nothing happened, his face still wet and all.

After that night he’d just randomly eat you out. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t excited when he started showing those subtle signs of needing you. Whether it was a hand on your knee again or him just never leaving your side. Even the times he’s just….staring into your soul (you did not like those times at all).

It made sense he ate you out like a god, he was one.

You could almost blame the creeping Stockholm syndrome on loving him and how he ate you. The urge to get away from him slipped away with each tender lick of his tongue.

“Your petals has the exact sweetness of a fruit from this planet i conquered once.”, Mark said one night between your legs. “A rare delicacy.”

You almost didn’t fully register what he said because you were lost in your own world of pleasure.

“Is…is that why, ughh~”, you moaned. You could hardly finish a thought because he just didn’t stop for nothing.

“Why what.” He said before returning to sucking on you.

“Is that why-why you like me so, fuck, much?”

He paused like he was thinking about it. Then he shook his head no.

“There is more to why I “like” you.”

You wanted to say more but that was the end of that conversation because he went right back to work. Part of you believed it was stress relief. Another part now went the planet fruit excuse.

Everything else about him was composed. Regal almost.

Untouchable.

He was respected by many Viltrumites here.

But when he was between your legs like this? His hair was a mess. He made many noises you know no one else has heard from him. His eyes would get watery and filled with lust and need.

Not to mention he loved being drenched when he was done with you. One time his face was literally dripping because he got you to squirt on him. He’d always get up too, like it was nothing.

You still didn’t know how to feel about him. He was your kidnapper after all and not to mention he looked and sounded exactly like your ex. It was a complex situation. Even months later you felt conflicted.

But maybe, just maybe, you could get used to this as long as he stayed just as needy to eat you out.

#viltrumite #viltrum mark #viltrumeat #Real #invincible smut #invincible fanfic #invincible mark grayson #invincible x reader #invincible imagine #invincible #viltrumite mark x reader

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melanchoire · 5 months ago

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THE MIDNIGHT DETOUR ──── yu jimin

── ( 🌸 ) the constant jabs and petty games with your nemesis karina reach a boiling point at a party, culminating in a bathroom encounter where heated arguments give way to an even hotter, forbidden connection you never saw coming.

pairing. dom!popular girl!karina x sub!riival!fem reader

warning(s). bitting, degradation, fingering, hate sex???, making out, thigh riding.

word count. 4,8k

the fluorescent lights of the school hallway hummed, a monotonous soundtrack to the daily drama unfolding around you. you gripped your textbooks tighter, the worn covers offering a small comfort as you navigated the crowded space. ot wasn't just the sheer volume of bodies that made it feel like a minefield; it was them. the “ae-girls” as the student body had so aptly nicknamed karina's group. they moved through the corridors like royalty, their beauty a blinding force field that seemed to repel anyone who dared to stray too close.

you'd seen it happen with other groups before, the casual cruelty of popularity. but with karina and her crew, it felt different. more personal, more... calculated. you were no stranger to loud, boisterous friend groups. your own friends were certainly a handful, their humor sometimes landing with a thud outside your inner circle. but karina's group was something else entirely. it was a finely tuned symphony of subtle jabs, barely concealed snickers, and outright antagonism.

the “ae-girls” were a constant, irritating hum in your otherwise relatively quiet existence. you knew, rationally, that cliques and social dynamics were the lifeblood of high school, but you couldn't shake the feeling that they were deliberately, maliciously, targeting you.

ever since the day you'd first bumped into karina —literally, colliding mid-hallway, sending textbooks scattering across the floor— there had been a palpable tension, a current of electricity charged with something you couldn't quite name. it wasn’t just the typical high school drama. it felt as though they were actively trying to burrow under your skin, to find that one loose thread that would unravel you entirely.

the whispers were the first thing you noticed. walking past the ae-girls, you’d catch snippets of conversation, their eyes darting in your direction, their lips twitching with suppressed laughter. it was a performance of complicity, a silent communication that excluded you, that made you feel like the butt of some private joke you could never understand.

then there was winter. her method was more physical, a jarring disruption to your daily routine. you remember the chill of that particular day; the fluorescent lights of the hallway hummed as you walked, heading to math class, minding your own business, reviewing quadratic formulas in your head. she walked with a deliberate swagger, her blonde hair swinging around her face like a halo of mischief and suddenly, a sharp, unexpected impact sent you staggering. winter, all sleek lines and effortless cool, had deliberately slammed her shoulder into yours, a calculated, almost predatory move. you flinched, the force of the blow rattling your teeth.

“watch it.” you’d muttered, more surprised than angered.

winter just smirked, a tiny, almost petulant curve of her lips. “maybe you should be more aware of your surroundings.” her voice was a low, velvety purr, that made you shiver and not in a good way. she barely glanced back as she continued walking, her laughter mingling with giselle and ningning who were on her side.

and then there were giselle and ningning, the twin guardians of silent judgment, their gazes like a brand. you’d learned to recognize their looks, the heavy scrutiny that followed you down the hallway, the air thick with unspoken criticism. it felt like being dissected under a microscope, every movement, every imperfection magnified and analyzed.

you always see them in the mornings when students enter school, clustered near the lockers, bathed in the cold light.

giselle and ningning, their dark eyes flitting over the crowd, scanning for… what? targets? you swallowed, feeling the familiar pinprick of unease as their gazes landed on you, lingered, and then, with a barely perceptible smirk, moved on. it was always like this. they never said anything, but their looks spoke volumes, dissecting you, judging you with a silent, almost telepathic precision that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

you remember one time, you were heading to the library. your footsteps echoed on the polished floor; the heavy silence was interrupted as you noticed them, they were in the corner talking with their heads down. when you passed by they raised their heads at the same time and stared, giving you a look that would curdle milk.

“what are you staring at?” you’d asked, your voice a little sharper than you’d intended. you stopped right in front of them.

giselle and ningning exchanged a look, a silent conversation that seemed to happen before your very eyes. they said nothing, their expression unchanging, a mask of detached disapproval. then, without another word, they simply turned and walked away, leaving you feeling exposed and foolish.

but karina... she was the epicenter of it all. you saw her, leaning against the lockers, her expression unreadable. she was breathtakingly beautiful, her features sharp and elegant, framed by the dark curtain of her hair. it was an unfair level of beauty, the kind that stopped you in your tracks, that made you forget everything else for a fleeting, agonizing moment. her beauty was a weapon, you thought, sharper and more dangerous than any of the subtle jabs her friends threw your way.

and it wasn't just her looks. it was the way she carried herself, the confidence that radiated from her like a heat wave. it was her voice, low and melodic, with a subtle rasp that sent a shiver down your spine despite yourself. you hated that voice. you hated the way it could draw you in, even as it was dripping with sarcasm and disdain. you hated the way it made you feel.

she was the one who always escalated, who threw herself into the fray, whether it was a confrontation with winter’s casual cruelty or an argument about giselle and ningning's incessant staring. she wasn't just a bystander; she was an active participant, a conductor of the symphony of your discomfort. you had plenty of fights with her, both verbal and physical, though they never quite got violent.

you remembered the first time you had spoken to her. it had been over a misplaced library book, a clumsy misunderstanding that had felt utterly catastrophic at the time. you had tried, stammering and flustered, to explain the situation, but karina had interrupted, her voice cool and laced with barely concealed amusement. “you always make such a mess.” she had said, looking at you with those piercing, dark eyes. “it's almost impressive.” you had been mortified, your cheeks burning with shame and anger. it wasn't just the words, but the way she said them, with a hint of something… else. something that you couldn’t quite place but that made your stomach churn in a way that felt both awful and exhilarating.

or the time when winter bumped into you, you'd been about to yell at winter but karina was there, stepping in front of winter. but instead of offering you a kind look of concern, she followed it with a sharp glance at you, a small, almost imperceptible curve to her lips that made you wonder if she was secretly mocking you even as she appeared to defend you. “you need to watch where you're going, clumsy.” she’d said, her voice laced with a kind of mocking amusement. her gaze was intense, and you found yourself inexplicably drawn to the rich depths of her dark eyes.

“i wasn't the one who bumped into someone!” you retorted, your hands balling into fists.

karina leaned closer, her breath fanning against your cheek. “maybe if you weren't so busy daydreaming, you would have seen her coming.” she said, her tone dripping with condescension. the way she talked to you was so infuriating, but her voice... it was like a melody, a song that somehow wrapped around you and made it difficult for you to think. you could have listened to her speak for hours.

when giselle and ningning’s silent stares became unbearable, and you dared to call them out, it was karina again, her voice cutting through the tension. “leave her alone, girls. don’t waste your time on her.” and again, that look, that strange mix of disdain and something… unreadable.

it was infuriating. it was mesmerizing. and it was, you had to admit, utterly confusing. you hated the way karina's presence could disrupt your carefully constructed world, the way she could make your heart pound in your chest with a mix of anger and... something else you didn't quite understand. it wasn't just that she was beautiful, it was the way she seemed to see you, to pierce through your carefully constructed facade and to see something hidden beneath the surface.

today, as you walked past her, you kept your gaze fixed ahead, trying to pretend she wasn't there, yet you could feel her eyes on you, heavy and intense. you could feel the faint warmth rising to your cheeks, and you hated it. you hated the way she could make you feel like a teenager again, all awkward and flustered. and yet, deep down, nestled within the layers of frustration and anger, there was a different feeling stirring, a confusing flutter that felt dangerously close to... not hate.

you wanted to scream at her, to demand an explanation, to ask her why she treated you this way. but the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the strange ache that pulsated beneath your skin. you wanted to hate her. you wanted to erase her from your mind. but you knew, with a certainty that both terrified and excited you, that was impossible. because, beneath the layers of annoyance and antagonism, a strange and unnerving tension had begun to simmer, a tension that felt like a tightrope walk between loathing and something else entirely - something that felt incredibly dangerous. and incredibly, impossibly, alluring.

you wanted to hate her. but you were starting to wonder if you were already too far gone. the way those dark eyes held yours just a little too long, the way her voice wrapped around your name with a subtle rasp… it was starting to feel personal. and that, more than anything else, was terrifying.

the bass thrummed through the floor, vibrating up your legs and into your chest. it was the kind of party where the music was loud enough to drown out thought, where the air hung thick with sweat and the scent of cheap beer. around you, your friends were a cacophony of boisterous laughter and half-finished stories, their words washing over you like meaningless static. you nodded along, offered the occasional ‘yeah’ or ‘no way’ but your attention was elsewhere, a magnetic pull you couldn't quite ignore.

karina.

there she was, across the crowded living room, tucked away in a shadowed corner like a stray star. alone. it was a sight so incongruous with the image you had built of her – surrounded by her ‘ae-girls,’ her loyal pack – that it almost made you stop breathing. she was leaning against the wall, her gaze fixed on something beyond the party, a melancholic air clinging to her like the smoke from a forgotten cigarette.

a smirk played on your lips. this was it. an opportunity, maybe even an invitation, to finally cut through the layers of manufactured arrogance she wore like expensive perfume. you hadn't come here tonight expecting anything more than the usual awkward small talk and forced laughter, but the universe, in its twisted sense of humor, had presented you with this.

you excused yourself from your group, their chatter fading into the background as you navigated the sea of bodies. each step you took felt deliberate, a purposeful march towards a confrontation that you knew, deep down, you craved. when you finally reached her, the space between you felt charged, the air crackling with the unspoken history you shared.

“the queen bee without her hive. playing bad all by yourself, are you?” the words were out of your mouth before you could bite them back, a challenge laced with the bitterness you’d come to associate with her. you stood a few feet away, arms crossed, trying to look unaffected by the way her eyes snapped up and locked with yours. those eyes, you were sure, could freeze hell itself.

karina turned her head slowly, her eyes, sharp and obsidian, locking onto yours. a flicker of something – was it a surprise? – crossed her face before her usual mask of indifference slid back into place. “and you…” she drawled, her voice a low, velvety purr that sent a shiver down your spine despite your best efforts to remain stoic.

a slow, predatory smile bloomed on her face, the kind that promised trouble and the thrill of a dangerous game. “and you’re here, i see. did you forget everyone else, or were you always this obsessed with me?” her voice, the honeyed velvet you secretly adored, sent shivers down your spine, a sensation you would vehemently deny if asked.

"obsessed? please. i just thought you looked a little lonely without your little band of tormentors around to back you up.” you retorted, leaning closer, the scent of her perfume, a heady mix of sandalwood and something dangerously floral, filling your senses. “i just didn’t expect to find you all alone, stripped of your little lapdogs. It’s almost…disarming.” it was a weak jab, you knew it, but it was enough to elicit a low, throaty laugh from her.

her lips curled into a smirk, a flash of white teeth that made your stomach clench. “disarming? honey, you have no idea what kind of power i hold, with or without those girls behind me.” she took a step closer, narrowing the distance between you, the heat rolling off her body like a tangible thing.

“and sweetheart,” she purred, taking a step closer, the gap between you closing, the air crackling between you, “we’re just having a little fun here. you, on the other hand, seem a little… preoccupied.”

the heat in your cheeks had nothing to do with the stifling air. your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. “preoccupied? i’m… i'm just stating facts.”

“are you?” she whispered, moving closer, her breath ghosting over your ear, “or are you just looking for a little attention from someone who can actually handle you?”

a strange, dizzying sensation twisted in your stomach. it wasn't a question, it was a declaration, a challenge thrown down like a gauntlet. “handle me? you think you can handle me? you're all bark and no bite. without giselle's death stares, winter's shoulder bumps, and ningning's silent judgments, you're nothing.”

she didn't answer. instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing against your arm, a touch that sent a surge of electricity through your veins. “come with me.” she murmured, her voice a low command that you found yourself strangely compelled to obey.

and just like that, you were following her, weaving through the crowd, away from the music and the noise, towards the back of the house, a place you knew was usually empty, and a strange sense of dread and anticipation began to bubble inside of you.

you found yourselves in a small, dimly lit bathroom. the music was muffled here, the air thick with the scent of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. you leaned against the cold tile wall, the back of your head thudding softly as you tried to catch your breath, and karina stepped inside; she turned and locked the door.

she didn't speak, didn’t even look at you directly for a moment. she just stood there, a few feet away, her eyes watching you like a predator sizing up its prey. you tried to hold her gaze, but the intensity was too much, and your eyes drifted to her lips, the curve of them, the hint of a smirk playing on the corners.

“so…” she drawled, her voice low and husky, “what exactly did you want from me?”

your mind was a blank slate, your carefully constructed arguments dissolving into nothingness. “i— i don't know…” you stammered, hating the way you suddenly felt, small and unsure, completely at her mercy.

karina laughed, a short, sharp sound that was more taunt than amusement. “that’s what i thought.” she moved without warning, closing the distance between you in two quick strides. her hand shot out to grab your chin, tilting your head up so that you were forced to meet her gaze. “ypu're not so tough when it comes to me, are you?”

before you could form a coherent thought, her lips were on yours, a bruising, demanding kiss that stole your breath away. it was everything you had wanted, everything you had never dared to dream of, all wrapped up in one intoxicating moment. you instinctively kissed back, your body responding to hers with a desperate need that shocked you.

her hands roamed, tracing the curve of your jaw, delving into your hair, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. you could feel every inch of her, the heat of her skin pressing against yours, the hard muscle beneath her soft curves.

“you like this, don't you?" she murmured against your lips, her voice laced with a smugness that both infuriated and aroused you. “you like that i’m the one in control. you like that i decide when to kiss you, what to do with you.” she punctuated her words with sharp little bites on your bottom lip, sending shivers of pleasure through you.

her hands began to roam, tracing the curves of your body, sending sparks of desire through your veins. she explored your waist, the curve of your hip, and the small of your back with a boldness that made you breathless. her fingers brushed the edges of your clothes, teasing and taunting you with their delicate touch.

her hands pushed at your shirt, sliding beneath the hem, her cool fingers sending jolts of electricity through you. you whimpered, a mix of protest and surrender. she chuckled, a low rumble against your ear.

her hand slid down lower, finding the waistband of your pants, her fingers teasing you, sending sparks of sensation through your core. “tell me,” she breathed into your ear. “tell me you want this.”

you wanted to deny it, to pull away, to reassert some semblance of control. but the words caught in your throat, replaced by a soft moan as her fingers found their mark, slick heat blooming between your legs. “karina please—”

“you're so easy,” she murmured against your lips, her breath hot and intoxicating. “i could do anything to you right now and you wouldn't stop me.” the words were degrading, a calculated humiliation, but instead of anger, you felt a strange thrill course through you, a sense of surrender that was both terrifying and irresistible.

you pulled back slightly, your breath coming in ragged gasps. “you’re so mean.” you whispered, your voice trembling, the truth of her words hitting home with full force.

she laughed, a low, throaty sound that reverberated through your body. “and you love it.” she said, her eyes sparkling with a dangerous glint, pulling you closer once more, the dance of dominance and submission continuing. the kiss was deeper, more passionate, her tongue exploring your mouth with a confident, practiced ease. you were lost in her, drowning in the force of her touch and the intoxicating pull of her personality, the feeling of a strange mix of fear and a longing that you never knew you possessed.

you, completely overtaken with sensation, didn't even realize how long you were in there, or how much her words both insulted and intoxicated you, but as the kiss deepened, and her hands roamed more, the reality that your friends were probably looking for you, and just the whole situation in general, slowly began to cloud the haze of lust.

she takes you out of your thoughts when her deft fingers made quick work of the button on your jeans. karina smirked as she slowly slid her hand into your unzipped jeans, teasingly tracing the lace of your panties. she rubbed your clothed slit with the heel of her palm, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm.

karina's voice was a low, urgent growl in your ear. "fuck, you're so wet already… is all this because of those stupid kisses i just gave you a few moments ago? or have you been this wet all night since you got here because your little head has been thinking about me touching you? dirty slut… getting this turned on in public. i bet you want my fingers buried inside your tight little cunt, don't you?”

karina's nimble fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, teasing along your clothed slit. she rubbed slow, maddening circles over your clothed clit, applying just enough pressure to make your toes curl in your shoes. “that's why you always give attitude, isn't it? is giving dirty looks and a bitchy attitude your way of saying you want me to fuck you silly?” her other hand slid under your shirt, caressing the smooth skin of your tummy before cupping your breast, kneading the supple flesh.

“poor little thing... you must be really desperate, aren't you? karina purred, feeling the dampness seeping through the fabric. she slipped a finger under the waistband and pulled your panties aside, exposing your bare, glistening folds.

karina dragged a single fingertip along your slit, barely grazing your sensitive flesh, from your entrance up to your clit. she circled the throbbing bud with maddening slowness, not quite touching it directly.

“please—”

karina chuckled darkly at your needy plea, relishing the power she held over you. she continued her torturous teasing, now running two fingers slowly up and down your dripping slit, spreading your wetness throughout all your folds and then slipping her finger just barely inside your tight entrance, only to pull it out and circle your clit again.

“please what, baby? say it.” karina demanded, her hot breath washing over your neck. she nipped at your earlobe, tugging it between her teeth. “beg for my fingers like a good little slut.”

“please no, this is embarrassing, i—”

"but you're so wet… i can feel it dripping down your thighs. you want my fingers so badly, don't you slut?” she circled your clit once more, drawing a needy whimper from your lips before finally, mercifully, pressing down on the sensitive nub. “c’mon, baby. tell me how badly you need my fingers buried deep in this hungry cunt. i want to hear you say it.” she rasped, her voice thick with lust and dominance.

karina smirked as she felt your body tremble against hers, your breathing growing ragged. she loved reducing you to this desperate, aching mess. her finger traced maddening circles around your entrance, dipping just the tiniest bit inside before retreating, over and over.

“please, karina... please fuck me.” you gasped out, too far gone to hold back your plea. “i need your fingers so badly. i'm so fucking wet and empty... please fill me up.”

karina let out a low, wicked laugh. “mmmh, good girl. i love when you beg for it.” she purred approvingly. without warning, she plunged two fingers deep into your soaked, clenching heat, pumping them in and out at a brutal pace.

“that's it, take my fingers like the greedy little slut you are.” karina growled, her thumb grinding against your clit. her other hand shoved your bra up and out of the way, allowing her to roughly palm and squeeze your bare breast, rolling and pinching the stiff peak.

the bathroom filled with the obscene sound of your wetness, the slap of karina's palm against your pussy, and your desperate, wanton moans.

karina's fingers curled inside you, stroking your g-spot with ruthless precision as she finger-fucked you mercilessly. her thumb rubbed tight circles around your clit, the stimulation overwhelming your senses.

“fuck, baby, your cunt is gripping my fingers so tightly. i can feel you getting close.” karina rasped, her voice heavy with lust. she leaned in, biting and sucking at your neck, determined to leave her mark on your skin.

suddenly, she pulled her fingers out, leaving you empty and aching. before you could protest, she slammed you against the bathroom wall. her lips crashed against yours in a bruising, demanding kiss, her tongue invading your mouth.

karina grabbed your wrists, pinning your hands above your head as she kissed you deeply, swallowing your whimpers and moans. her knee pressed between your thighs, rubbing against your dripping, throbbing clit. she broke the kiss, both of you panting heavily.

she smirked wickedly as she felt you grinding your hips against her thigh, desperate for any friction. karina grabbed your ass, squeezing the firm cheeks as she encouraged your movements.

“that's it, ride my thigh like the needy little slut you are.” karina purred, her voice dripping with dark amusement. she could feel your wetness soaking through her jeans, staining the denim. the bathroom echoed with the obscene sound of your pussy rubbing against her thigh, your panting breaths, and karina's approving moans.

keeping your wrists pinned above you, karina leaned in to attack your neck, biting and sucking at the tender skin. she wanted to mark you, to leave you with bruises and hickies that would remind you of this moment every time you looked in the mirror.

karina roughly palmed your bare breast, rolling and pinching the stiff peak between her fingers. she tugged and plucked at your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core.

karina could feel your movements growing erratic, your desperation reaching a fever pitch as you rutted against her thigh. she could tell you were teetering on the edge, your body tensing and shaking.

“c’mon baby, cum for me.” karina purred, her voice a sinful whisper against your ear. “i want to feel you gush all over my thigh. go ahead, let go and cum like the dirty girl you are.”

to push you over the precipice, karina pinched your nipple hard, twisting it as she bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, breaking the skin. at the same time, she pressed her thigh harder against your clit, grinding against it with ruthless intensity.

the combination of intense sensations overwhelmed you, and you shattered, coming undone against her. your vision went white as your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing and shaking uncontrollably. karina held you tight, not letting you fall as your pussy clenched and spasmed, gushing your release onto her thigh as a scream of ecstasy ripped from your throat.

ehe continued to grind her thigh against your spasming sex, drawing out your climax and making you ride out the waves of pleasure.

when your orgasm finally began to subside, karina captured your lips in a searing, dominating kiss. she plundered your mouth, her tongue stroking and caressing every inch of you, swallowing your whimpers and moans. her hands roamed your body, squeezing and groping your curves possessively.

finally, she pulled back, leaving you gasping and boneless against the wall, your chest heaving. “mmmh, look at the mess you made, you naughty girl…” karina teased, trailing her fingers through the damp patch before bringing them to her mouth. she made a show of licking your juices off, her eyes never leaving yours. “delicious. i knew you'd taste as good as you look.”

her hand slid around your hip, squeezing the curve of your ass as she pressed closer, pinning you neatly between her body and the wall. karina's lips found your neck once more, her mouth hot and open against your skin.

karina pulled back slightly, her dark eyes glinting with mischief and unquenched desire. she glanced at her phone, a smirk playing on her lips. "shit, look at the time. i gotta jet…”

karina cursed under her breath but quickly composed herself, stepping back from you. she smirked as she glanced down at your disheveled appearance; your jeans still unbuttoned, your shirt rumpled, and your hair mussed. the satisfied flush on your cheeks was unmistakable.

“we'll definitely do this again.” she said casually, as if finger-fucking you senseless in a bathroom was an everyday occurrence for her. “but don't think this is over. i'm not done with you yet, not by a long shot."

karina leaned in close, her lips brushing yours teasingly as she whispered. “i'll find you later. maybe tonight, i'll sneak into your dorm room and finish what we started here. wear something easy to take off.” she purred, before stealing a quick, hard kiss and pulling away.

with a final wink, karina turned and sauntered out of the bathroom, leaving you dazed, aroused, and eagerly anticipating her promised nighttime visit. you knew this was only the beginning of your adventures with the infamous queen bee, karina.

#yu jimin #yu jimin x fem reader #yu jimin x reader #yu jimin smut #yoo jimin #yoo jimin x fem reader #yoo jimin x reader #yoo jimin smut #karina #karina x fem reader #karina x reader #karina smut #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #aespa smut

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theseventhdimension · 30 days ago

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Hi!

I have a request for early seasons Spencer in a relatively new relationship Sleeping over at readers place the first time. Spencer being nervous about cuddling and affection in general.

Just straight up the fluffiest fluff imaginable.

Thank you! I’ll be waiting

The First Time— Not Like That.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Word count: 1.4k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Author's note: This is such a cute idea, i just knew i had to get to it straight away! Honestly I'm writing this from experience, based on how I acted when i went to my fiance's house for the first time lol. Hope you enjoy!! :))

Idiot.

That's the one way Spencer would describe himself as of this current moment.

Sure, he has the vocabulary of the entire oxford dictionary stuck in his head, but right now? He's an idiot. An awkward idiot. An awkward idiot who's standing in your bedroom doorway as you make yourself comfortable, urging him to join.

And he’d nodded, murmured a quiet “okay,” and then proceeded to do absolutely nothing that resembled any form of movement towards you.

He’s been stiff all evening.

Like, noticeably stiff.

His satchel is still sitting by your front door, half-unzipped, like even his belongings aren’t sure if they’re allowed to stay. He’d perched on the edge of your couch like it was some sort of Victorian chaise reserved for royalty. You’d offered him tea—made it exactly how he liked, with three sugar packets already stirred in and the fourth one left on the saucer in case he wanted to make it obnoxiously sweet, the way you’d teased him about once before. And he’d smiled, almost shy, like the gesture meant more to him than he could put into words.

But the cup’s still full. Barely touched. Lukewarm now. He had just been holding it, fingers wrapped too tight around the ceramic, eyes flicking around your apartment like he was trying to memorize every detail while simultaneously calculating the fastest exit route in case he accidentally makes a fool of himself.

He didn't know where to put his shoes. You had to gently nudge him into taking them off when he stepped onto the carpet like he was entering hallowed ground. He apologised when he used your hand towel. He asked if he should sit somewhere else when you curled up next to him during the movie.

You’re not offended. Not even a little. You know this is new for him—being in someone else’s space like this. Being wanted, and welcomed, and safe. You know he’s used to chaos, to hotel rooms and BAU briefings, to walls that aren’t really his and spaces that don’t feel like home.

So this?

This quiet apartment.

This night off.

This soft bed with the creaky springs and the extra blanket you laid out just in case.

You’d kissed his cheek earlier—casual, sweet—and you felt the way he shivered. Not from discomfort. From something deeper. Reverent. Like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

This is probably the most foreign territory he’s had to navigate in a while.

Now, he’s standing in your bedroom doorway like crossing the threshold might set off some emotional tripwire, and you're here, inviting him to bed— WOAH. Not like that. At least.. he thinks so? No matter how fast he thinks, that's a little too fast for him right now.

But he wants to cuddle. Of course he does. He’s been thinking about it all evening, the way your arms would feel around him, the weight of your hand between his shoulder blades, your heartbeat steady under his ear. And now you’re right here, just a breath away, and he’s… frozen.

He can't. He just can't. What if he starts sweating really badly? Like, from his hands. Or worse, his pits. And then you’ll wrinkle your nose and shift away, and then you’ll think he’s gross and never invite him over again. And what if—God—what if he drools in his sleep?

Woah. He paused. That was a spiral. He needs to take a deep breath, like you taught him. You'd never do something like that.

..Right?

He inhales.

Then exhales.

Then does it again, slower this time—like you’d coached him through after a particularly stressful case, sitting knee-to-knee in the briefing room with his hands in yours, teaching him how to ground himself. You’d said it so gently. "In through the nose, Spence. Hold it. Out through the mouth. Good."

He should do that now. He really should. Because you're not even looking at him like he's weird. You're just… waiting. Lying there on your side, propped up on one elbow, watching him with the softest little smile. You even patted the space next to you, like some sort of romantic invitation he’s terrified to accept.

Spencer wrings his hands, then stops when he realizes that might just activate the dreaded palm sweat. He drops them to his sides instead and shuffles a little closer, still hovering awkwardly by the bed like a stray cat that doesn’t quite trust the food bowl isn’t a trap.

“You okay?” you ask, voice light and full of affection. Not mocking. Never mocking.

“Y-yeah,” he croaks, which is exactly what someone not okay would say. “Just—uh. Processing.”

Your brows lift, amused but patient. “Processing whether or not you’ll survive cuddling me?”

“Exactly,” he says, pointing at you like you’ve just solved a riddle. “That. Yes.”

You laugh, and god, it’s the prettiest sound. You hold your arms open toward him like a promise. “Come here, you dramatic little beanpole. I won’t bite.”

He flushes immediately. Beanpole? He’s going to think about that for the rest of his life. But he moves, slowly, carefully, like he's approaching some sacred relic. He climbs into bed next to you with all the grace of a baby giraffe learning to walk, knees knocking into yours, elbow accidentally jabbing your pillow, and—

Then your hand finds his.

Soft. Sure.

He shuts his eyes and takes a breath, like you taught him to. In for four. Out for four.

"Spence?" Your voice cuts gently through the quiet. He feels it before he hears it—low and close, humming through the mattress. "You okay?"

He turns his head slightly, cheeks already pink. “Yeah. I just… don’t really know what to do with myself.”

There’s a pause. Then: “Do you wanna lie here?” You tap your chest lightly with a crooked smile. “Just for a bit.”

He blinks. Looks at you. Then nods, tiny and quick, like a secret.

He shifts slowly, like you’re a museum piece he doesn’t want to break. When he finally settles on your chest, it's with an exhale he didn’t realise he was holding. His ear rests just over your heart, and your arm curls instinctively around his back, hand coming to rest between his shoulder blades.

You’re warm. And steady. He can feel the way your chest rises beneath him, the slow rhythm of your breathing, the soft pressure of your palm.

And Spencer?

Spencer dies.

Or at least it feels like it. His heart is racing, and his lungs might have just stopped functioning, and he has no idea what to do with his free hand because oh, God, it’s touching your waist, and you’re warm and your hair smells so good and he’s probably holding his breath again but—

You sigh against him, content and safe, like you want to be here.

And suddenly it’s not so terrifying anymore. His muscles begin to loosen. He dares to stop holding his cheek up, like he's scared that his brain a made of a million sand bags and will crush your heart if he dares to allow himself to relax. You push his head down onto you completely, and hum in approval.

“Is this okay?” you ask.

He nods against you. “It’s… really nice, actually.”

You hum, thumb brushing slow circles into his spine. “Good. 'Cause I was worried you’d combust from overthinking.”

Spencer huffs a laugh into your shirt, eyes fluttering shut. “I almost did.”

There’s a study—somewhere in his head—about how 20 seconds of hugging can significantly reduce stress levels. He remembers reading it on his computer once, the details etched into his eidetic memory. But more than that, he remembers the day vividly because you had brought him a croissant from the bakery across the street!

The study involved nearly 200 participants who were subjected to a stressful task. Those who received a 20-second hug from their partner beforehand exhibited lower cortisol levels, the hormone associated with stress.

Now, lying here with his ear pressed against your chest, he counts the seconds. Not because he wants to leave, but because, for once, the math feels kind. He recalls that oxytocin, the "love hormone," is released during physical touch, promoting feelings of trust and bonding. This hormone can reduce cortisol levels, the body's primary stress hormone.

He thinks about how this simple act of cuddling, something so foreign to him, is now providing a tangible sense of calm. The tension in his muscles eases, and he feels a sense of peace wash over him. It's as if the scientific principles he's studied for years are now manifesting in real-time.

Spencer smiles softly, his eyes closed, and thinks, "So this is what all the research was about."

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #x male reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x male reader #spencer reid x reader #seventh writes #x gn reader #spencer reid x gn reader #x reader #Seventh Writes

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bfcpub · 1 year ago

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How to Use a Book Earning Calculator: A Comprehensive Guide

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#Book earning calculator #Book cost calculator #Book Royalty Calculator

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aphroditelovesu · 15 days ago

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Enemies to Lovers

❝ 📜 — lady l: Everyone loves an enemies to lovers, right? 😉 And so begins the 7k special! I'm really excited about it and, until it's over, I'll focus as much as possible on this special but, don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the other works. And this is soo long lol. I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! ❤️

❝tw: yandere behavior, mention of death, conquered city (massacre, slavery), "captivity", implicit dub-con, suggestive themes.

❝📜pairing: yandere!alexander the great x female!reader.

❝word count: 3,289.

— 7k special masterlist.

— tagging: @fangirlmusicbiashoe.

Your city fell shamefully quickly to the merciless advance of the Macedonian conquerors. The walls, once a symbol of security and pride, proved fragile in the face of the ingenious siege engines and the savage determination of the attackers. Within days, the siege was broken. The gates were broken down. And the soldiers, like a tide of steel and fury, invaded the streets.

The massacre was brutal. There was no mercy. Men were torn from their homes and executed right there, in front of their families. Screams of agony echoed through the alleys, mixed with the metallic sound of swords and the crackling of flames that devoured temples, houses and markets. Women, even the noble ones, were captured, tied up like cattle, branded as property. Children, torn from their mothers' arms, met the same fate: slavery.

The city, once alive, full of music, aromas and smiles, was now nothing more than a blackened ruin. Ashes in the air. The streets were covered in blood. The smell of burning flesh, ash and destruction permeated everything.

The "royal family" — your family — also paid the price for their resistance. Although your parents had received what the conqueror dared to call a "pardon," there was no real redemption in it. It was an empty pardon, cruel in its irony. There was no throne left, no city to rule, no subjects to protect. The riches had been plundered, the royal halls reduced to rubble, and the dynastic pride destroyed as easily as stepping on an insect.

Only the shadow of what had been remained. Only destruction.

And you... You were destined for an even crueler fate. You were given to Alexander as a gift, as a living symbol of victory, a spoil of war offered by one of the generals thirsting for recognition. A piece of humiliation, a constant reminder of the conquered city and the vanquished royalty.

At first, Alexander barely noticed you. You were just another figure among many — silent, broken, insignificant in the eyes of a man accustomed to taking empires into his own hands. He didn't seek you out, didn't speak to you, didn't even look in your direction. And for that, you were grateful. The last thing you wanted was to face the man who had destroyed your world, who had torn your life apart by the roots.

But, over time, something changed.

During the long campaigns, on the cold nights of marching and the suffocating days of endless battles, Alexander began to observe you. Not in a vulgar or immediate way, but with that calculating and indecipherable gaze he cast on everything he deemed to have some value.

It was subtle at first — a question here, a lingering glance there. You noticed. You felt the weight of attention growing like a veiled threat, like the harbinger of a storm that had not yet begun but that you knew was coming.

Over time, you began to be summoned more frequently to Alexander's tent. At first, they were rare audiences, justified by formalities — a word exchanged about the land he now claimed to rule, a vague comment about culture, history, language. But soon they became regular, almost ritualistic encounters, and it did not go unnoticed among the generals, servants, and soldiers. Whispers spread like smoke between the tents of the camp, speculating about what was passing between the great king and the concubine.

But Alexander would not touch you.

He never tried to kiss you, never reached out beyond the limits of conversation. His words were measured, sometimes even gentle, as if he were trying to get something out of you that wasn't hate. Maybe respect. Maybe understanding. Maybe something he couldn't name. But you didn't give him what he was looking for.

You were polite — enough to keep your head on your shoulders. But your voice was cold. Harsh. Anger burned in every word, even when it was masked by a veil of politeness. Because you hated him. And that hatred was the only thing that still gave you strength.

You hated looking at that man, hated every moment his face appeared before you. Because Alexander's face was the face of tragedy. It was the face behind the orders that had turned your city to ash, that had condemned innocents to slavery as if they were bargaining chips. The face that had led men like a storm, and left behind only silence and death.

"It's the way of war," you heard it often, from soldiers, from advisors, even from Alexander. But that didn't make the pain any less real. It didn't make anything right.

You clung to your hatred like a shipwrecked man to a lifeline. And deep down, you prayed — if there was any faith left in you — that Darius, the king of the Persians, would defeat Alexander. That he would crush him with the same fury with which your city had been crushed. That he would show this barbarian conqueror the taste of his own medicine: defeat, despair and ruin.

And maybe, deep down, you longed to see the look in his eyes then — so that he, too, would know what it was like to lose everything, just as you had.

"I don't want you to be afraid of me."

Alexander's voice broke the silence of the night like a lover's whisper — low, full of unspoken promise, but fraught with something darker. He sat before you, another of the long nights when he demanded your presence in his tent. It was almost a ritual now. You were summoned, escorted by guards through the war camp, and left there, alone with him. There was never any touching, no lewd, degrading orders. Just conversation — simple, but always steeped in a melancholy that seemed to poison the air around him.

You folded your hands in your lap to keep from impulsively frowning. You bit your tongue to stop yourself from saying something that could cost you more than your already wounded pride. Ever since your city fell, ever since members of your family were killed in front of the people and you were declared part of the spoils of war— a prize — your life had been all about swallowing words and feelings.

"Your temper will destroy you one day, my sweet child." Your mother had said this so many times, always with affection, but now those words echoed like a curse. She might still be alive, but she was far from you. Just like everything else, your family had been taken from you.

Alexander watched you with eyes that had seen dozens of battles and thousands of deaths. Different colored eyes, the right one blue and the left one brown, cold but not always cruel. There was something broken in them — or maybe just very old.

He held out a cup of wine, the gesture calm, almost casual. You hesitated, then took it. When your fingers brushed his for a brief second, you felt it. A shiver, almost imperceptible, ran through his body. Like a subtle shock. Too quick to be faked.

Curious.

You looked up, defying his gaze with the same haughtiness you had when you were still the royalty of a free city. Your people might have been crushed, but you were still made of iron inside.

"I'm not afraid of you."

The words were out before you could stop them. They were sharp, reckless, and yet... True. In part, at least. You hated him. Hated everything he stood for. But fear? No. It wasn't fear he inspired in you. It was something more complex. More dangerous.

A faint smile appeared on his lips, momentarily distorting that face carved by war and pain. A smile that seemed genuine, yet tired. Marked by invisible scars.

"Good."

You decided that you would seduce Alexander.

The decision did not come out of nowhere, much less was it born of frivolous impulses. It was cultivated, word for word, perhaps a blatant manipulation of your servant, the only one you had after the destruction of your city, one of the few women who had not been sold into slavery because she already belonged to you.

It was a warm night when your servant told you about it, while brushing your hair with slow, almost reverent movements.

"It will be beneficial, my lady." Her voice was low and submissive, laced with care, but it held a firmness that was hard to ignore. "If you become his mistress, you will have more influence than any of his generals. You will be able to ask and desire whatever you want."

You huffed, trying to push the suggestion away like an uncomfortable smoke. But it hung thickly. Uncomfortable.

"I don't want anything from that man." Your answer came out harsher than necessary, laden with the bitterness that filled her days. "I will never love him."

She smiled, that enigmatic smile of someone who has lived too much and seen too many women trade innocence for survival. She leaned in slightly, her firm fingers holding your chin, forcing you to look at her.

"And who spoke of love, my lady?" The question hung between you, like an obscene revelation.

You held her gaze. Your servant's green eyes were clear and calm, but they held secrets you would never dare ask. There was a silent wisdom there, built on the fringes of male power, where women shaped empires without ever wielding swords or shouting orders from atop a horse.

You never thought of becoming someone's mistress. Your parents raised you with virtue, with rules that now seemed to belong to an extinct world. You grew up believing that you would only give yourself to your future husband, in a political union sealed with honor and, if you were lucky, love.

But the future was burned in the squares of your city. The present was made of ashes and painful choices.

And maybe... Maybe winning Alexander's heart — or at least his desire — was the only weapon you had left.

"Teach me what I need to know." Your voice was soft, but filled with something new. Determination. Hunger for control.

Your servant smiled, this time with pride. A wide smile, like someone who had just placed the first piece in a dangerous game.

"With pleasure, my lady."

Your servant stopped combing your hair, putting the brush aside and picking up some of the jewelry you still had. There were few, few treasures you had managed to save.

"Beauty is a weapon, my lady. And you must learn to use it."

Your servant's voice was a sweet, submissive whisper, as sharp as the knives hidden under women's cloaks for centuries.

She fastened the gold bracelet around your wrist with deft fingers, the metal glinting in the soft torchlight. It was an antique piece of jewelry that had belonged to one of your aunts — a woman known as much for her elegance as for her ability to win men over with a smile. You missed her.

You watched her silently, feeling the weight of her words. This wasn't just a piece of jewelry. It was armor. A statement.

"I've heard that Alexander is a curious man," She continued, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with measured care, "and that he likes rare and beautiful things."

Your eyes met hers again. The flame of the candle glowed between you, reflecting two women at war: one training to survive, the other training to conquer.

Rare. Beautiful. Curious.

Words that had once seemed vain now sounded like strategies. You knew that Alexander was a man of vast ambitions, a collector of cities, victories, treasures and foreign philosophies. Perhaps, then, he also wanted a woman who was not only submissive, but intriguing. Who knew how to dance the fine line between desire and challenge.

"Do you think I can seduce him?" You asked, not out of doubt, but calculation. You needed to hear the words out loud to shape your plan.

"I think nothing of it," Your servant replied, her eyes shining with conviction. "I know you can, my lady."

Alexander was an easy man to please.

Despite his achievements and his status as the son of Zeus, he was, at heart, a soldier. He slept in tents even when he had palaces at his disposal. He ate what his men ate. He had grown up under harsh discipline, molded by a Spartan education that taught him that glory was more valuable than gold, and that the blade of a sword was worth more than any jewel.

But men like that... They always made room for a desire they could not control.

And you — you would become his most precious possession.

Not out of affection. Never for that. You hated him with every fiber of your being. You hated the sound of his name, you hated the way his men spoke of him as if he were a god. You hated the way he looked at you sometimes, with something that seemed like regret... Or pity.

But now, you understood. Survival was more urgent than pride. More cruel, more insatiable.

As painful as it was to admit.

You were beautiful. You knew it. It was a beauty that no one could take from you, not even war. Not even him. The silk of your dress glided against your skin, molding your body elegantly. A few carefully chosen jewels sparkled discreetly, drawing the eyes where you wanted them to look. Your hair fell like a curtain over your shoulders. You didn’t need to be adorned like a queen — you just had to look unattainable like one.

You waited for his servant to come and call you.

As he did every night. It was a habit now — a silent routine where you just talked. Warm words, exchanged under the light of the flame. Sometimes he spoke of battles, of his mother, of Aristotle. Other times, he just listened to your voice as if it were the only living thing in that blood-stained world.

But not today.

When one of his servants called you, you stood up with a soft sigh, trying to control the subtle tremor that threatened your hands. You looked at your servant, who returned your gaze with a proud gleam in her eyes — a mix of complicity and expectation. She adjusted a last loose strand of your hair and whispered, as a reminder:

"Remember... You are the prize, not the gift."

You nodded slightly and, with what remained of your dignity dressed in silk and silence, made your way to his tent.

The interior was warm with the light of the flames and the smell of wine and leather. Alexander was reclining on cushions, a half-read parchment beside him, his boots still on his feet. When his eyes met yours, something subtly changed in his expression. He blinked once, surprised — not by your face, which he knew so well, but by how it revealed itself that night. His gaze lingered on your bare shoulders, on your arms delicately exposed, on the curve of your neck wrapped only by a thin chain.

It was a surprise for him. And, to your silent shame, it was pleasant for you. A bitter wave of pride ran down your spine. Pride that you could still control something — even if it was only the desire of a man you hated.

But along with pride came disgust.

The disgust of knowing he was exactly where you wanted him: attentive, vulnerable to what he couldn't possess by force.

"Is there some special occasion I’m not aware of?" He asked, a smile tugging at his lips as he held out a cup of wine to you. His voice sounded carefree, but there was too much tension in his shoulders to be natural.

You accepted the cup with a polite smile, your fingertips lightly brushing his — on purpose, this time.

"None," You replied, your voice velvety, low, almost casual. You lifted the glass to your lips, savoring the wine before continuing, "I just thought... I should dress up to see you."

The answer fell between you like a spell.

You watched him take a deep breath. A single, heavy sigh that said more than any words could. Like he was fighting something — an impulse, a thought, a desire. His eyes traced you with more intent now, but they were still hesitant, as if he didn't want to break the strange bond you had built. The conversations. The nights of words and safe distance.

But you knew: that security was over. Because today, he wasn't facing the prisoner. Or the "princess". He was facing you, a version of yourself that you didn't even know existed.

You walked elegantly through the tent, your feet almost silent against the thick carpets. You pretended to observe the environment as if it were the first time, even though you already knew every corner, every carefully arranged object. Alexander followed your movements with his eyes, his body still still, but attentive, like a predator that doesn't know if it's hunting or being hunted.

You approached the table where he had left the parchment and ran your fingers delicately over the surface, distracted, as if you didn't notice his gaze burning your skin. Then, you turned slowly, the fabric of your dress sliding over the curves of your body, and sat down — not in your usual place, but closer.

"You look tired, Alexander." Your voice was soft, almost gentle, but filled with intent. "The battles are taking a lot out of you."

"It's the price of victory." He replied, with a hint of irony, still studying your face.

"And who takes care of the king when he returns from the field?" You asked, leaning in slightly, your neckline parting subtly with the movement. "Who helps him forget his scars, even for a night?"

The silence that followed was thick as velvet. Alexander didn't answer right away. His eyes had darkened a little, and the muscle in his jaw twitched. He raised the cup of wine to his lips, but didn't drink. He just watched you.

You knew what you were doing — and so did he. But this was part of the game. And he wanted to see how far you would go.

With a delicate gesture, you removed the necklace from your neck, as if you were relieving a weight. Then, you leaned over once more and placed your hand on his leg — nothing vulgar, just the minimal, calculated touch of a woman who knew the value of her own body. Exactly as your servant had taught you.

"If you want me tonight..." You said, without trembling, even though everything inside you was at war. "I will be yours."

He remained still for a moment, as if the world had stopped spinning. Then, he spoke, his voice lower and hoarser than usual, "Are you sure about this?"

You held his gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't run away. As much as you wanted to.

"I am certain that I want to survive. And that I want to be able to, Alexander. Like all the beautiful things you collect… I can be useful too."

Something changed in his gaze. It wasn't just desire. It was admiration, or perhaps respect — for your boldness, for your coldness. Perhaps for the courage to use the only weapon the conqueror could not yet control: yourself.

He raised his hand, hesitantly, and touched your face. His fingers warm against your skin. You didn't flinch.

"Then come." He said, almost in a whisper.

You closed the distance between you, your bodies close together, and when he kissed you for the first time, you just let him guide you, undress you, and possess you.

You still hated him and knew you always would, but now... You gave yourself over to the pleasure, to the power and influence you could gain over him.

Your survival was greater than the hatred you felt at the moment.

#7k celebration #yandere history #alexander the great x reader #yandere alexander the great #yandere alexander the great x reader #yandere historical characters #enemies to lovers #yandere x reader #x reader #yandere au

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r3starttt · 1 month ago

Text

LA DÉDICACE

PAIRING: Princess! Abby Anderson x reader

SUMMARY: Where abby falls for the woman she met at a mascarade.

CW: angsty asf but also lots of yearning and happy ending. It's a request ♡ thanks anon

TAGLIST: @twopeoplee @greysontheidiot @sapphic-ovaries @bilsvlt @tlouloser @marsworlddd @1-800-fantasy @prwttiestbunny @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @abbys-muscles @lott6i @imagoddess @lovelyy-moonlight

A.N: Inspired on Renee Vivien's poems. I enjoyed writing this request so much.

I was originally doing this for Caitlyn but ended up working with Abby. Either way... it's pretty good, me thinks.

I will beg for u, pretty amazing reader to please leave a comment or reblog this or both if you liked it even the tinniest bit. Please and thanks ♡ hope u enjoy.

It was a rare affliction, a peculiar and persistent condition that ran through the veins of the noble bloodline, one that neither healer nor sorcerer could eradicate. For two decades, no remedy—no enchanted herb, no mystical fruit, nor sacred flower—could cleanse it, as if the hand of God itself had decreed this fate. For nearly every noble child born in that time had been gifted—or burdened—with the biological form of a woman.

This had become a growing concern, a burden for those aware of the little time the King had left. What would become of the kingdom when the king passed? Would the throne remain empty, or worse, be claimed by someone unfit to rule?

Even so, Abigail had come to embody the very heart of her father’s reign. There could be no missteps, no flaws. Every moment was a calculation, for any slip would cost her dearly. With every five steps forward, one misstep could undo it all, leaving her at least six steps behind.

Her father’s affection for her was evident, but she knew it could only stretch so far. He could not afford to show weakness, even in the face of his own daughter’s love. His affection was tempered by his duty, by the crown’s expectations. She was aware that, despite the love he had for her, it would never grant her complete freedom.

Yet, Abigail remained soft-hearted, her nature too gentle for the hardened world around her. She was born to love, to represent the purest form of royalty—one that transcended power and wealth.

Her speech was carefully honed, polished with elocution and intelligence, words flowing with a cadence so refined that only the most learned would comprehend them. Consonants and vowels twisted into intricate phrases, a vocabulary that demanded respect, reserved for those worthy of understanding it. And so she adapted. She humiliated with her words, She wielded her intellect as both a shield and a sword—using it to humiliate, to elevate herself above those who sought to diminish her.

Abigail reveled in the confusion, for it was their inability to understand her that made her presence all the more commanding.

And the thought—faint at first, yet persistent—began to root itself in the deepest corners of her mind: that perhaps, somewhere beyond the stone walls and polished silver of her upbringing, there existed a man whose tongue would not stumble over flattery, whose gaze held clarity, and whose heart could mirror her own in strength and tenderness. A man whose hair bore the color of summer grain like her father’s, and whose nobility ran not through lineage, but through his deeds.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

A favor, a borrowed mask, and a friend in the castle kitchens had slipped you past the guards. It was foolish—dangerous even—but something in you longed to see how the other half lived. Just for one night.

The palace shimmered under golden candlelight, each chandelier catching the gleam of masked faces and embroidered gowns.

And then you saw her.

She stood at the edge of the ballroom, tall and composed, a detailed mask made with the most expensive materials, the only one who worn color. Raming eyes and golden hair coiled back with precision. Her dress was different from the others.

When your eyes met, she didn’t look away.

She approached.

You spoke of nothing and everything—books, cities you’d never seen, dreams that didn’t belong to your class. She was clever and soft-spoken, but there was steel in the way she carried herself, like she’d been taught to command even in silence. Still, you didn’t question her name, nor did she offer one.

Hours passed unnoticed. At some point, she took your hand, guiding you through a dance you didn’t know. Her touch was steady. Gentle.

You expected mockery when you stumbled over a step, but instead, she leaned close, her breath brushing your ear.

“Follow me,” your body understood the rhythm better than your mind ever could. The rest of the world blurred. Your feet moved not with grace, but trust. It was enough.

Laughter and music spun around you like a spell. You couldn't remember the last time you felt so light, so seen. When she smiled—soft, private, meant only for you—you realized the knot that lived in your chest had loosened.

She didn’t ask about your dress, which was borrowed. Or your speech, a little too rough to pass for nobility. She didn’t seem to care. Or perhaps… perhaps she already knew.

As the night wore on, the candles melted lower. Midnight loomed, and with it, the unraveling of fantasy. You felt it before you heard it—distant bells from the outer ward, signaling the change of watch. A quiet reminder that time was not yours.

You pulled back slightly, your hand still in hers. “I should go.”

Something flickered across her face. Regret? Frustration? She didn’t argue, but she also didn’t let go.

“One more minute,” she said, her voice barely audible above the music. “May I have your name?"

You hesitated. Your eyes drifted to the crowd, to the towering ceiling, to the place you knew you didn’t belong.

Her lips parted slightly—just slightly. It wasn’t quite a smile. Not this time.

“Let me see you,” she said, as if taking your mask off with her voice.

But you couldn’t.

You slipped away. And she let you go.

You didn’t know her name.

And you would soon haunt her thoughts.

When the moon weeps,

illuminating flowers on the graves of the faithful,

my memories creep

back to you, wrapped in flightless wings.

Love, if only you would come again—

My hands could hold your fragile wings.

But time slips like water through my fingers

And my soul remains thirsty, empty.

— A. A.

Abigail found herself longing —selfishly, perhaps—for such a intimate encounter like she had with you. For someone who could shield her without binding her, who could love her not despite who she was, but because of it. Someone as soft as you felt that night.

She prayed. Quiet, hopeless prayers to a god she was not even sure she believed in, hoping that if divinity ever listened, it might listen now. And though the desire was delicate, even innocent at its core, it was also indulgent. For a woman born into power, even dreaming of such things was its own form of rebellion.

Still, she clung to the thought like one clings to warmth in winter, and eventually, it drove her to act. With uncharacteristic nerve, she asked the king—her father—for a rare permission. She wished to leave the palace walls. Just once. To see beyond the curated beauty of rose gardens and marble columns. He agreed, reluctantly. And so she went, dressed in garments that barely clung to her body, coarse fabric draped in a way no noblewoman would dare be seen. A cloak of shadows sewn by her trusted maid, who accompanied her closely.

The streets were crowded with the hungry and the poor. The scent of ash, sweat, and desperation lingered in the air like a curse. But she was not broken by the sight. She had always known this world existed—her education had not spared her such truths—but it had remained a distant concept until now. Weakness, her father once said, is a luxury afforded only to fools. And she had taken that lesson to heart.

Still, it was in this moment of carefully guarded defiance that fate began to stir.

She thought her journey would remain uneventful—a quiet, dangerous indulgence.

The same path that had led her through narrow alleys and cobbled streets now brought her to a modest marketplace. Here, the world was loud and alive—vendors shouting prices, children pulled tightly by their mothers' hands, food exchanged for coin in desperate urgency. She moved with care, slipping between the crowds, eyes wide and curious.

And then she saw it.

A small wooden stall, nearly hidden among the others, bore a collection of books. Old and weathered, but dignified. One, in particular, caught her attention. Its spine was cracked, its edges softened with use, but the author’s name glinted faintly beneath the dust—poetry, surely. She reached for it, compelled by a hunger she could not name.

Before her fingers could graze the cover, a hand snatched it away.

“It isn’t for sale,” came a voice—calm, firm, feminine.

Startled, she looked up to meet the eyes of a young woman, perhaps no older than herself. Her hands were ink-stained, her gaze sharp.

Abigail’s brows furrowed, not in fury, but confusion. She was not used to being refused.

For a moment, the princess simply stared—no words, no breath, no pretense. Just awe.

A woman… with a book.

Abigail straightened, smoothing the front of her coarse, borrowed cloak as if it could somehow conceal the nobility in her posture. She reminded herself that here, in the dusty stalls of the outer market, she was no more than another traveler with a few coins to spare.

"I apologize," she said, her tone soft but poised. “I thought it was part of the selection.”

The woman didn’t answer. Her gaze was lowered, careful, her body turning slightly to hide the book from further view. Not defiant—guarded. As if hiding something more dangerous than poetry.

Abby tilted her head, her curiosity blooming faster than she could contain. She knew what that kind of secrecy meant. That book hadn’t been purchased with ease. It had been fought for—perhaps traded for meals, hidden under floorboards.

The round eyes of the princess flicked over the rest of the stall—stacks of worn leather covers, the delicate crinkle of pages long loved or long forgotten. Titles that ranged from crude farming manuals to religious texts, even a faded volume of sonnets with gilded corners. Her fingers hovered over the bindings like someone choosing which star to pluck from the sky.

"How much for this one?" she asked casually, selecting a thick, obscure volume she already owned in triplicate back in the palace library.

The woman hesitated. Named a fair price.

Abby smiled, polite, distant. “And the rest of this row?”

That drew the woman’s eyes upward. Suspicion. Curiosity. She named another sum—one that no commoner would offer so easily. Abby didn’t flinch. She placed the coins on the wooden table, deliberately overpaying by more than half.

She didn’t say why.

And as she turned to leave, she caught the briefest glimpse of the woman watching her—no thanks, no smile. But her fingers had softened around the book, her shoulders ever so slightly less rigid.

Abigail walked away feeling like she had read something more intimate than poetry that day. And she would return.

Abigail approached the book stall quietly, her eyes scanning the crowd. She'd already passed by it twice before finally deciding to stop, half-hoping the woman wouldn't notice her hesitation. Her cloak fluttered lightly behind her as she moved through the throngs, a deliberate, purposeful walk to the stall that had caught her attention so many times before.

It had been a week since their last encounter. She had meant to return sooner, but her duties had held her captive.

As she reached the stall, the woman looked up, their eyes meeting with the briefest flicker of recognition. There was a coolness in the air between them. The woman’s eyes spoke volumes of the caution she held.

“You're back” The woman’s voice was guarded, but there was a faint curiosity hidden beneath it. A statement and a question at once.

Abby nodded, glancing at the books displayed on the rickety wooden table. She ran her fingers over the leather bindings as she spoke. Her fingers gripped a small, intricately bound book she’d picked up from the royal library.

It caught your attention. That was clear. But after having received a huge amount of money from the woman in front of you, all you could think of was to not trust her. You knew better than to fall for money, but hunger had made you take it.

The nobles where selfish, and as much as you desired to allow their charity, you knew the consequences of it could go as far as ending with your life.

“You’re generous, but I’m not in need of charity.”

"Who said anything about charity?” She set the book down gently on the table, pushing it towards you. “It’s a trade. Nothing more.”

As far as you could tell, her tone was as honest as it was sophisticated. You hesitated, your fingers brushing the book before returning your gaze back to the woman in front of you. “You’ve been very generous with your coin before. A little too generous for my taste,” your tone cutting yet with a layer of genuine wariness.

Abby glanced down at her hands, feeling a flicker of guilt. “I don’t want your distrust.”

You leaned forward, just enough to get a proper look of her face. “A woman like you has no need for my meager books. And yet… you keep returning. That’s more than I can understand.”

And after a small pause, you reached for the small pouch of coins the blonde had placed beside the book. You allowed your fingers to brush the velvet fabric, giving the woman a quiet appraising look.

“This is more than I could ever ask for,” your tone tinged with both surprise and reluctance. “You’ve given me far too much.”

Abigail smiled again, though this time it was softer, more genuine. “I will come back." Her lips curved up into a subtle smile, and for the briefest of moments, the tension eased.

Ever since that first exchange, Abigail kept returning. At first, it was infrequent—perhaps once every few weeks, when the weight of royal duty would lift long enough for her to venture outside the palace walls, wrapped in the guise of a mere commoner. She was careful, always cautious not to attract too much attention.

Abigail never brought more than what was needed. She was always respectful in her exchanges, never forcing the conversation beyond what was comfortable.

For the first few exchanges, you kept your distance, aware that life could be changed by the mere presence of a noble. Abigail would offer her a few extra coins, always polite, but never asking anything of it beyond the books. Each time, you would glance at the coins, as though calculating their worth, and then slip them into your pocket, still with some doubt.

But it was the books that spoke more than anything. With every new volume that Abigail brought, a part of her own story unfolded for you. She brought not just simple novels or works of fiction, but the classics—poetry, philosophy.

What intrigued you most, however, was that Abigail never expected anything in return—at least, not explicitly. She didn’t press for anything other than the books in exchange. There were no strings attached, no promises of wealth or favors. She had all of that already.

But over time, something changed. It wasn’t just the books. The more Abigail returned, the more she lingered, sometimes even engaging in brief, innocent conversations. She asked about the books and your opinions, what you'd learned from them, and sometimes, if she was feeling bold, about your life outside the stall. At first, you had been hesitant to share any details. Your life was full of hardship, days spent scraping by. You wasn’t someone who had the luxury of talking about dreams or aspirations.

“Do you ever think about leaving?”

It was an innocuous question, one that any other noblewoman might ask in passing. But there was no pity in her eyes. Only curiosity.

“You can’t leave. Not when you’ve nothing to your name but this stall.”

Abigail nodded, understanding. “But surely you have dreams, something you long for?”

You swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of each of your unspoken desires.

“I dream of reading more,” you admitted, not honestly but enough to suffice her curiosity.

Abigail’s gaze softened, but there was a quiet intensity in her eyes, as though she could see the layers beneath your words—those that you had not said aloud. She didn’t press you, but she was patient, allowing the silence to linger between you.

“You dream of reading more…” Abigail repeated your words, her voice gentle but knowing. There was no judgment, no disbelief. She simply allowed the truth to unfold in its own time.

“Books are a start,” she said softly, her tone warm. "But there's more than books in life."

You shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her eyes for a moment, but her soft expression never wavered. She wasn’t asking for anything more. She was simply… acknowledging.

"Not for everyone," you said finally, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Abigail was silent for a moment, but then she stepped a little closer. “You could have more than just books.”

You looked at her then, the magnitude of what she was offering beginning to settle over you. You had always been taught to rely on yourself, to take what you could from life, no matter how little. But here was someone offering to change that, offering something you’d never dared to ask for: a chance.

And the strangest thing was, you didn’t know whether to be skeptical, to distrust her offer because of who she was—or to believe.

But fear is bigger than hunger some times.

“I don’t know what you mean," you said softly, avoiding her gaze as to end this conversation.

Abigail’s gaze softened. She would never give empty promises, and less ask for anything in return. She was simply offering what she could.

It happened swiftly.

A nobleman—one you’d only ever seen from afar—had spotted you lingering at your stall too long. Perhaps it was the way your fingers turned the pages with too much familiarity. Or maybe the way your eyes scanned the titles like you knew them. Whatever it was, it drew attention.

They returned at dawn with two guards and a parchment bearing the royal seal. You tried to deny it, claimed the stall was someone else’s. You were simply helping. But a quick search unearthed your notes hidden beneath the crates, your writing—your handwriting—and books you’d copied by hand. Evidence, they called it.

A woman. Reading. Selling books. Writing.

Unheard of.

You were dragged through the streets, past jeering stares and hushed murmurs, your skirts muddied, your lip bloodied where a guard had lost patience.

You were being held in a cold, stone chamber. You hadn’t spoken, keeping your eyes low, your body still.

Until the doors burst open.

And there she was.

Not in her common cloak or with dirt on her cheeks—but in velvet. Dark and royal. Her golden hair braided up and away from her face, her spine straight as a sword.

“Release her,” she said. Her voice didn’t raise—it didn’t need to.

The guards glanced at one another. “But, Your Grace—”

“She stands accused of treason. An accusation of such gravity must be handled with care, not brute force,” Abigail said coolly, a tone laced with sharp authority as she stepped forward. “I shall escort her to His Majesty myself.”

You stared at her, betrayal and awe mixing in your stomach. Her Grace?

Abby didn’t meet your eyes. Not until the guards obeyed, not until your wrists were cut loose and your trembling form collapsed against her without meaning to.

Then, and only then, she looked at you.

“I apologize,” she whispered.

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

But when her hand slipped gently into yours, guiding you down the echoing halls of the palace, you didn’t let go.

The palace corridors were colder than you had imagined—colder even than the cell. The air hummed with stillness, untouched by wind or warmth. Each step echoed too loudly, your muddied skirts whispering shame against the polished stone. Behind the impassive masks of the guards, behind the glint of helmets and spears, you could feel the eyes. Watching. Judging. Knowing.

Maids lingered in corners, nobles passed at a distance, halting ever so slightly as if they sensed something was amiss. A peasant woman, bruised and bleeding, being pulled through the halls by the hand of the princess. You caught their glances—curious, disgusted, afraid. Perhaps some pitied you. Perhaps they remembered once standing where you stood now. Or perhaps they simply watched the spectacle unfold, as people always did when someone beneath them stumbled.

And still, she didn’t look back.

Abigail’s hand stayed firm around yours, steady and warm despite the chill. Only when the heavy doors closed behind you, cutting the world away with a soft thud, did she stop.

Her chambers were suffocating in their beauty. A great fire flickered in the hearth, gold and amber licking the carved stone. Velvet curtains billowed faintly over tall windows that framed the last light of the sun. The furniture gleamed with polish and expense, everything arranged not for comfort, but presentation. It was the kind of room that could silence a person.

And it silenced you.

Because here, now, surrounded by the spoils of her life, the truth became unbearable. With one of her rings, she could buy a year of your survival. One of her shoes, a month of bread. With a single necklace—forgotten, perhaps, at the bottom of a drawer—she could pay off every debt you’d ever inherited.

It was obscene. It was staggering.

It was her.

She turned to face you then, and for the first time since the cell, the mask cracked. Her poise faltered—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you. Enough to know it cost her something.

“I am sorry,” she said, not softly this time, not like before. Her voice trembled with something deeper, something close to shame. “More than I can say.”

“You lied to me.”

It came out flat, brittle, like a blade dropped on stone.

“I did not lie,” she answered carefully. “I withheld the truth.”

“That is a lie.”

She flinched—not visibly, but internally, something shifted. She stepped toward you, paused, then held herself still with deliberate restraint.

“It was never my intention to deceive you. I swear it. But revealing who I am—it would’ve placed you in more danger, not less. I thought... if I stayed silent, I could keep you safe.”

Your chest tightened, the words catching like thorns in your throat. “It was never going to be safe,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Not for me. Not for people like me.”

She said nothing. Because she knew.

“You,” you continued, your voice growing steadier, harsher, “You can wrap a scarf around your head and walk through the market like it’s some kind of game. Smell the rot, hear the cries, pretend to understand. But I live it. I bleed for it. I stood there every day until my legs gave out, until the guards tore my stall apart and dragged me through the filth for daring to read. And you—”

Your voice cracked. “You disappeared. And I paid for it.”

Silence settled, thick and suffocating. Abigail’s eyes dropped for a moment, her jaw tight with guilt.

“I would give anything to go back,” she said at last, voice low, deliberate, every syllable weighted with remorse. “Had I known what would happen, I would have torn down the palace gates to stop it. But I did not know. And now all I can offer is this: let me make it right.”

She stepped forward, slow, her hands open at her sides. “I will speak to the King. The charges will be erased. I will see to it myself.”

You stared at her. “And then what?” you asked. “You think I can just go back to the ashes of my life and start again?”

“I don’t expect that.”

Your voice dropped. “I have nowhere to go.”

She winced again, and you knew then she’d never considered what having nothing truly meant. Not until she saw it stitched into your skin, bruised into your lip.

“You can stay here,” she said, quieter now, but with clarity. “Not as a servant. Not as a prisoner. As my guest. Protected. Free, for as long as you choose.”

You let out a bitter laugh, sharp and hollow. “Free? Under a crown? Under your watch?”

Abigail’s expression didn’t change. But her voice, when it came, was fiercer than before.

“I will not pretend that I can erase your suffering. Nor will I insult you by asking for your trust. But know this: no harm will come to you while I draw breath."

And still, you didn’t speak. Because it didn’t feel like a choice—it felt like surrender. All that you had built—small, fragile, secret—burned down in a single morning. And in its place, stood a stranger wrapped in velvet, offering a different kind of cage.

Yet what choice did you have?

With your heart bleeding in your hands, with pride worn thin and dignity stripped bare, you nodded.

The door creaked open long past midnight.

You were more than awake. Sleep had long abandoned you in this place—where the sheets were too soft, the air too still, the silence too unnatural. You sat at the window, knees hugged to your chest, the fire burned low behind you.

Your eyes were still red, body and face bruised and covered in dirt and sweat.

When she entered, Abigail looked heavy. It was clear the news would not be nice. Not for you.

Her braid had started to come loose around her face and her hands were held tight. For once, you allowed yourself to stare back, to look every inch of skin that defined her face. Until she spoke.

“He’s allowed it,” she continued. “You may stay. You won’t be tried. The charges are to be forgotten.”

For once today it felt like maybe your life was worth it. Like the rage in your stomach could be forgotten if you just let out a breath you've held since she left you in the overwhelming of expensiveness.

“But,” she added, and you held your breath again. “It comes with condition.”

Of course it does.

You said nothing. She waited, but you didn’t speak, and so she did instead.

“You’ll have to work. Officially. Be assigned a role—maid, laundress, kitchen help. You’ll be paid. Fed. But you won’t be free to wander. And you will answer to the steward.”

You scoffed—barely more than a breath, but she heard it. Her clothes moved beautifully as she dragged herself closer to you. “I begged him to let you stay as my guest. But he wouldn’t allow it. Said no woman without title or trade stays under his roof without purpose.”

She continued after you held your words.

“I accepted,” she said, precise. “Because the alternative was your death.”

That shut you up. Any single thought on your mind erased at the pronunciation of such word.

“I’ll see to it that you’re given the lightest duties. You won’t scrub floors or clean privies. I’ll speak to the head of the linens or the kitchens—”

“I’ll do what I must,” you cut in quietly. “It’s more than most get.”

You stood then, brushing your hands down the plain clothes you've worn all day.

“I can’t promise I’ll be grateful,” you murmured.

Abigail’s voice was softer than before. “I don’t need your gratitude.” She meant her words, and you could tell.

You looked at her then. Really looked once again. She was oddly beautiful in an impossible way—too poised, too noble. But her eyes were tired, red at the corners. Her jaw was tight. You wondered how many people had ever dared speak to her without bowing.

You stepped past her to the bed and simply stared at it. Not like something to be used, but something to be earned.

You just stood there—fists curled, muscles drawn tight, like you might still be dragged away at any moment.

“When do I start?” you asked.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

You nodded once, like it hurt.

Abby hesitated. Then stepped closer—slowly, carefully, like she was approaching a frightened animal. Her voice gentled. “You’re still bleeding.”

You blinked.

“I saw it earlier,” she went on, eyes catching the cut at your lip, the ugly purple swelling along your cheekbone. Her voice caught, almost imperceptibly. “Please. Let me help.”

You didn’t answer. But your silence wasn’t a refusal. Just… stunned stillness.

“There’s a basin in the side room. I’ll draw water." Her tone became more formal, more deliberate—like she was giving you a choice no one else ever had. “You can bathe in privacy. I’ll send for clean cloths. And I have balm for the bruising—rosehip and myrrh. It’s gentle.”

You stared at her, your throat thick. No one had ever offered you softness after pain. Not like this.

“For tonight,” she added, a little quieter, “let me make it less unbearable.”

Still, you hesitated—until you caught the way her hands shook slightly, clasped in front of her. You weren’t the only one wounded here.

When the moon gazes upon my face,

I think of you.

When the night holds me in silence,

I hear your breath.

Your name is the last thing

I speak before sleep takes me.

— A. A.

The sun had barely begun to rise, and already the garden was alive with fresh smells. You found yourself there—on the edge of the palace’s sprawling grounds—fingertips brushing over the cool leaves of the herbs. There was something oddly peaceful about the place, about the quiet hum of the early morning. No jeering, no judgment. Just earth beneath your feet and the scent of thyme and rosemary in the air.

The task was simple—gather what you could for the kitchens. But in a place like this, simplicity felt like a fleeting thing. Everything about the palace weighed heavily on your chest. The duties you now had, the role you played. Even if it was a “gift,” the reality of it felt more like a gilded cage than sanctuary.

You bent down to pluck a few sprigs of parsley, the cool soil soft against your hands, when the quiet hum of footsteps reached your ears.

Abigail.

She didn’t announce herself.

You didn’t even see her approach, but you felt her presence the moment she stood just behind you, a space between you but still close enough for you to hear the rustling of her silk cloak as it moved with her.

“Should you be here?” you asked without looking up.

Yet, before she could make any sound, one of the older maids had come around the corner and froze at the sight. “Your Grace,” she whispered, blanching. “You shouldn’t be—if the steward finds out—”

“I’ll speak with him,” Abigail said simply, without turning. “And if he has concerns, he may bring them to me.”

“But—”

Abigail turned around, the sternness in her frown being enough for the woman to duck her head and vanish.

“You’ll get us in trouble,” you murmured, withdrawing your hand from your task. “They think I’m not suitable. If you keep showing up, they’ll start treating me worse, not better.” Your tone had grown quieter since you arrived.

Abigail wasn't only here for you, but you were indeed the main interest.

She had slept in worry about how would you adjust. If you would be in any danger when she wasn't around.

That you didn't know, and for your eyes she was a selfish princess who thought knew better.

“They wouldn’t dare,” she said softly. “I made myself clear the night you arrived. You are to be shown dignity, same as anyone else in this castle.”

You blinked at her, struck silent. Each time she spoke it only got you confused. You simply won't ever trust her. It was impossible to comprehend such a woman. She couldn't actually care about a stranger. And if so, it had to do more than just a shared love for books.

"Would you allow me to help?" her question made you jump at the sudden if sound other than breeze and women yelling in the kitchen.

You hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Sure."

She had insisted for weeks now. Not with words but with the way her eyes stared at what you'd gathered or how she wandered in the kitchen even after being begged by the women there to stop doing so.

She knelt beside you, her fingers delicately brushing against the leaves, almost like she was afraid to disturb the stillness of the space. You couldn’t help but notice the ease with which she worked, how even something as simple as this seemed to become something of grace when she was involved.

The two of you worked in silence for a while.

It wasn’t the silence that struck you, it was the subtle closeness that had grown between you, the quiet understanding that was slowly building with every small gesture.

Maybe you could eventually trust her.

"Do you know my name?" she asked suddenly, her voice laced with a kind of quiet amusement, as if the question was an invitation.

You blinked, not entirely sure where this was going. "Abigail," you said, your voice hesitant, as if testing the waters. "That’s all they say."

She paused for a moment, leaning back as her expression softened at the sight of a bee dancing over lavander. She stared at you then, looking at your hair, your neck. Your eyes and nose and lips. "What may I call you?”

She looked with innocence. A genuine interest.

And as you spoke your name, it all made since.

There is no garden where I walk,

But a world of roses

That you have left behind.

Each step I take upon your name,

Each breath a memory you have given me.

— A. A.

You eventually grew familiar with the castle.

Not comfortable—never that—but familiar. You memorized the rhythm of the guards steps, the scent of the kitchens before noon, and the way the light warmed the stone differently depending on the time of day. You came to understand its mood. And more than once, you found yourself lost in it—on purpose.

After all, it wasn’t the first time you’d walked those halls.

But now, your steps took you beyond the scullery and the washroom. Beyond the garden paths where you pretended not to notice the woman who always found you there. Abigail. Princess. Her Grace.

She had made it a quiet mission to gift you books—slipping them into your hands when no one looked, pretending they were forgotten things, unwanted. But her eyes always lingered a beat too long, her voice always softened at the handoff. At first, she gave you simple stories. Then poems. Then banned texts again, bound in worn leather or too-new covers that meant she’d taken risks for them. For you.

Her shame was as small as her restraint. She invited you to her alcove again under the guise of reading. Then to the library, with a confidence too casual to be honest. You never said no, not once. But you never let yourself stay long, either.

Still, she had not once left you alone for a whole day. Somehow, she always appeared—ghostlike and golden—on the edge of your hours. In the garden with some excuse. In the kitchen asking about herbs she already knew. Sometimes, knocking at your chamber door, only to say she’d forgotten what she meant to say in the first place.

Abigail wasn’t sure when it began. The unraveling.

Only that it had. And that now she was helpless against it.

She thought of you more often than the laws she was born to uphold. More than her duties, her gowns, her name.

She didn’t know how to bear it.

In the solitude of her room, when the moon hung heavy and she was left with her thoughts and too many luxuries, she thought of the first time she saw you.

Not in chains. Not bloodied.

But in silk.

Under the soft light of the masquerade—when your mask had been simple but your laughter louder than music. When your hand had brushed hers for a moment too long, and she’d thought, foolishly, that she’d never forget the feeling of it. That was the night she’d wanted to kiss you. When she still didn’t know your name but already wanted to learn it.

Now she did know it. She whispered it into her pillow when refused to allow herself pleasure.

And it only hurt more. It tore at her to remember who you had been before she failed you. Before her world and its rules pulled you into a prison. And she hated herself for having the power to save you and still not being able to give you freedom.

She couldn’t kiss you now.

Couldn’t touch you.

Couldn’t even stare for too long without fear clawing its way into her throat.

What if you hated her for it? What if you saw her as nothing more than your keeper, your chain disguised in shiny velvet?

What if someone saw?

So she suffered in silence, and soothed herself—ironically—with the very thought that burned her.

You.

And meanwhile, you did everything in your power to keep yourself away from thoughts like those.

She was the princess. A tender built of stars and stained glass. And you—now—were just another girl who worked beneath her roof. One of many.

You folded linens and scrubbed your hands raw and didn’t dare speak her name aloud unless required. That was reality.

And anything else was more than foolish.

It was dangerous, even.

You would not dream. Could not afford to.

But god, at times… when you let your guard slip—when she tilted her head just so, or smiled too softly, or touched your wrist under the guise of handing you a book—your eyes betrayed you. They slipped to her mouth. To the freckles dotting her cheekbones. To the scar by her cheek she never spoke of.

And you would hate yourself for it.

You would remember that night at the masquerade. You would remember how she’d held your waist without trembling, how you’d felt like a secret worth keeping, how you’d nearly leaned in—

And you would regret.

Regret leaving. Regret not kissing her. Not touching her longer. Not letting her look at you like you mattered.

And worse still, you would feel guilty for missing a fantasy, when she had granted you a reality—life.

She had let you live.

And you were squandering it on daydreams. On sighs.

You told yourself to forget.

But your body remembered. Your heart

It remembered everything.

There is no place I belong

more than the space between your hands

when you braid your hair in the sun

and forget that I am watching.

You reach for thyme in the garden—

fingers brushing mine,

and I pretend it is the wind

that leaves me aching.

It looked like a profanity to you. The words you've written on the paper, now hidden between the pages of a book you were meant to return soon.

Yet your heart could wish for nothing but them profanities to reach Abigail.

You needed her to know.

Needed her love even if it killed you.

She hadn’t meant to read it. Truly.

She hadn’t even seen the small piece of paper until a servant noticed it.

At first, she thought it a recipe perhaps. And her respect for you held her from reading it.

It was her hands holding the thin material– reluctant to let it go and return it to you–that had her eyes reading her name. Not written but confessed.

Abby froze. The silence of her alcove pressed in close, thick with breath she forgot to take.

Her fingers trembled as they unfolded the rest of it, and her lips parted without a sound as she read.

The paper felt too fragile in her hand, like if she blinked it would disappear, like it had been meant only for the moment her heart cracked open and not a second longer.

She read it again. And again. Each time slower.

And then she was moving.

The book slammed shut. She left her alcove without else but her thin white sleeping clothes, her heart thundering louder than her steps as she moved through the hallways. Past guards. Past a maid who startled at her pace. Past the kitchens and their fire. Into the shadowed servants' wing.

She didn’t hesitate. She knocked until you opened the door.

"Abigail?"

She crossed the room before your breath could catch. She held the paper—the poem—shook in her fingers.

“You wrote this,” she stated in a tone similar to a plead. It wasn’t a question. Her voice was low, as if the walls might echo it back too cruelly. But there was wonder in it too. Terror and reverence.

You looked down. Shame bloomed in your throat. “No.”

“You wrote this.” She said it again, softer. She was trembling now. “And it was me you meant. Wasn’t it?”

The breath she exhaled was sharp, close to a sob. Her hand came to her chest, clutching fabric that meant nothing now.

“The masquerade. I never forgot.”

Only there you looked. She was breaking beneath you. And there was no point in denying it.

“I remember,” you said.

Silence. But not the painful kind.

“I have longed for you in silence,” Abigail said. “And hated myself for it. But if there is truth in these words…” She raised the poem slightly. “If there is even a sliver of hope—then say it. Please.”

Your breath caught, and for the first time, you didn’t look away.

You opened your mouth—but nothing came. Nothing except a soundless ache, the shape of a yes that wouldn’t yet rise to meet your lips.

And Abby’s eyes—God, her eyes—searched yours like she was drowning and looking for shore.

She moved.

Not a question.

She kissed you like she’d been waiting her whole life for the moment to arrive.

Her hands rose, hesitant at first, until she cupped your jaw and cheeks, and her mouth met yours like prayer. Like poetry. Like your poem.

Like her poems.

The paper drifted from her fingers as if it, too, knew it was no longer needed.

And your body—your body betrayed you beautifully. It leaned into hers before you could even think, lips parting to meet her, your hand rising to rest just above her heart, where it beat frantically beneath silk and skin.

The world hushed.

It didn’t vanish, not entirely—but it softened. The walls receded. The rules and roles and titles dulled to distant echoes.

There was only the warmth of her mouth, the way she trembled against you, the faint salt of a tear neither of you dared name.

When she pulled back, it was barely an inch. Her breath was on your skin.

And all you could do—all you wanted to do—was pull her back in.

So you did.

You kissed her like you were finally allowed to breathe.

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