#but i seem to have endless motivation to write for him

[jiaelune]

╰ 🧳 THE GAME CATERERS 2 x HYBE ❪ EP 1-1 ❫ .ᐟ

.ᐟ SYNOPSIS: The awaited collab of the industry has begun! Join various HYBE artists as they play fun games and socialize with other groups from the same company. Watch as chaos and friendly battles unfold in the first episode of The Game Caterers 2 x HYBE! 

WARNINGS: none, svt teasing seungkwan 

WORD COUNT: 5.5k

TIMELINE: 2022

💌 ... ahhh sorry for procrastinating😣 it took me so long to write this because I've been so busy lately, but we are definitely back on track! stray kids' comeback also gave me more motivation to write lol

╰┈➤ .ᐟ MASTERLIST ╰┈➤ .ᐟ MORE GAME CATERERS

The set was ready for the upcoming event. The staff finished preparing the tents for each of the groups attending and set up the cameras to record the footage, each personnel assigned with a different task to prepare the venue.

The clouds hung lazily above the vibrant green scenery, slowly swaying along with the very faint wind on the sunny day. The heat was undeniably bothersome, yet that didn't stop the enthusiasm and anticipation blooming as the HYBE K-pop groups arrived.

(One sunny day in a camping ground in Yeoju...)

(HYBE is having a picnic today)

The first ones to reach the tents were none other than the iconic rookies, LE SSERAFIM, who broke the internet with their hit debut mini album Fearless. The girls let out sounds of amazement, their heads moving in all directions to observe the picnic grounds. They fanned themselves with their mini-fans to reduce the heat, but they'd be sweating under the unfrogivable sun in no time for sure.

(LE SSERAFIM appears first)

(Screaming)

"We get a tent!" Yunjin's overjoyed tone reached the ears of her group members. She led the group, walking in front of everyone with a huge grin.

Sakura added, walking beside Yunjin with slightly dropped shoulders, seemingly exhausted after walking up the endless stairs, "This is perfect."

Chaewon was the first to bow and greet the staff. Eunchae followed right after, creating a domino effect within her group. "Hello!"

(They're excited about their first picnic)

The girls walked across the field and read the signs above each tent. They searched for their own spot and stepped under the protective shade. The tent was mainly empty except for the chairs in front of a table for each of the members, a fan in the corner, and a cooler at the very back.

"There's a cooler at the back," Yunjin commented and rushed over to check it out, hoping that it'd have fresh snacks inside.

"Is it ice cream?" Eunchae followed and stood beside her older member. However, she was disillusioned by the sight of cold water. She let out an amused laugh, "It's cold water. Nevermind."

(They will fill the cooler by playing games)

The five girls chatted amongst themselves to pass the time while waiting for the other groups to arrive.

Next, a popular group of boys finally entered the venue. Yeonjun led the group as they walked to the field. The sudden sight of PD Na surprised him, causing him to cover his mouth with his hand as if he'd just met a celebrity, "It's Producer Nah Yung Suk."

(Surprised)

"Hello," Taehyun bowed. The rest followed soon after. "It's a celebrity! Can we have a handshake?"

Yeonjun excitedly approached PD Na and held out his right hand for a handshake while his left hand wrapped around his wrist to show respect for the older man. Beomgyu was next in line. Soon, all of the TXT members shook his hand with respect and joy.

(When a celebrity meets a half celebrity)

PD Na pointed at the tents after they finished their introductions, "You should go to your tent."

"I love his voice," Yeonjun complimented, feeling shy around an older celebrity.

"Awesome. It's amazing!"

The other groups soon joined the rest. The next in line were ENHYPEN, who calmly and quietly stepped into the field and searched for their tents after greeting the staff. Next, fromis_9 were shown on screen. The girls attending the event seemed more upbeat than the rest, each one wearing a bright smile on their lips that demonstrated their anticipation.

Finally, it was time for the anticipated comedians to arrive. The most popular group of all. Unfortunately, only eight members volunteered to join the game caterers. However, the missing members and their lack of experience playing games didn't discourage them. They might be terrible, but they have the spirit.

"We're the last ones?" Seungkwan asked, more to himself than to anyone present in the group. "It can't be, right?"

"We have the privilege to be late," Jia responded. "We're older than them and we have more experience as idols. You know? You have to take advantage of that."

"You say that because you're the one that took so long to choose an appropriate outfit!" Seungkwan replied. The lighthearted, funny banter between them had already begun — a classic of the sassy best friends. "It ended up being covered by your name tag anyway."

"That's not the point. We're still older than them," Jia shrugged. Seungkwan couldn't deny that. "Now... where's our tent?"

"There," Joshua pointed at the white tent with the huge Seventeen logo and name written in hangul. It was difficult to miss, yet somehow Jia hadn't noticed until he pointed it out. He took the opportunity to tease her, "Do you see it now?"

"The heat is killing me. I really want to get there now. Can we walk faster?" Minghao commented and dramatically wiped invisible sweat off of his forehead. He looked up at the sun and fanned himself with his hand. "It isn't even that hot. I just want to sit down."

(Enthusiasm turned all the way up!)

"Me too," Jia agreed, and Hoshi nodded. Soon enough, the group reached the tent and stepped under the shade. Joshua sat down in the middle, and Hoshi and Jia quickly claimed the seats beside him, almost like it was a race.

"Calm down! The chairs are not going to walk away!" Seungkwan's eyes widened as he watched Hoshi almost fall down from his chair due to the intense speed he used to sit on it.

The speaker's voice turned up once the group arranged themselves. "Since you're all here, before we start, each team will enter one by one."

(It's not a big deal)

(You should come in when we play the music)

Hoshi nodded repeatedly with interest. His excitement was clearly shown through his cheerful behavior. On the other hand, Seungkwan didn't seem amused in the slightest. He let out an awkward laugh and played it cool, trying to ignore how nervous the announcement made him. "What are we even supposed to do?"

The other groups already began discussing their entrance, especially fromis_9. They wasted no time in going into the forest to practice their introduction. Expectations were high, the bar was raised, they were setting the standard.

(Noisy)

"They're giving her a ride," Kai sat down after inspecting their whereabouts.

(TXT becomes competitive)

Yeonjun added, "Shall we be brazen today?"

"There's no I here," Taehyun leaned back on his chair and crossed his arms. His comment referred to his members' MBTI, claiming that all of them are extroverted. "There's no I in our team."

(ISFP Soobin, ESTP Taehyun, ENFJ Beomgyu, ENFP Yeonjun, ISTP Huening Kai)

"Sure," Soobin talked back and suppressed a smile. He mindlessly fidgeted with the fan in his hands and avoided looking at his members.

"That guy becomes I selectively," Beomgyu rolled his eyes and turned to look at the self-proclaimed introvert.

Soobin agreed and made no effort to deny Beomgyu's claim. He smiled, "That's true."

(Selective attention seeker)

The next group shown on camera is Seventeen. Although they're the oldest out of everyone else, they're the ones who are under the most pressure to come up with an original, striking introduction.

(Even groups who debuted 85 months ago are under pressure)

"We should've brought all our members," Mingyu spoke out of nowhere, saying stuff completely unrelated to their task at hand. "It's a shame."

(They miss being a whole group)

"Our passion is hot like the sun, and we run for a high goal. We're SEVENTEEN!" Dino suddenly stated will full confidence, his straight face showing no signs of embarrassment as he dropped the most publicly humiliating slogan for their team.

The group stayed silent for a second and just watched their maknae embarrass himself.

"What?" Seungkwan wheezed and hid his head between his arms on the table. He couldn't hold in his laugh at the pathetic name the youngest had come up with. Mingyu held in his laugh, but no one could suppress their smiles.

"Sit down, sit down. Have a break," Jun patted Dino's arm.

Although most of the members disagreed with Dino's creative yet humiliating slogan, one of them always had to go against the current. She stood up and agreed with the youngest.

"Wait, no, that's amazing!" Jia clapped and then pointed at Dino. "It's extra, and we're known for being extra. So, our passion is hot like the sun, and we run for a high goal. Let's go, SEVENTEEN!"

Even Dino couldn't resist laughing at Jia's corny behavior. She tried to match his enthusiasm but somehow ended up being teased instead by everyone, including the youngest.

But he soon joined her enthusiasm too. Dino and Jia jumped together, screaming and chanting their slogan over and over. "Our passion is hot like the sun, and we run for a high goal. Let's go, SEVENTEEN!"

(Passionate duo)

"We are not doing that!" Minghao chimed in. He set his head on the palm of his hand and looked anywhere but at his group members. He decided to pretend he didn't know them just in case they embarrassed themselves again. "Sit down before everyone notices you."

"Ya, someone stop them before they get loud!" Mingyu demanded. "It always starts like this. Put tape over their mouths!"

Joshua spoke next, jumping in to defend the embarrassing duo, "Actually, I like it."

"No, you don't," Seungkwan rolled his eyes. He looked at the man up and down and visibly judged his choice to defend the pathetic chant. "You're only doing it because Haewon is."

"You're wrong," he playfully hit the other man's arm, quickly telling him to close his mouth before anything else was exposed. The smile on his lips betrayed his words, and he knew that deep down, Seungkwan's judgment had a lot of truth to it.

"Let's have Mingyu say, “Let's go for it,”" Hoshi chimed in and signaled to Mingyu. He was trying to set him up on purpose.

Seungkwan tried to think of a cool slogan but failed miserably. He waved his hands in front of his face and leaned towards Hoshi as he covered himself to hide his laugh. "I can't do it!"

(They haven't been out of GOING SEVENTEEN for a while)

The blond man stood up and set his hands on his waist. A new idea formed inside his head — one that he thought could help them escape their undeniable failure. "Can I go ask the other team their slogan?"

(He asks for permission before he moves)

"I think it's a good idea," Jia commented and briefly glanced at all of the other groups surrounding them. "All of us lack creativity. Maybe we need some inspiration."

"Noona, by “inspiration” you mean we need to copy," Dino teased her. He turned to Seungkwan, "Do everything you want. We're struggling here, so we need some help."

(Supportive)

Seungkwan prepared himself to leave and almost stepped out of the tent, but he turned to look at the Seventeen participants one more time before he left, "When I go, you'll be like, “There goes Seungkwan again.”"

"No, no, no," Jia and Hoshi quickly disagreed as they watched the man leave their tent. "We're thankful for your kind services!"

"I'll be a stranger!" Seungkwan called out and finally left.

(The moment he turns around, the rest start gossiping)

The members wasted no time in repeating Seungkwan's words. They playfully blamed him for ditching their team — classic clowning that's been going around since their debut period, "There goes Seungkwan again! There he goes again..."

(Blaming)

"To be honest, Seungkwan is an old fossil," Hoshi commented and earned a few laughs from the people around.

"That's true."

"You're older than him though," Jia questioned, slightly raising an eyebrow to defy Hoshi's statement.

The man, appalled by her words, immediately turned his face to look at her, "Who's your best friend? Seungkwan or me?"

"DK," Jia answered.

"Ah, right, only when it's convenient," Hoshi clicked his tongue and shook his head, leaning back on his chair with the fan still on his hands. He pouted and looked up as he let out an audible sigh of feigned disappointment, "All of those years of friendship suddenly go down the drain for convenience..."

(Shining friendship of a band of 8 years)

"He should stop being a stranger," he added.

Mingyu grinned, "He's cute."

(All of them are actually Seungkwan's diehard fans)

Meanwhile, the blond man passed through the other tents until he reached TXT's assigned spot. He walked past a few staff members and shyly approached the leader of the band, "Soo- Soobin. What's your team's slogan? Have you come up with it?"

Soobin stopped lounging and turned around to look at Seungkwan, slightly taken aback by his question. He giggled awkwardly and briefly glanced at his group members before answering, "We have, but tell me yours first."

"Ours is weird and cringy," Seungkwan wasted no time to call out his friends' terrible slogan. He kept his words vague, not wanting to give too much information about his team's embarrassment. "Do you have a slogan?"

(Being vague)

Taehyun answered his question after thinking for a few seconds, "We're thinking about going with One Dream."

Seungkwan nodded in understanding to his words, slightly interested in their idea. "Okay, okay. It doesn't have to be brilliant."

"Right? You didn't prepare a performance or anything, did you?" Asked Soobin. He placed his hand on the man's shoulder, seeking reassurance, "You're not trying to stand out, are you?"

Seungkwan shook his head no and disagreed immediately, "No, but he said he'll play music, and he was like, “You'll prepare a performance, right?” So we had no choice."

"Did he give you pressure?"

"Yes."

(He was there to spy on them, but he ends up coming clean)

"I was just checking," Seungkwan fidgeted with his name tag, acting nonchalant about his visit.

"I'm afraid we'd be too much," said Soobin. In all honesty, he and his group had the craziest idea in mind, which completely contradicted his intentions to avoid a flamboyant performance, but he didn't want to tell Seungkwan about it.

Seungkwan agreed wholeheartedly and took the opportunity to expose his team even more, "That's what I'm thinking too. My team is getting excited."

(He walks away without any gains)

Seungkwan's plan ended up being unsuccessful, with no new ideas they could copy or concepts to steal inspiration from. He sulked all the way back to his team's tent, thinking of an organized performance his group could do instead of the loud slogan and other humiliating ideas they came up with.

The members were quick to question him as soon as he got back. They gave him no room to speak, already asking too many curious questions at once to check how their plan ended. Hoshi was the first to ask, "What did they say? What do they have in mind?"

"They have nothing special," Seungkwan answered plainly and sat back on his seat to relax until the introductions started.

Hoshi pressed on, "Right. What about it?"

"They have nothing special," Seungkwan repeated again, this time with a sharper tone to get his point across. "They didn't prepare anything."

"Then we're doomed," Mingyu spoke and observed his surroundings, trying to think of a last-minute introduction could practice. "How about we do something related to “HOT”? We can take the fans and ventilate someone with them."

"I like that," Jun agreed, trying to brighten the atmosphere and turn their excitement up. It'd be no use to sulk until the games ended.

Mingyu's comment piqued Dino's attention. He suddenly stood up and clapped his hands once before pointing at Mingyu to agree with his seemingly perfect idea, "I was thinking of that too!"

Joshua blinked a few times and turned his head to look at the youngest, "Were you really?"

"They're going to start calling us soon, so gather all of the fans you can get before we start the introductions," Mingyu stated. And almost like a switch had been flipped, the members stood up and picked up as many fans as they could.

"What are we doing?" Minghao asked, completely clueless about their idea since he wasn't paying attention at all, too bothered by the heat to function properly. Jun handed him another fan for an extra fresh breeze.

Soon enough, PD Na spoke into his mic and called for everyone's attention. His sudden call marked the beginning of the exciting series of the game caterers' second season. All heads were turned to him, expectant for the upcoming announcement. "From now on, you'll enter one by one. Enjoy watching and support them."

The first ones in line were the fromis_9 girls. Not being first brought a large amount of relief to the other groups, being free from the stress of the high expectations for the first presentation. However, the girls had every reason to be nervous for going first.

"This is the first time HYBE artists gathered for this," Seungkwan commented and focused his attention on the upcoming entrance of the first performers. "We'll become close after this! To be honest, it was awkward until now."

(Seungkwan hosts the show by instinct)

(MC commentary)

PD Na interrupted their chatter again, the loud sound of his voice through his microphone stretching throughout the field, "First of all, the first team. Let me present you fromis_9!"

The group was pleasantly greeted with claps and cheers from idols and staff members. Bright smiles stretched on the girls' faces as they heard the support. They stood up to gather around the side of the field to get into their positions and prepare themselves for the music.

Saerom was lifted by her arms and torso with the help of her fellow members. They begin with the move they practiced in the forest and walked to the center, holding Saerom tightly along with a sign and their logo.

"What the?!" Jia and Hoshi clapped together, automatically matching each other's energy as they watched the presentation. Jia turned to Hoshi, "Theirs is so good!"

"How are we gonna beat that?" Jun asked.

Once they were at the center, they performed Stay This Way — their new comeback that hadn't been released at that time yet. The LE SSERAFIM girls went crazy over them and their dance that their cheers could easily be the loudest out of the other groups.

"PARK JIWON, I LOVE YOU!" Jia screamed. Her eyes had been on the woman and never left her figure throughout their dance. She loves to show support for her friends and will not shut up until their time is over.

"You screamed in my ear!" Minghao winced and covered his ears with both of his hands to protect his health.

(Applause to fromis_9 who overcame the pressure of going first!)

"Wait, wait, there's something we prepared!" Chaeyoung exclaimed right after the song ended, rushing to hold her friends' hands so they could do their outro. "Grab hands, grab hands!"

"1, 2... The winner will be fromis_9!!"

(They're embarrassed, but they did everything they prepared)

"Ah, they were good," Mingyu leaned back on his chair and fanned himself with his hands. He looked at his groupmates, who probably had the same thought as him. "Wouldn't ours be too extra?"

"That's what we're trying to avoid," Jun replied. "It's too hot for this."

"Jun hyung, you were the most enthusiastic one!" Dino stood up, pointed his finger at Jun, and accused him. "You went straight to the back to find fans for our idea."

"Yeah, yeah, sit down," Minghao beckoned to Dino to the chair near him.

PD Na's voice broke through their conversation, "Next... It's TXT!"

Everybody's heads turned toward txt's tent. The boys picked up their stuff, cleared their table, and handed everything to the staff at the back. What could they possibly need a clear desk for? None of them had moved yet... until their debut song played.

Crown played through the speakers and signaled the start of the next presentation. The boys, all sitting in a neat line by their table, started the dance with their upper body, using their hands to make crown gestures and cute actions.

But then! Their fists slammed down on the table, heads brought down in a dramatic action. The song suddenly stopped once the boys turned serious — an unexpected twist in their performance that caught everybody's attention.

Jia's eyes widened as the boys suddenly stood up and flipped the table like it was a daily occurrence. Good Boy Gone Bad's dark charm replaced the innocent vibes of Crown, now allowing the group to do a more epic and chaotic entrance.

Yeonjun was the first to jump over the table and then the whole group followed him. They ran to the center of the field, rolling on the floor on their way to the middle. Dino screamed the loudest out of the members and clapped his hands for TXT's entrance, but the others beside him weren't so happy with the fact that he was destroying their eardrums.

"What is he doing— He did a CARTWHEEL!! HE DID A CARTWHEEL!!" Seungkwan yelled as he watched Yeonjun give it his all. "He's just like Joshua hyung!!"

Joshua's head snapped towards Yeonjun, eyes wide with admiration. He clapped his hands and joined Dino's cheer — maybe today will be the day he'll become friends with a fellow acrobat... maybe he could finally teach someone how to do the worm dance.

Beomgyu lifted the sign with TXT's name on it and the boys gathered at the center once the music stopped. They received cheers from the staff and PD Na for their creative approach. Now, it was time for their official introduction.

"All right. Two, three," Yeonjun called and TXT exclaimed in unison. "AAAAAA!!! Hello, we're Tomorrow X Together!!"

"They're so passionate," Joshua clapped for the group. "Whoa, now I'm getting so nervous. Enhypen is next, right?"

Sure they are. The Enhypen members seemed shyer and more introverted than Tomorrow X Together, which had all of the participants wondering what they'd do for their presentation.

Blessed-Cursed played on the speakers. Jay carried Ni-Ki on his back and Jungwon, the leader, stood in the middle with the group's sign. They didn't prepare anything too crazy, but their shy behavior had everybody looking at them.

"Ay, ay!!" Dino cheered. Jun looked and Minghao and snorted, his head on the table with his arms covering it to suppress his laughter.

(Receiving support from the other groups)

Enhypen prepared a dance-focused performance. Once they reached the middle, they gave a free concert to the other idols and danced to their newest release, Blessed-Cursed.

(They were worried for nothing)

In the end, they were nervous about something so small. Their introduction was a success, and although it wasn't as striking as the others', they didn't have any problems to worry about.

(That was wonderful, Enhypen!)

"You took it too far before us!!" Jay stared at the group with the most extravagant intro. The Tomorrow X Together members just laughed at his teasing comment and cheered them on.

"Quick! Quick!" Hoshi stood up and rushed to the back to grab a fan. Mingyu only stared at him with a mix of embarrassment and regret.

(Anyone called the moving truck?)

Jia approached Minghao and tapped his shoulder, "Can I have a fan? Please? Have I ever told you that your meditation is relaxing? Remember during our pre-debut days I used to bring snacks to the practice room and I always shared them with you...?"

The man stared at her with disbelief, almost offended that she'd ask such a question. "It's too hot."

"You have five!!! FIVE!"

"I guess I can share," he feigned a sigh and handed her three pink fans. "Actually, I'll carry the sign. You can have all of them."

(What?! ㅋㅋㅋㅋ)

"Seungkwan! I have a gift for you!" Jia sung while handing him two of her fans.

"Producer Nah. Don't give us pressure!" Seungkwan called and accepted the gift from Jia. "Gosh. This is crazy!"

Mingyu didn't get up from his chair. He hid his face with his hand, an embarrassed smile making its way to his lips as he watched his group members shamelessly walk up to the front of the tent with large fans on their hands.

PD Na reminded them of their place, "Seventeen. This isn't a variety show. This is just a picnic!"

(Extremely nervous)

(But as if they were never nervous...)

The whole group had done a 180° turn, now walking to the center of the field with overwhelming confidence. Minghao led the group, while the ones who carried the fans surrounded Joshua like he was the focus of attention.

"It's HOT!"

(Say that again)

As if on cue, the song “HOT” started playing. Now Joshua was the center of attention, with everyone fanning him and wiping his nonexistent sweat. This was serious business for Seventeen: the leaders of comedy.

(They prepared a perfect skit for the song)

They quickly put their stuff on the floor and rushed to their positions after their short walk was over. Hoshi stood at the center, guiding the dance moves as the beat of their famous song “Clap” played loudly on the speakers.

(The other groups are watching like an audience)

"AY, AY, AY, AY!" Hoshi shouted and clapped his hands to increase the excitement.

Seventeen stepped out of their positions and clapped to the ending beat. They looked at the other groups watching them and encouraged them to do the same for the final seconds.

(The concert masters induce applause)

(Clapping before they know)

"All together!!" Seungkwan shouted, getting his group ready for the final applause. "Clap, clap..."

(The music stops at that moment)

Jia crouched down and let out the loudest laugh in her life, a blush spreading on her face after the music stopped at the most inconvenient moment of their dance. They were supposed to end the song by clapping together with the audience, but it was cut short by the arrangement team.

(That's how it should've ended, but it didn't)

"Why did you stop the song there?!" Hoshi feigned his anger and teasingly accused the staff of setting them up for failure.

Seungkwan whined, "You're bad at editing the song!"

Meanwhile, PD Na couldn't control his laugh at all. He clutched his stomach, set his microphone down on the grass, and allowed himself to laugh at the group's failed performance. He didn't mean to ruin the moment, but he couldn't deny it was funny. The fact that the music ended early added a hilarious moment to the episode.

(Guilty)

"But it was cool enough," he had to reassure the group.

(If he soothes one, the other complains)

"You said it's a picnic, but why are you giving us so much pressure?" Seungkwan placed his hands over his chest. "I was more nervous than when I prepared for MAMA!"

Joshua offered his hand and helped Jia get up from the floor, which was met with a loving gaze from the woman and a genuine thanks. Seventeen made their way to the side of the field and gave space for the next group, which would be the current rookie girl group.

"I think we did good," Jun commented to lift the group's mood despite the audio malfunction earlier.

"We weren't too extra, were we?" Dino asked the older members. "We didn't want to be the center of attention."

Joshua shrugged and patted the maknae's shoulder, "What do you think?"

"Hyung, do you hate me?" The youngest pouted. Mingyu giggled, but his smile quickly faded away after Dino shot him a glare.

(Next is Le Sserafim!)

Producer Na advised the girls, "Remember that you're here to have fun. This is just a picnic."

The Le Sserafim girls stood in front of the desk, holding their sign up high with a confident aura. Their debut track Fearless started playing, and soon the five girls walked to the center of the field like they were on a high-end runway.

"Whoa!!" Jia clapped. "So cool!! Let's go!"

The girls prepared a simple performance, similar to Enhypen. They didn't want to stand out too much, but everyone still cheered nevertheless. All groups did amazing, and now that introductions were done, they could finally begin the fun.

Wait... there's still one more group. "Now it's the highlight of the picnic... The living legend of HYBE... We have Lee Hyun, Baekho, and Hwang Min Hyun. It's team TT! Music please."

(The grand finale)

(Love Me by NU'EST)

(It looks like an election campaign)

The three men sheepishly walked to the middle while doing finger hearts with their hands, laughing in embarrassment as everyone's eyes were on them. "This is embarrassing!"

(Then Lee Hyun's song plays)

('You are the best of my life' by Lee Hyun)

"What are they doing?" Seungkwan giggled once the three men pointed at the sky with their fingers. He mimicked their moves, "It's so dramatic."

(Enjoying watching)

(A song that brings everyone together)

Joshua vibed to the music, moving his hand side to side to copy the move. For some reason, the three men stood still in the middle, wide smiles on their faces. They didn't move at all, like statues pointing at the sky.

(They're not slacking off)

(This is the only choreography)

"Stop the song!" Hyun exclaimed, but the song kept playing. He made a gesture with his hands, "Stop the song please!"

(But we can't possibly stop it here)

(Everyone unites in the picnic)

And finally, once the music stopped, shoes went flying everywhere. Of course, Seungkwan and Joshua had to be extra and take off their shoes to show their respect. Jia playfully covered her nose at this, "Imagine the smell..."

Seungkwan's eyes shot open and his head snapped towards his group member, "Excuse me?! Joshua hyung, did you hear that?!"

PD Na noticed the shoes and immediately found the culprit, "Why did you throw your shoes?"

Seungkwan jumped on one leg toward the middle to collect his shoe. He looked at the producer and quickly explained himself, "This shows respect! We all know it. Everyone here probably felt it."

"Yeah, I don't doubt it," Dino whispered under his breath as he stared at the shoes on the floor.

Jia blinked for a few seconds to process his words and let out a silent laugh. She couldn't control her face at all after hearing his comment. She softly hit Dino's arm and pointed at him, trying to keep her giggles silent, "I think... I think that you and I are very funny today."

"You see," Seungkwan continued. "The distance to here felt like 1km. The song felt like it was never-ending. Even though it was a fast song, we were so embarrassed, but they overcame it, so we were showing respect for that."

Everyone could easily tell that the producer loves Seungkwan. And let's be honest, who doesn't?

And finally, the introductions officially came to an end. It's time to prepare for the next part of the picnic. The groups formed a straight line beside each other at the middle of the field and faced PD Na.

"We ended up being the most extra," Jun commented and remembered their flashy introduction. "What do you think the others thought of us?"

"They probably wanted to laugh," Mingyu answered the question. "I was the most embarrassed one! I can't believe Seungkwan actually went with it, especially since he wanted to keep it calm."

"It was good, so it doesn't matter!" Seungkwan defended himself. "Why am I being bullied today?!"

Mingyu smiled and exclaimed, "We love you, Seungkwan!"

Producer Na interrupted the endless conversations between the groups to announce the official start of the most awaited picnic, "The first HYBE picnic has begun!"

(The 1st HYBE picnic begins and everyone claps!)

The producer continued, "That was 95% of the opening ceremony. We only have 5% left. For the opening address, HYBE's..."

"Is Mr. Bang coming?" Seungkwan turned his head to Jun.

"For the opening address, he claims he provided the foundation. If SM has Kangta, HYBE has Lee Hyun! Let's hear from Lee Hyun!"

(The foundation of foundation)

Lee Hyun smiles, feeling shy by the sudden compliments he received from everyone. He steps towards the middle and accepts the microphone from Producer Nah to begin his awaited speech.

(Lee Hyun the Jung Dojeon calms down and opens his mouth)

"WOOOO!!!" Kai shouted and clapped his hands for the man, causing the TXT members to follow his actions and do the same. "I love his voice!! What an amazing voice!!"

Lee Hyun finally begins, "Dear dear dear..."

All of a sudden the TXT members broke into uncontrollable laughter and giggles for no reason. The joy was contagious, and the other groups couldn't resist but join in.

"HYBE HYBE HYBE... Artists artists artists... Everyone everyone everyone..."

(He begins the opening address seriously)

"Let's have fun without injuries. This is the first time that everyone has gathered together. When would we ever get a chance again to gather and have fun? Let's do this!"

(The picnic begins now!)

[under-my-pillow]

They realize it. Just selectively ignore it — In stories where there is certain contexts, motivations, background, I can understand certain writing decisions were originally not what it intended to be — Inuyasha is an example.

I know there is a lot of controversy around Rin's age. For some she was 14, some she was sixteen, in the anime it was eighteen when she gave birth.

I am pretty sure they purposefully left her age ambiguous, but given her background as an orphaned girl who lived a vagrant life, it makes sense — In the 1500s no one saw it unusual for 14, 16, or 18 year olds to get married/ have children, etc.,

If anything Kagome who had her one and only child at 24 years old might have been weird to them.

It brings the question - what did Sesshomaru see her as when she was a child if he married her?

I'd tag this to lazy/ unprepared writing unlike Vampire Knight (the author wanted to write dumb/grooming incest, she wrote dumb/grooming incest) — because I think to the majority of the fandom Sesshomaru felt like a father/ big brother figure to Rin(Sensei confirms this), even if it seemed like he didn't bother to care about her save for the times something serious happened.

We knew that by the end, there was a special place for her in his heart.

I think the author/anime/editor whoever honestly did not expect so many to become heavily invested in Sesshomaru/Rin to the point that a sequel without them would render the story incomplete. They had become integral elements that a side quest alone wouldn't hold the audience's interest, but would not/could not write a story that could do justice to their relationship properly. - in short a writing failure.

The main reason this decision did not completely backfire is due to Sesshomaru and Rin's strong character foundations in the original and the background period of the story.

Yashahime is not a work under the original author. It is a separate work by a studio if I remember correctly. But in any case, examples of authors changing their mind in the end to milk projects to the end are endless.

So when people tell me Sesshomaru did not groom Rin, I do believe them-

Rumiko Takahashi did not originally write Rin/Sesshomaru as a romantic interests unlike Yuki/Kaname - She was basically written to teach Sesshomaru true strength, to help Sesshomaru understand the one thing about his father that had always haunted him. The answer to fill up the blanks of that question his father asked all those years ago.

By the end, he is no longer the hard-cold demon who gives a shit value to human lives anymore. He has someone to protect, he understands the strength that comes from someone who has something to protect is greater than anything else.

I think that is the primary distinction to make note in both works.

Vampire Knight was intended to be an incest/grooming story. It's there in the basic set up of the story - pureblood vampires, parents who are siblings, whatever.

I hardly doubt the mangaka forgot her character backgrounds and accidentally ended up pairing an ancestor and his descendant. The audience of the story is teenagers or switch your brains off and watch/read or people who are into weird shit.

But then fandom worshippers come and call it pure love and make everybody else vomit.

Vampire Knight

Netflix has all the old series right now. No hate and if it hurts you, then please scroll down.

But I still consider it hilarious that Yuki made out with both. Like really, this is hilarious. And she had two children. One child with each guy. Honestly that is so funny.

And the funniest shit is one of them is an age-old ultra-granpa in the "dead body" of her real brother.

[windser]

as usual, part of the where the apple falls verse. playing with some more themes and characterization.

the first time you met him, you gave caleb an apple.

you were five years old in josephine’s kitchen, the scent of warm bread and cinnamon wrapping around you like a blanket. the morning light spilled through the windows, turning the wooden floors honey-gold, and dust particles swirled in the air like tiny, invisible stars. you sat cross-legged on the table, a fruit bowl beside you brimming with red apples. their skins gleamed like polished rubies, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost magical.

caleb stood below, watching you, his fingers curled around the edge of the counter like he was bracing himself. he was always like that—restless, like he could never quite settle, like he was waiting for something he couldn’t name. his dark hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it away with a quick, impatient motion, as if even his own reflection annoyed him.

the apple in your hand was too big, your fingers barely curling around the smooth, round surface. you turned it over, considering its weight, the way it felt cool and firm against your palm. for a moment, you hesitated, then held it out to him.

"here," you said, nudging the fruit toward him. "we can share."

he hesitated. he always hesitated when it came to you, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. his eyes flicked from the apple to your face, searching for something—permission, maybe, or a sign that this was real.

"you have to take a bite first," you added, your voice soft, almost careful, as if you were offering him something fragile.

caleb took the apple from your hands, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment—a fleeting touch that sent a shiver up your arm. then, he bit into it, the crisp sound of his teeth breaking the skin echoing in the quiet kitchen. his lips curled slightly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners, as if he had discovered something secret and sweet.

you grinned as you took it back, the apple now marked with the faint impression of his bite. "now we’re friends," you declared, as if the act of sharing had sealed something unspoken between you.

you and caleb grew up tangled in each other’s shadows.

he was the boy next to you at dinner, nudging his fork onto your plate to steal bites when josephine wasn’t looking. he was the hand gripping yours when the power went out, the voice beside you in the dark whispering, don’t be scared. i’m right here. his presence was a constant, as steady as the rhythm of your own heartbeat.

your memories of him are whole, solid, unshaken. but sometimes, when you tell stories, caleb listens with a look you don’t understand—like he’s waiting for something you’ll never say. like there’s something you’ve forgotten.

mostly, though, things between you are steady, predictable. caleb teases you. you roll your eyes. he leans against the kitchen counter, always eating something—an apple, a piece of toast, whatever josephine set out that morning. and when you come downstairs late, rubbing sleep from your eyes, he’s already waiting for you, passing you whatever was in his hands before you even ask.

"you always forget to eat something in the morning," he murmurs, his voice low and familiar, like the hum of a song you’ve known your whole life.

it’s such an easy thing to believe that you don’t question it.

spring was when he was teasing and light, nudging your shoulder with his, stealing your notebook and holding it above your head just to hear you whine. you’d chase him through the house, laughing until your sides hurt, until josephine scolded you both for being too loud. he’d grin at you, unrepentant, and hand the notebook back with a flourish, as if he’d done you a great favor.

"you’re such a jerk," you’d say, but there was no heat in it. you couldn’t stay mad at him, not when his laughter was so infectious, not when his eyes sparkled with mischief.

"only for you," he’d reply, and you’d roll your eyes, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered on you a second too long.

summer was when he was bold and reckless, grabbing your wrist and pulling you through the rain because he wanted to see how fast you could run, how much you trusted him. the world blurred around you as you sprinted, your shoes slipping on the wet pavement, your breath coming in sharp gasps. but you didn’t let go of his hand.

you never let go.

when you finally stopped, soaked and breathless, he turned to you, his hair plastered to his forehead, his grin wide and unapologetic.

"told you we’d make it," he said, as if the rain hadn’t been his idea in the first place.

"you’re insane," you replied, but you were laughing, and so was he.

autumn was when he was quiet and brooding, lying on the grass beside you, tossing an apple from hand to hand. the leaves crunched beneath you, and the air was crisp with the promise of change. you’d talk about nothing and everything, your voices soft in the stillness of the afternoon.

sometimes, he’d fall silent, his gaze distant, as if he were somewhere else entirely. you’d nudge him with your elbow, and he’d blink, coming back to himself.

"where do you go?" you asked him once.

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he handed you the apple, his fingers brushing yours. "nowhere important," he said finally, but you weren’t sure you believed him.

winter was when he was at his most unreadable.

the air was sharp and cold, and the world felt quieter, as if holding its breath. caleb would sit by the window, staring out at the snow, his expression still. you’d sit beside him, trying to draw him out, but he’d only shrug or offer a half-hearted joke.

"you think too much," you told him once, watching the way his jaw tensed, the way he stared at you like he was fighting himself.

"and you don’t think enough," he murmured back.

Yyu weren’t sure what he meant.

not then.

you remember when caleb bleeds for you for the first time.

it’s after school, the autumn air crisp and curling around you like ribbons of smoke. you’re walking home when a boy—a mean one, the kind who pulls ponytails and laughs when people trip—steps in front of you, a sneer twisting his face.

"hey," he says, "i heard you—"

you never hear the rest.

because caleb is already there, slamming into him, sending both of them crashing into the dirt. there’s a scuffle—messy, unpracticed—and then caleb is standing, knuckles split, breath uneven. the boy is curled on the ground, groaning.

you should be scared. but you’re not. because caleb turns to you, eyes wild, chest heaving, and the first thing he says is, are you okay?

you nod.

and he smiles, sharp and small, wiping his bloody hand on his jeans. "good," he murmurs, as if nothing else matters.

when you tell josephine what happened, she presses a damp cloth to caleb’s knuckles, sighing. "you can’t keep doing this," she says, her voice heavy with something you don’t yet understand.

caleb just looks at you, and you don’t understand the look in his eyes. not then.

you and caleb sat on the porch, the air thick with the lingering humidity. the stars were still present, a steady backdrop to the quiet between you. caleb was leaning back against the pillar, one leg propped up, his gaze upward. his hands were restless, tapping a rhythm against the wood, as if he were trying to quiet something inside him.

you watched him, the way his jaw tightened and relaxed, the way his eyes seemed to hold something he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. he’d been quiet all evening, which wasn’t unusual, but there was a weight to his silence tonight that made your chest feel tight.

"you’re doing it again," you said, breaking the stillness.

he glanced at you, his violet eyes catching the faint glow of the porch light. "doing what?"

"thinking too much," you replied, nudging his foot with yours. "what’s going on in that head of yours?"

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together. when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost hesitant. "do you ever feel like… like you’re waiting for something?"

you frowned, tilting your head. "like what?"

he shrugged, his gaze dropping to his hands. "i don’t know. like there’s something you’re supposed to do, or say—and the longer you wait, the harder it gets."

you studied him, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers flexed as if he were holding onto something invisible. "maybe you’re overthinking it," you said gently. "maybe you just need to… let it happen."

he looked at you then, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you thought he might say something. but then he smiled, small and fleeting, "maybe," he said, his voice soft. "but what if i mess it up? what if i'm not forgiven for it?"

"you don't have to worry about that," you said, your tone firm. "i'll always forgive you."

he didn’t reply. he just turned his gaze back to the horizon, his expression unreadable. you sat there beside him, the silence stretching between you, and wondered why the air felt so heavy, so charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.

the kiss wasn’t supposed to happen like that.

it was after school, the air sticky and thick with the last stretch of summer. he was someone you liked—kind, funny, a boy who made you laugh. you don’t remember who leaned in first. but you remember the press of lips, the way the moment stretched too long and too short all at once.

and you remember caleb’s face when you came home.

josephine had seen it from the kitchen window, but she didn’t say a word. caleb didn’t either. that night, he sat at the dinner table, turning an apple over and over in his hands, rolling it between his fingers without taking a bite. the air in the house felt different—thick, weighted.

"you okay?" you asked him.

he didn’t answer at first. just kept staring at the apple, as if there was something carved into its surface only he could see.

then, finally—

"do you remember," he murmured, "what you told me when we were little?"

you frowned. "about what?"

"the apple," he said. "told me it was mine."

your brow furrowed. "i… don’t think that’s how it happened."

his lips twitched. not quite a smile.

"yeah," he said, voice unreadable. "you never do."

then he sank his teeth into the fruit, the sharp crack of it echoing in the silence.

you wake with a gasp.

your chest is tight, breath coming too fast, too shallow, like you’ve surfaced from something deep and dark and unending. the sheets are warm against your skin, tangled around your legs. there’s a weight beside you.

you turn your head.

caleb is there, asleep, his bare shoulders rising and falling with every breath. the soft glow of the bedside lamp catches the angles of his face, the curl of his fingers where they rest on the mattress—just close enough to touch you, but not quite.

your heart stutters.

it was just a dream.

just a dream.

but the taste of apples lingers on your tongue, and you don’t remember why.

the kitchen is quiet, morning light stretching long and golden across the countertops. you stand in front of the open fridge, staring blankly at its contents, your fingers tapping absently against the handle. you don’t know what you want.

caleb moves behind you, slow and unhurried, and when you close the fridge, he’s already reaching past you, plucking something from the fruit bowl.

an apple.

"here," he murmurs, holding it out to you.

for a second, the world stills. the light catches the curve of the fruit, glossy and red. you swallow.

"you should eat," caleb says, tilting his head. "you always feel better when you eat."

you take it, fingers curling around the smooth surface.

caleb smiles—slow, knowing. then, as if on instinct, he takes another apple for himself, rolling it between his palms.

"you know," he muses, biting into it, "people always blame eve."

you blink at him. "what?"

"for the apple," he says simply, chewing. "for taking the first bite."

the words settle somewhere deep inside you, curling like smoke.

"but," caleb continues, his violet eyes meeting yours, "the snake was the one who told her to do it."

he takes another bite.

the air feels thick.

you hold the apple in your hands, unmoving.

and somewhere, buried deep in your mind, a memory stirs.

the first time he met you, you were crying.

you were five years old, sitting on the kitchen floor, your tiny hands gripping the fabric of your dress as fat tears rolled down your cheeks. you didn’t remember why. you wouldn’t later.

but he did.

he had knelt in front of you, an apple clutched in his hands. it had been too big for your fingers, too round for your grip, so when he held it out to you, he made sure to hold the weight of it as his knuckles brushed against your wrist.

"here," he murmured.

you had sniffled, blinking at him, uncertain. “it’s yours.”

"you can have a bite first," he urged, voice quiet, coaxing.

hesitantly, you did, hands coming up to cup his. and when you let go, he took a bite too.

something settled in him then.

the first piece of something that would never let go.

[look-over-yonder]

OH, TO BE IN LOVE! ♪ Kate Bush is currently playing...

What are their love languages?

Featuring... Phainon, Anaxa, and Mydei!

AUTHOR'S NOTE Hi guys :D This is my first official writing debut on Tumblr wow?! This took me a while to write, but I'm glad to finally get it done! I hope to make this a mini-series or something lol so feel free to req charas in my asks or with other prompts hehe, I'd really appreciate it! <3

Phainon

Quality Time. Are you kidding me?

No— he's not the type of guy to believe in things such as love at first sight. That's what he's always told himself, until he first met you.

Phainon was always undeterred no matter what the Flame-Chase Journey sent his way. Endless trials and ordeals simply came with the role of being the Deliverer, that much he had learned. But a job like his also came with more worldly, mundane responsibilities that laid a notch below fighting the everlasting onslaught of the Black Tide.

Phainon was good with his words. He's always had a natural wit and charm about him that he carried as effortlessly as breathing air. But it's not like he wasn't aware of his effect on others. It's exactly because he's so aware, that it amplified his ability to meditate conflict and settle disputes and between the residents of Okhema tenfold.

Phainon's princely, boyish nature was the main reason as to why he was so popular among the people. But being popular also came with the problem of having people interested.

Phainon had no time for love. He was a hero. One that had to deal with the burden of his world's weight on his shoulders at every waking moment. Phainon never could truly let his guard down, and at the same time, he was tackling a lot of issues that only he would ever know about. That was how he had always lived, after all.

Fighting. Losing. Failing.

So how is it, that Phainon had fallen in love?

He had felt bad about shooting down people's advances before. Even those that he felt he could reciprocate their feelings a little, he had managed to turn down. And yet, the feeling in his chest everytime he saw you? It had been that way since the day you first met, but he was quick to brush it off. But then, you two met again. And again. And again.

To no one's surprise, Phainon falls quickly.

Dealing with the strife of war and the pain of loneliness on top of a destiny as harrowing as his— left him with a chasm in his heart that led him yearning for connection. For understanding. For his desires to be fulfilled and intimacy. To be wanted.

Phainon is painfully self-aware. But, at the same time, he's also someone who takes action. He's quick to befriend you, and if you let him, you two will slowly start to spend time together— not on the grounds for anything else but spending time together, of course. Phainon has no ulterior motives, not yet.

It'll start off as menial chats, ones that could easily be passed off for small talk. Then, it'll slowly turn into banter. The kind you make when you don't know someone very well yet, but you can tell there's a spark there. And as you slowly grow more comfortable with each other, your conversations turn from minutes to hours. From up to chance to daily. From guarded and shallow, to philosophical and raw.

No matter how long it's been since you've seen him, Phainon always came back with something new to tell. Anecdotes about his day, musings he wants to share with you, maybe even the occasional insight into his past. And yet, it always seems like a small part of his mind is always somewhere else. You think it could be his hometown he sometimes speaks about, Aedes Elysiae, that he wishes he could bring you to.

There are layers to Phainon. A depth to him that remains unseen from the surface. He puts up a meticulous front, one that makes him seem like an indestructible man with grit, capable of taking on any adversary that comes his way and come out unscathed. He could be the hero and saviour that everyone needed if it meant he could save Okhema and avenge every life stolen.

But he was only a human.

Even if he struggled to accept his own flaws, the company you provided him grew to become enough to ease him into a quiet acceptance. One that helped him drown out those negative thoughts every time they came back. One that gave him another reason to never lose sight of what he had always believed in.

One that reminded him, it was okay to be vulnerable. That it was okay to slow down and be uncertain. And that maybe, he deserves to be loved too.

Time spent with you isn't just a pastime to him. Even in utmost silence, even in loud, boisterous moments, Phainon will always choose you. In times of ups and downs, he's loyal to a fault, and the one way he will always prefer to show it is by being able to stay at your side as much as he can.

If you choose to want him in your life, please excuse him if he gets way too excited being in your presence all the sudden. Or if he tries to keep you to himself for hours, only to end up falling asleep in your lap after chatting for so long. You should also expect a lot of puppy dog eying from him every time you try to go anywhere without him while you're hanging out or if things don't go his way.

Will you take him later to that new antique stall at the markets he said he wanted to go to?

Anaxa

Words of Affirmation.

Anaxagoras is an impassive man. It should come as no surprise that his every deduction is backed up by logic and his comprehensive expanse of knowledge.

No, it's not that Anaxa is incapable of feeling emotion. But Anaxa's life journey has always been dedicated to studying alchemy; understanding the soul and its properties, and how to reverse engineer the very composition of life itself. Quite literally, his mind is always focused on the matter of pursuing the truth of life.

So, unless you're also someone who shares a major interest in the topics of study by the Nousporists, please take no offense when I say Anaxa is probably not going to take much notice of you initially.

Anaxa has always been a hot topic. His insistence on being referred to as Anaxagoras, his unusual manner of speech and cadence and arrogant demeanour. Anaxa is renowned for his oddity, and yet the respect and reverence that is tethered to his name is not something that can be overlooked. Because despite his eccentric nature, Anaxa has a tenacious desire to understand the world around him. One so insatiable; that he has always succeeded in.

Well… At the cost of his social skills.

No— it's not that Anaxa doesn't feel emotions. It's just that anytime he talks to someone who isn't either his students, mentors, or other like-minded people, his sharp tongue gets even worse. Anaxa does not like people who hold minimal regard for the structure of the world and won't question anything at the expense of maintaining their own belief system. And trust me, he really has no qualms when it comes to disproving someone’s beliefs should it be for their own enlightenment.

So; what's so different about you?

Well, if there's one thing he's noticed, he feels different around you. Not in a good way.

Every time he steps into your vicinity, he feels a sudden tightness in his chest. And when he manages to catch your attention, his guts suddenly feel like they’re twisting into all sorts of formations. He even notes increased perspiration forming on his skin, causing his palms to go clammy and his notable steely focus to waver.

Whatever this strange affliction was, he had only started happening around you. And after the first time, he was already head-deep in scrolls at the Grove as he tried to figure out what was going on.

Well, he had an inkling on what was happening anyways. But as a scholar, he wouldn't jump to any conclusions until he had every plausible piece of information at his disposal.

So, when all the pieces set into place, what was his reaction?

...Love?

No. Anaxa could feel emotion, and he knew that very well. But he's uncertain if this is the most definite answer. He knows he is capable of love, considering how much he cares for his sister. But romantic love? He's a scholar, an educator, and demi-god. Apart from having all those responsibilities, he really isn't interested in pursuing a relationship. Besides, romantic interests directly conflict with his lifelong purpose.

Here's a tip: refer to him by Anaxagoras, and he'll warm up to you a lot faster.

Now, the biggest hurdle to overcome when it comes to Anaxa is trying to wiggle your way into his life. After that, it’s trying to get him to accept you into it.There's a myriad of ways this could happen, but the most likely main denominator is by slow burn. Anaxa does not fall fast. You will have to be patient for him and wait for him to recognise the signs and watch his every move— because his responses are subtle.

And when you do, you’ll be rewarded by discovering a side of Anaxa that he seldom shows.

Yes. Anaxa is kind. He is an unusual man, with unconventional methods of doing things. And while he doesn't like to overtly display his fondness for you, he makes do with the little things.

We all know well that Anaxa is one to speak his mind freely, and around you, that fact is no different. However, due to Anaxa's growing affection for you, should you ever mention things to him that were to warrant guidance from him, Anaxa will always spare words of wisdom or insight. Bided time or not, as a teacher, it is in Anaxa’s duty to extend knowledge to everyone he can reach. Yes, that includes you too.

The man is a diagnosed yapper. If you don’t let him talk your ear off, he’ll slip away in a blink of an eye. So; listen to him or learn how to admire him while looking like you’re listening.

Another tip: provide him with stimulating conversation. Are you a yapper too? Well. Just maybe, it’s fate! Try getting a little smart with him too if you want. Just keep that for private moments, because trust me, he will always level your attitude. And don’t act too idiotic. If you’re a listener, that’s okay too. Just don’t interrupt him until he’s done talking, otherwise he will get snappy.

As you slowly start to grow even more close to him, Anaxa will continue to offer you much needed advice and enlightening philosophical debates and discussion. And when he starts to feel more comfortable around you, his partiality towards you grows even more pronounced. If a certain snowy-haired student were to ask Anaxa if he’s taken a liking to anyone recently, he would first reprimand the asker for prying into his personal life, before answering the question afterwards calmly with your name.

Anaxa speaks highly of you whether you’re present or not. You can bet that if someone talks ill about you while he's around, he will be quick to shoot a side-eye towards that person and will speak to them only through thinly veiled hostile remarks until they leave. No, Anaxa is not being too irrational, he’d say if you caught wind of this. They were talking poorly about you. His passive-aggression is unremarkable, in comparison to how he can be when he doesn’t hold back.

Anaxa is a very well-spoken and confident man, and he's also good at magnifying your strengths to people who may not understand you like he does. If someone brings up your flaws, he's already prepared to immediately shut down their entire argument. When you and Anaxa are later in private, you might be surprised for Anaxa to suddenly drop a compliment. And if you ask him to repeat what he just said, he'll quickly change topics or shift his attention elsewhere.

Is Anaxa capable of getting flustered? That’s up to you to decide.

Subtlety is key in Anaxa's love. He needs quiet moments more than other people, albeit his desire for reclusiveness can be a bit excessive at times. Simply pull him out of his shell every once and in a while and remind him to breathe. Your presence is grounding enough for him whether he’ll ever admit it, and he finds that it’s easiest to appreciate you through his own little covert acts of gratitude.

Anaxagoras is a man of truth. He only opposes the unconstitutional belief in the Titans as he wishes for humanity to take back their agency and defy the prophecy. He's not heartless, no matter how chiding he can be. And it is difficult to win a spot in a life of a man as lofty and standoffish as Anaxa.

So— if you do win that position, be glad. And please love and appreciate him, blasphemy and all.

Mydei

Now this one? This guy is such a green flag, that he's a little bit of everything. He likes to give compliments, he likes to get handsy sometimes, and he likes spending time with his loved ones.

But I'm going to say Acts of Service.

Mydei, at his heart, is surprisingly quite the romantic. The crown prince of Castum Kremnos— it might be a little hard to believe, but it’s true. Mydei may have a hardened disposition and proclivity for speaking in a clipped tone, but underneath all those abrasive layers lies pure, untouched gold. Literally.

Mydei’s plight and turmoil is so unfathomable and grand in scale that it cannot be comprehended by the average mortal. And yet, what choice this undying, ineffable man continues to make is even more puzzling than his past shrouded in mystery.

Gentleness.

Mydei is gentle. He cares, and he will always be frank and upfront about what he thinks. No matter how brief or pointed his words may be, Mydei always carries himself with a rigid air of dignity and power. Considering his Kremnos’ heritage, Mydei’s assertive nature is derived highly by that and his own brutal upbringing.

And yet; it is exactly because of his troubled upbringing that Mydei likes food. Nutrition is important to keep your body healthy and in tip-top shape, after all. As a child, being raised in the Sea of Souls left him severely malnourished and his body brittle as bones. But nowadays, for a warrior like Mydei, his biggest priority was keeping up his physique in the best condition possible, which also required a sufficient intake of food daily to maintain. Therefore, when he’s not attending to duties, you will probably see Mydei busying himself with a biteful of something in his mouth.

How highly Mydei sees food extends into his own ability to cook. Since nourishment is such an integral skill to him, those expectations extand out to others around him as well. So, while you might not see him around the stove thatoften, rest assured that Mydei’s cooking is good. It could honestly even be considered a delicacy if you asked, since he’d be willing to cook you a Kremonan meal if you asked.

Ah. You.

Mydei was raised into a cycle of violence. One that he himself has never been able to truly break free from the shackles of. However, in saying that, that does not mean Mydei treats others with the same attitudes thrown at him during his life. And while he could be seen as a stoic, menacing man, Mydei chooses integrity above all. And he certainly appreciates people who share that same sentiment.  

That’s how he falls for you.

Mydei is surprisingly quite the romantic. But not in the natural sense. He’s not charming and domestic like Phainon, or a sardonic erudite like Anaxa. Mydei is open, curt, and operates in a way that he expects others to reciprocate. But when people don’t, Mydei doesn’t let disappointment or burden tie him down. Mydei was a warrior, and so long as he was kicking, he would always get back up. He had nothing to worry about with his resilience and utmost confidence in his abilities.

A man so mature and capable, and yet; the moment you enter his life, he can’t help but begin to dote on you.

Maybe it’s because nobody cared for him before. With all the tragedies he’s been through, Mydei finds his peace in mundanity. Trivial things, that won’t matter in the long run against his constant battle against strife. Something that made his chest stir, in a way that felt almost foreign to him, and led to him cooking for others. And then, he starts to cook for you.

Small meals, big meals, snacks. Anything you want. He just wants to make sure you eat well. While Mydei might not share any intentionally ‘flirty’ words of affirmation or physical affection towards you, Mydei’s actions speak louder than any words.

He can tell when you’re sick before you even realise you’re sick. And then, you’re getting thrown over his shoulder like a potato sack should you try and dismiss his concerns and immediately being taken somewhere private. Mydei would not tolerate his favourite person being sick of all things and working, of all things considered. When you had a luxury of such a ordinary life, why would you work when he could just take care of you?

…

Favourite person? Don’t tell him he said that out loud. He’ll tell you there’s no such thing in the Kremnoan language.

He’ll fix your bed before tucking you in and stick down a spoon full of chicken noodle soup down your throat should it mean you know that he cares. Even if he has duties on that day, he’ll pop in and out of your room and check up on you when he can, even outmanoeuvring Aglaea’s orders so that he ends up by your bedside and nurses you back into good health until you get better.

If you need anything, you might be surprised at just how eager the prince seems to fulfill your any whim. Should you let him, he wouldn’t be against doing your laundry or cleaning your residence of choice as well. Do note, that he will take back any clothing you’ve stolen from him during this time though.

Mydei is a survivalist. And he is also intense. In an ideal world, Mydei is most likely to fall for someone who is just as enamoured with him as he is with them. Someone who isn’t turned away even by the ugly, solemn parts of his life. Someone who can look past his reservations and recognise Mydei for the indomitable fighter he is and remind him that he can be loved too.

And in turn, he will provide you with his undying devotion. Mydei worships you despite the blazing inferno he’s trapped in. Regardless of the cruel destiny imposed on him, the respite you bring to his days remind him every day to uphold his unwavering strength and continue to fight for the valour of Kremnos, and the people of Okhema.

[viperify]

drabbles | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⟢ late nights at the library.

All you crave is a break and sleep—but Tom Riddle being your tutor and boyfriend makes your life just a little bit more complicated.

“This is the third time you have gotten this wrong.”

You sighed, leaning back in the chair you were sitting in. “Tom, I know. I just— it’s late, okay? We have been here for what? Five hours?” 

He raised a brow, deep brown eyes meeting yours. “That’s right. So, any reason why you can’t remember? Do I need to explain it again?”

You wished you had known what you were signing up for when you started dating Tom. Endless hours of studying together. Him acting like your tutor when he was supposed to be your boyfriend. He had this never-ending ambition and motivation that you just couldn’t match in the slightest.

Yes, you were one of the better students as well, but nobody and nothing could match Tom Riddle—top student in every single class. Sometimes you wondered how he managed it all. How he could be so perfect. Studying, revising, prefect duties. It was almost like you needed an appointment to meet him, even as his girlfriend.

He seemed like a student as any other—though so special in his own way. The hunger for knowledge and power. The desire to become prefect, head boy, a professor. 

The softer side to him that only you would ever get to see—except when you were studying together, that is. 

“Please, can we just leave? I am so tired.”

You didn’t leave. Not until you finally got it right. Not until you were completely drained, eyelids fluttering closed every other minute.

“Come on, I will bring you to your dorm.” He said softly after returning the books to where you had taken them from. Taking your hand in his and helping you up, he led you out of the dark and empty library. There were no words needed when you arrived at your dorm. The look in your eyes told him everything he needed to know.

Tom exhaled, deeply. “Fine. But just this once.”

He always said that.

A minute later, you entered his dorm instead, and it was as if his guard had dropped the second the door closed behind you both. He took off his and your robes, hanging them on the coat stand behind you. 

And then, without hesitation, he gently pulled you into his arms. He held you close, your head buried against his chest as his hand caressed your hair, placing a kiss on the top of your head.

Finally, your worries started to fade, exhaustion taking over. A soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips when he took in your expression, swiftly helping you out of your uniform and into your pyjamas. How he’d gotten them—you didn’t know, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

All you wanted was him—his kisses, his warmth, his support. 

Of course, he knew.

So that’s what he gave you—pulling you close as soon as the both of you lay down, pressing a gentle kiss to your soft lips before letting you cuddle into his side.

“I am proud of you, darling.” Tom whispered right before you drifted off to sleep, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I always am.”

You smiled softly in response, drawing soft patterns on his chest.

“I love you so much, Tommy.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | drabbles.

⋆˙⟡

A/N: Just a little fluffy drabble bc I crave this man’s love and support during exam season. Ugh. <- This is also why I will be posting a little less/shorter works due to me basically having no time to write for the coming two weeks! I love you guys and hope to be back to normal asap! <33

[piplup335]

1x1x1x1 x reader! (but this time it’s the eggs skin lmao)

*ahem*

HELLO, F E L L A S -

sorry for vanishing, I got burnt out recently D:

took a break for my own mental health and bc idw to go insane ;-; I know this isn’t part of my requests, but I just wanted something to comfort myself :<

also I had some school orientation stuff yesterday and it was TIRINGGGG I fell asleep more than once during that thing so yea I’m kinda writing for this reason too-

I’ll get back to work ASAP :,) for now, enjoy this fic!

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Killing survivors day in, and day out was a mundane and tiring task. But that's what the Spectre wanted- mutual suffering. It wanted the survivors to experience the endless loop of dying over and over again. It wanted to bore the killers to the point they go insane and take out their anger on the survivors...which in turn completed the vicious cycle. Die, respawn and die again. Kill, get bored and kill again.

When it was your turn for "killing duty", as you liked to put it, it started with you motivating yourself for the round ahead and ended with you walking back into the killer's cabin, groaning in pain. Slash wounds covered your body and bruises were present all over your limbs, the blueish-purple marks an eyesore for everyone in the cabin. As you opened the door and stumbled in, all four killers turned to look at you and glanced at you in horror.

John Doe almost dropped his water. C00lkidd looked at you, unable to say or do anything as his small, innocent eyes glanced up at you with dismay in his eyes. He disliked seeing you in a pained state...he disliked seeing any of the killers in a pained state from playing around with the survivors, after all. Jason looked up at you from the couch, unable to bring himself to get back to reading upon seeing how roughed up you were. 1x1x1x1 was the only one who didn't seem too concerned. That was probably because they didn't want to burn themself, however, since they were busy cooking something on the stove. You had no idea what it was, but it smelled divine.

C00lkidd ran up to you and hugged you tightly. Despite being much younger than you, he was almost up to your height.

"(Y/N)!!! I missed you! Are you okay? What did the survivors do to you??"

His eyes welled up with tears as he looked at you. The sight of your injured form almost made him cry. He didn't like seeing you injured.

You groaned as you recalled what happened in the match. You lost horribly.

-

The survivors planned out a deadly combination beforehand and used you as their test subject. They sent Two Time to search for you and once they found you, they made a run for it...towards some other part of the map where Builderman set up a sentry. The moment you got in range, the sentry started firing at you, the pain of the bullet barrage slowing you down. As you approached the sentry to take it down, Shedletsky ran out from behind a wall and hit you with a nasty slash to the back. The pain burnt and you stumbled forward, landing on your knees on the dirt beneath you. You had to take a moment to breathe through the burning pain. You didn't have John Doe's pain tolerance...that man could be hit with knives or guns and would give himself a two-second pep talk before pushing through the pain and getting back to work.

The moment you got back up, you tried yet again to destroy the sentry. You raised your blade, swinging it down at the damned metal thing that was still firing rounds at you.

Instead of meeting steel, your sword struck the firm surface of Kevlar. Guest 1337 had parried your attack.

With another crushing parry to the face, you were back on the floor, clutching your cheek in pain. The damned sentry stared down your injured form, still firing bullet after bullet at you.

When you finally got back up, your rage-filled swing sent the sentry crumbling to the floor in a burning heap. Two Time stood some distance away from you, as if taunting you to attack them.

Without a second thought, you rushed towards them, ready to deliver a brutal strike that would be guaranteed to send them scuttling away from you, their spiny wings sprouting out of their back as a signal that they had entered their second life.

As you ran towards Two Time, your rage-filled state was unable to detect the tripwire that lay before you...sending you crumbling to the ground. You faceplanted into the floor, and a soft beeping could be heard to your left.

You turned your head, curious as to what the source of the noise was.

A square frame with a crystal encased in it phased back into existence, the tripmine glowing brighter and brighter as the crystal emitted a loud humming noise. It exploded with a flash, and for a brief moment, all you could see was the hot pink of the tripmine covering everything in sight. You tried to stumble towards Two Time, but your vision was still blurry from the sheer intensity of the flash. Shedletsky wasn't gonna let that moment slide and he sliced at you with his sword, followed up by Guest 1337 charging at you and bashing you into a wall...

-

You were exhausted, tired and drained from the crappy day you had just gone through. As you collapsed on the couch, C00lkidd ran over to you, his small hands holding yours as he looked at you with concern in his bright eyes. "Aunt/Uncle (Y/N)!! Are you okay? What happened to you today? Did the others play dirty during tag again?"

You nodded, a soft sigh escaping your mouth. You made an agreement with the others to tell C00lkidd that everything was a game of tag so that he wouldn't be too traumatised at his age.

As C00lkidd rambled on about how future games would be okay while lightly hugging your arm, your attention was diverted to the heavenly smell coming from the kitchen.

Something was cooking, and it smelt good.

Your eyes locked onto 1x1x1x1. They wore a chef's apron and a matching hat along with their usual domino crown. They even put on a chef's uniform for funsies.

And if you had to be honest with yourself, they looked kinda cute in it. 1x1x1x1, Shedletsky's manifestation of malice and hatred, wearing something normal for once.

He once told you that he got his cooking knowledge from Shedletsky. 1x1x1x1 and Shedletsky were both one and the same back in the past, where 1x1x1x1 was simply a seed being nurtured by Shedletsky's negativity. They saw everything through Shedletsky's eyes and heard everything through Shedletsky's ears...including all the cooking lessons and courses he took. They'd seen Shedletsky cook and learnt everything from him. So when 1x1x1x1 finally parted ways with Shedletsky, they took the shared knowledge with them, even after being forsaken.

Regardless, 1x1x1x1, just like their creator, could cook like a professional chef. Fifteen minutes later, all the killers sat at the table, a fresh plate of carbonara in front of them. 1x1x1x1 stood at the head of the table, their hands behind his back as he glanced over everyone with his crimson eyes.

"Dinner is served. Before you is a plate of carbonara. The pasta was freshly made by yours truly, topped with locally sourced bacon and authentic parmesan."

A grin made its way onto your face as you listened to their explanation. Not because you were impressed at the quality of the ingredients, but because you were trying so hard not to laugh at their explanation. You knew that in reality, they were making the most of the supplies the Spectre provided for its inhabitants.

The few of you could make requests to the Spectre and it would grant them, provided that the request was within reason. Everyone only found out about it when C00lkidd wished for a giant lollipop and it appeared at the cabin's doorstep, neatly wrapped in cling foil. Now he regularly requests lollipops from the Spectre, sometimes for his own consumption, sometimes to cheer the other killers up and sometimes so he can use them to play "tag" with the survivors.

You picked up your fork and dug in. The carbonara tasted divine. The noodles were just the right texture, and the bacon really hit the spot. As you scarfed down the meal, John Doe and C00lkidd shared a look.

"Uncle Doe, (Y/N) really is hungry..."

"Yeah. Can tell."

Once you were done, you sat back, satisfied with the hearty meal. After tossing the plates into the dishwasher, you retreated into your room for a nice, warm shower.

You zoned out from the comfortable feeling of the water cascading down your back and stayed inside for a bit too long. When you finally got out of the shower, now in something more comfortable, you saw 1x1x1x1 sitting on the side of your bed, a small bowl in hand. Instead of their chef's uniform, they wore a baggy shirt and a cosy pair of sweatpants.

"...hey. (Y/N). I made you some crème brûlée. Thought you had a rough day today, so I want to cheer you up."

Your eyes widened in awe. During the time you spent in the shower, they managed to make your favourite dessert for you. 1x1x1x1 passed you a small spoon, and you gently tapped at the caramelised sugar on the surface. You cracked the layer, scooping up some of the custard and sugar, and putting the spoon in your mouth.

It tasted sublime...just like how you used to remember it before you got thrown into this forsaken world. Tears pricked at your eyes, and you wrapped your arms around 1x1x1x1 in a tight hug.

"...it's perfect...thank you."

The chef froze up before a smile formed on his face, his hand reaching up to rub your back as you buried your face into his shoulder. After a long and tiring day, you needed a break...and 1x1x1x1 could see that.

"Relax, just relax, my dear...it's over. It's okay...I'm here now. Those pesky survivors are nothing more than annoying pests. I'll deal with them next time, honey."

You knew he was mainly talking about Shedletsky, but you could care less.

For now, all you needed was your lover's comfort.

⋯⇋ ૮(•͈⌔•͈)ა ⇌⋯

and that’s it for now, fellas! hope you enjoyed it :D

as a little side note, if you enjoyed the fic or have any feedback, do let me know! I thrive off people saying they enjoyed my fics + I know I’m at least doing something right :,) hope you all don’t feel that I’m too selfish or smth-

oh shoot I’m rambling ANYWAYYYY-

take care, and I’ll see you all soon!

also if you liked it please drop a follow- *dies*

[tetsumie]

𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔

pairing: kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader

genre: comfort

content: kuroo hasn't seen you in days and makes his way to your apartment to see what's going on with you

cw: reader has a depressive episode and displays depressive symptoms

a/n: hello! i tried writing something for my pookie wookie kuroo tetsuro also lwk very self indulgent.. love u all and tysm for the endless support and as always likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! i could not be here without you all <333

"hi! this is y/n l/n! sorry i couldn’t answer your phone call. i’m a bit busy right now but leave a message and i’ll call you back the first chance i get than-" kuroo hangs up the phone for nth time today and sighs. 

kuroo hasn't heard from you for the past few days and to be completely honest, it’s like you've completely vanished off the planet. your designated seat next to him in both chemistry and english lectures have remained empty for the past week and he can’t seem to get ahold of you at all. 

at first, he didn’t really worry much about it. he didn’t want to pry on why you weren’t coming to school. he understood everyone needed their space. but when he intercepted your friends one day and asked them how you were doing and they too were unsure as well, he knew there was something severely wrong. 

on the other hand, you’ve been home all week. 

you haven’t been in the best place for the past week. you feel like your body is slowly succumbing to the stress and your body is practically giving out on you, working overtime. motivating yourself to study and to work is already difficult enough as is but doing basic things such as getting out of bed and even taking a shower feels impossible. 

you feel stuck in this never ending loop of time where the same things just keep happening over and over. you wake up at the prime hour of 12 pm and realize you’ve missed all your morning classes but then immediately head back to bed. you fall asleep and then wake up at 2 pm and stare at the ceiling above you with no particular thought in mind. eventually, you find yourself scrolling through social media on your phone but then ditch it after a few minutes because a wave of social anxiety crashes into you. 

it doesn’t help that you’ve also been skipping meals and you’re starting to catch a cold. man, you haven’t even gotten out of bed, let alone left your bedroom. you can’t even get yourself to do the bare minimum right now and making yourself an actual meal is a bit too out of your comfort zone. 

and what makes this entire situation worse is the fact that you’ve been pushing everyone away, from your friends to family to the one and only kuroo tetsuro.

there was no justification behind why you were avoiding them. you just couldn’t allow yourself to let them see you in such a lethargic condition. it hurt your pride and in general, you hated having people worry for you. it made you feel, in a sense, hopeless. 

you just wanted to shut yourself off from the world. 

the week goes by in a flash and friday evening rolls around. your phone lights up again for the nth time. you see it flash white but you roll over away, not having the energy to grab it. doing anything especially talking to other people feels exhausting.

a few minutes later, someone's banging on the door. it sounded like the fbi was at your door with a search warrant as if you were harboring drugs. you don't answer the door, not feeling like leaving the comfort and safe haven of your bed.

but the banging doesn’t seem to stop and you're getting irritated so you’re forced to get out of bed and tell the person at the door to come at another time.

to your surprise, when you open the door, you find your boyfriend, kuroo, staring at you with wide eyes and furrowed eyebrows.

“y/n, where have you been?” he begins the interrogation.

you mumble. “nowhere. been at home.”

he looks you up and down, taking in your disheveled state. your face is pale, the bags under your eyes seep deeply, giving away the countless sleepless nights you've had. your shoulders are slumped and the corners of your mouth turn down slightly, a subtle but constant frown. your hair is unkempt, reflecting the lack of energy to even try to care for yourself. an aura of exhaustion and hopelessness hangs around you, making it clear that you're struggling to find the strength to even function.

“then why haven’t you answered my calls?” he continues.

“i’ve just been preoccupied,” you lie and he catches on immediately.

no words are exchanged between the both of you for a few moments. you take his silence as your cue to end this awkward conversation and to send him on his way.

"i'm sure you have better things to do, just go-"

you're about to close the door on him until he says, "let me in."

you sigh again.

“can you come back later tetsu?” you don’t want to have him deal with you like this. he's seen more than enough of you in this condition.

his piercing gaze locks with your tired eyes and he feels his heart clench. the usual shimmer in your eyes gone and all he can see the numbness in your expression.

"no let me in," he states in a strict tone. "we have to talk."

with no choice, you open up the door entirely and kuroo takes a look at the state of your apartment. he would be lying if he wasn't caught by surprise. clothes are strewn across the couch and bowls of empty ramen are lying on the kitchen counter. your apartment is a mess.

putting his stuff down near the door, he begins to slowly pick up your clothes off the floor and tosses them into the laundry bin. seeing him make an attempt at cleaning your mess made you uncomfortable to the point your skin started to crawl.

"tetsuro, stop."

"no."

"please stop," you plead in desperation.

"y/n, i’m trying to help you!" he replies, his voice growing a little louder with irritation at your refusal.

“what if i don’t want your help?” you shoot back and his mouth closes shut. “i don’t want your help or your pity or condolences or whatever it is! just go home!”

although your mouth said one thing, your mind was trying to telepathically convey another.

please don’t leave me now. please stay.

you don’t say a word as you walk into your bedroom, closing the door behind you, hoping he'll leave on his own. the moment he hears the click of your bedroom door, kuroo begins to try to organize as much as he can in your living room. he takes out your old leftover foods and tidies up the kitchen. he starts working his way through the living room, silently sweeping the dust off the floor and reorganizing your items that were strewn on the floor.

as he’s silently working, he begins to hear sniffles and sobs coming from your room. dropping everything, he finds himself standing in front of your closed door, fist about to knock the door.

“love, can we talk?” he says out loud.

it's silence from the other end.

"y/n... please..." kuroo's voice cracks. "i just want to see you."

"door's open," your voice is muffled slightly through the door.

he opens the door and is greeted by you wrapped around in your comforter, looking away from the door. kuroo takes in the state of your room. the curtains are drawn out and there are tissues littering your night stand along with your computer lying in the corner with a pile of clothes in the corner waiting to be cleaned.

you were always so organized, what started this?

kuroo goes over to the other side of the bed and your face is huddled into your comforter. he crouches down and starts to stroke your hair with his hand.

"baby? talk to me, love. what's going on in that pretty head of yours huh?" he coos in hopes of getting you to open up.

refusing to look him in the eye, you mumble into your comforter loud enough for him to understand. "it's been getting bad again... it’s been bad all week and i'm just tired all the time."

he kisses the top of your head. "and that's okay. not everyday is supposed to be a great day. you're supposed to have good days and bad days."

you finally emerge from your cocoon and the sight he's greeted with break his heart into pieces. your face has a slight red flush tint with the remnants of your tear stains on your face. he sees how you're trying to maintain a steady face, trying your best not to fall apart in front of him.

no questions asked, he brings you into his chest and the tears you worked so hard to keep at bay come apart. you start sobbing into his chest. he strokes your back in a rhythmic up and down motion, adding the occasional kiss on the top of your head. he finds himself crawling into your bed with you on his lap as you continue to sob into his chest.

once your crying subsides a bit and your throat feels a bit sore from the crying, you look up at him and he gives that genuine small smile of his that you've grown to love so much.

"i love you, you know that right?" he reassures as your eyes meet.

your eyes shift from one eye to another and you look at him as if he hung the stars just for you.

"i know and i don't know why you love me. i don't deserve you. you deserve someone who's put together and on top of it and just perfect. hell, you could do so much better than me... i don't even know why you're still with me."

his heart cracks at the heartbreaking words, escaping your mouth. he feels so stupid. have you been feeling like this for all this time and haven't said a word to him? he should've done something.

"when we started dating, from that very moment, i knew i wanted all of you. i want everything. i want your bad days and your good days and your lazy days and your rotting in bed days. i want your good and bad. i want your highs and lows. y/n, i just want you." he kisses your cheek.

he continues to reassure you, "i want all of it. and i want to be there for you the entire time. i don't want you to have to hide yourself from me. i never wanted you to be perfect. i wanted you to be just you. that's who i fell in love with."

"i love you with all your 'imperfections' you know that right?" he does the air quotes around the word "imperfections."

"yeah but it's so hard for me to accept-," you start but he brings his pointer finger to your lips, telling you to stop your train of overthinking.

you both are enveloped in a comfortable silence with kuroo's reassuring words hanging in the air.

"i love you so much, you have no idea," you finally say, cuddled into his chest.

"oh yeah? i couldn't tell," he begins to tease. "tell me more actually."

you let out a chuckle, playfully slapping his arm, and that warm, sweet smile of his forms again on hisi lips.

"there's my gorgeous girl. oh how i've missed you."

"missed you too, tetsu."

© tetsumie 2024 all rights reserved

[admiringlove]

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. the pieces are in place, the shadows are shifting, and soon, everything will unravel.

➵ warnings. mentions of blood; mentions of familial abuse; mentions of death; mentions of physical injuries, etc.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; SLOWBURN (but it won't be, soon. hehe); inaccuracies in the wizarding world because i did make some stuff up for the sake of the crossover; etc.

➵ word count. 25.5k.

➵ author's note. longest chapter i've written! let's make this official: there will be one final chapter after this. and then two epilogues. it will take longer to write from here on out, as all of these will be long (purely for my own indulgence sake). tysm for reading!

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

You return to the wooden bridge that evening just as precisely as you had left, the world slotting itself back into place as if nothing had ever shifted. The castle looms in the distance, golden light spilling from its many windows. The night air is cold against your skin, and the sharp scent of pine presses into your lungs with every breath you take. The bridge creaks beneath your weight, the only sound in the quiet.

And then, before you can say anything, before you can even process the way the weight of time itself seems to settle back into place, Satoru turns on his heel and walks away.

His coat billows at his ankles as he strides toward the castle, and you don’t stop him. You don’t call out. You don’t even try.

You understand.

If you had just learned that a war was coming in the next decade, that you were fated to stand at the center of it, you’d want to be alone too.

But that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

The prophecy claws at the edges of your mind, and it's something you can barely begin to comprehend. Sukuna will rise again. And for what? To spread chaos, to shatter peace, to bring the world to its knees? He has no purpose beyond destruction, no motive beyond his hunger for power. He was never like Grindelwald, never a man with grand ideals of purity or domination. He exists only to challenge the strongest, to crush them beneath his heel, to prove, time and time again, that no one—not even the greatest among them—can match him.

And the strongest, right now, are Dumbledore and—perhaps, if he follows the path laid out for him—Satoru.

You’ve seen it before, in flashes, in hints, in the way he moves, the way he holds back. When he duels, he never fights at full strength. When he plays Quidditch, he never flies as fast as you know he can. He is always withholding, keeping something tucked away just beneath the surface, something no one else has ever truly seen. Not here. Not at Hogwarts. Because there has never been a reason to show it.

But there will be. And that scares you more than anything.

You exhale, the breath leaving you in a slow, deliberate sigh as your hands curl around the cold railing. The wood is smooth beneath your fingertips, worn by years of wind and rain and the occasional student who, like you, finds themselves here when they have nowhere else to go. Beyond the bridge, the Black Lake yawns wide and unbroken, darker than you’ve ever seen it. There are no ripples tonight, no telltale signs of the creatures that lurk beneath, and the reflection of the sky above—endless, and grey with the weight of something coming—sits undisturbed.

The Forbidden Forest looms just beyond the lake, its outline blurred by the early winter fog. It has never been peaceful, never been quiet, not really, not when it is filled with things that move in the shadows, things with sharp teeth and old magic. But from here, from this distance, it almost looks serene. You know better than to believe it, but for a moment, just one, you let yourself pretend.

And then—

Snow.

It falls suddenly, in light, hesitant flakes, drifting down from the sky like the softest kind of omen. You blink, startled, looking up as one lands on your nose, and melts instantly. The air changes, sharpens, and you know that by morning the castle grounds will be buried in white.

Satoru is gone, and for the first time since you met him, since he inserted himself into your life like an inevitability, he feels distant. He is probably alone somewhere now, trying to make sense of everything, trying to fit himself into a war that has already decided his role for him. You should be doing the same, you think. You should be planning.

There is too much to do.

You could write down the prophecy, put it somewhere in the Room of Requirement, pin it to the board as if that will make it less terrifying, less real. You could go to a professor—Dumbledore, McGonagall, Fig, even Snape—and ask for guidance, though you don’t know how you’d explain how you know what you do. You could start researching, could spend every waking moment in the library poring over ancient texts, searching for anything that might tell you what you need to know. About Sukuna. About dark magic. About how to stop any of this before it is too late.

But you are exhausted.

It sits heavy inside of you, in the way your shoulders slump against the railing, in the way your eyelids flutter shut for just a second too long. You are tired. Scared. Anxious. You don’t know what will become of Satoru. Or Suguru. Or Sukuna. Or yourself. Any of it, really.

Because how do you stop someone from reaching for power they were never meant to touch? How do you stop something ancient, something that has spent centuries waiting for a moment just like this? How do you stop a war before it begins?

You don’t know because it has never been done before.

And that is what terrifies you most.

You hear voices in the distance, faint at first, then growing closer. A moment later, you see them—Shoko and Nanami, walking toward you across the bridge. Shoko lifts a hand in greeting, her other tucked into the pocket of her robes, while Nanami walks beside her, quiet, watchful.

You force a smile as they approach, though you can tell from the way Shoko narrows her eyes that it is hardly convincing.

"You left Hogsmeade," she says once she’s close enough.

"Yeah," you murmur, wincing a little. "Some stuff happened, and I had to go."

"Stuff as in?"

"Stuff as in, Fushiguro and I ended things."

Not exactly a lie. But not the reason you left, either.

Shoko tilts her head, lips pressing together in something close to amusement. "Okay, Fawkes," she says, voice laced with a quiet kind of exasperation. The nickname makes your ears perk up, but she continues, "before you start lying to me again and again—"

You freeze.

She keeps going.

"-I know everything. So does Kento. We’ve known from the start."

You stare at her. "What?"

"We know you’re a Marauder," Shoko says simply. "And so is Satoru."

"Huh?"

"I figured it out first, actually. Right around the time you guys started," she continues, as if you hadn’t just been rendered speechless. "Kento caught on around the end of last year."

You blink, trying to process it, trying to make sense of how, when, why this happened.

"Hold on," you say, holding up a hand. "I’m still trying to—"

"Utahime doesn’t know because she can’t keep a secret, and Suguru doesn’t either, for obvious reasons," Shoko says, unfazed. "But yeah. We know."

You open your mouth, only to close it again.

"And," she adds, finally, "I just saw Satoru run to the Slytherin common room like his life depended on it, so I’m worried. Which is why I dragged Kento here with me."

Nanami sighs, rubbing his temple. Shoko smiles. You stare.

Nanami exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair before rubbing at his temple like this is already giving him a headache. The bridge is silent, save for the distant howl of wind threading through the trees, the occasional distant rustling of leaves.

"I'm sure by now you know that I sent the notes," he says finally, voice even but quiet, careful. "Well, Shoko and I both did. It would’ve been difficult for me to slip something into Gojo’s things without raising suspicion." He hesitates for a beat, then continues, "We just saw him running towards the corridor in a three-piece suit. He looked troubled. He was having trouble breathing, too, I think."

Something sharp pulls at your chest, your heart—like an invisible hook lodged deep inside, tugging. That familiar, gnawing worry. You’d known it was a lot. You’d known it would hit him, eventually.

"I should go," you say, the words slipping out in a breath, barely audible. "Check on him."

"No," Shoko cuts in, firm but gentle, shaking her head. "Let him be. Just for a while. God knows he needs it." She tilts her head, considering you. "Tell us what's going on until then."

Your breath catches.

"I…" You look away, pressing your lips together, hands curling into fists at your sides. "I can’t," you say finally, and it comes out more defeated than you'd like. You close your eyes, inhale deep. "It would put you two in danger."

"Tell us anyway," Shoko says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And you freeze. Because it’s what you’d said to Satoru. Your lips part slightly, the words catching in your throat.

"Shoko, Kento," you start, quiet, uncertain, "I can’t tell you because one of us could die. If anything goes wrong—if we make even the smallest mistake—any of us could die. And it'll be Satoru before anybody else." Your fingers tighten around the railing, nails digging into the wood. "I can't let anything happen to you all. I can't let it happen to him."

"I think that's exactly why we deserve to know," Nanami says. His voice is steady, certain. "If we knew, wouldn’t that make us prepared?"

"What he said," Shoko adds, jerking a thumb at him.

You chew at your lip, thinking. Really thinking. You weigh it in your head, measure it against all the things you have to lose. The answer should be easy. You should say no. You should shut them out, the way you’ve been trying to shut yourself out, trying to keep yourself from spiraling down the same hole that Satoru is surely falling into. But the reality of it is this: they already know too much. And you? You're tired of carrying this alone.

Your gaze flickers to Nanami. "You were the one who saw it happening," you murmur. "Suguru. Yes?"

"Yes," he says, without hesitation.

You exhale slowly.

"Then perhaps," you pause, gaze flitting between them, "perhaps I should show you. Both of you."

They exchange a glance, something unspoken passing between them. You don’t wait for them to say anything before you push yourself off the railing and step away from the bridge.

"Come along," you say, and start walking.

When Ieiri Shoko and Nanami Kento watch the Room of Requirement’s entrance unfurl before them for the first time, they are silent. Not because they have nothing to say, but because for once in their lives, words fail them.

The heavy stone wall melts away as if it had never existed, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond an almost obsidian door, lined with flickering sconces that cast shifting shadows against the uneven stones. The air is thick with the kind of magic that feels alive—sentient, even. Like the room is watching. Like it knows.

Shoko is the first to step inside, careful, as though she’s afraid that too much movement might shatter the illusion. But her eyes are wide, alight with something almost childlike, and when she turns back to you, her face is alight with a mixture of wonder and disbelief.

Nanami lingers in the doorway, gaze sweeping the space with the kind of measured, critical intensity he applies to everything. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so visibly stunned before—he probably wasn't when he figured out what you and Satoru had been up to last year, or when he discovered what Geto had been doing. But now, here, he looks awed.

“Welcome,” you say, voice soft in the cavernous quiet. "To the infamous Marauders’ hideout. The Room of Requirement.”

Shoko lets out a breathless laugh, half-disbelieving. “You’re telling me this has been a real place all along?" Her voice pitches, incredulous. "It’s not just a school legend?”

“No,” you say, amusement curling at the edges of your words, “it’s quite real.” You nudge your chin toward the far end of the room. “There’s even some Floo powder there, by the way. Although, someone who hasn’t been inside can’t access it from the outside. So it’s safe.”

They don’t reply immediately, too preoccupied with taking it all in. And you get it, you do. It’s a lot to absorb all at once.

The Room of Requirement is not just a place. It is a living thing, shifting to accommodate its keepers, breathing with them, anticipating their needs before they are even spoken.

Tonight, it is warm. Firelight flickers in the hearth, casting long golden shadows against the stone floor. A set of plush armchairs are arranged around a low table, the cushions so inviting you know that if Shoko sits, she won’t be getting up for a while. At the far end, a dueling area stands empty, training dummies lined against the wall, waiting. The bookshelves, stacked high with both school-required texts and books of a more illicit nature, stretch toward the ceiling, filled with the accumulated knowledge of generations before you.

Nanami’s gaze drifts across the space, sweeping over it like he’s cataloging everything, making sense of it piece by piece. But it’s the long wooden table in the back that finally holds his attention. That, and the pinboard behind it—cluttered with parchment, scrawled notes pinned in a desperate kind of order, books stacked precariously in between.

“That’s your research, I’m guessing,” he says after a moment, voice quieter than before. He tilts his head toward the table but keeps his eyes on you.

You nod. “And the Marauders’ business, too. But we haven’t been focusing on that for a bit.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” Shoko snorts, finally dragging her gaze away from the bookshelves. “Pansy was complaining about the fact that her love potion still hasn’t reached Satoru.” She rolls her eyes. “As if that would ever happen.”

That startles a laugh out of you, small but real.

Nanami sighs. "Please tell me you're not about to show us anything illegal."

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

"Depends on what you consider illegal," you say, before stepping further into the room.

The fire crackles, flames licking higher for a fleeting moment before settling into a steady glow. It smells like parchment and ink, like candle wax melting, like the dust that clings to old books. The air in the Room of Requirement is thick with something else, too—anticipation, maybe. Or something heavier. It's all waiting to be said.

You step toward the long wooden table, fingers absently undoing the buttons of your black long coat as you slide it onto the chair at the head of it. Shoko whistles low under her breath when she catches sight of what you’re wearing.

“Damn,” she muses.

You glance down at yourself, at the crisp white button-up and dark dress pants, the fabric stiff in a way your usual clothes never are. They feel unnatural on you, unfamiliar, as if you’re still wearing someone else’s skin. Gojo's mother's skin.

“It’s nothing,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. “Just formals. Gojo told me to dress the part for something we did today.”

It had been the only thing in your wardrobe without color that could pass as formal in the first place. Everything else had felt too casual, too much like you.

Shoko smirks. “Didn’t think you owned anything that made you look like you mean business.”

You roll your eyes, pushing up your sleeves. “Alright,” you sigh, palms flattening against the table as you look toward the pinboard, “this is… going to be a long night.” A pause, before you try to divert. “I think we should get some food. Or something.”

Shoko waves a hand dismissively. “Just start. I’ll take care of that in a bit.” Her lips quirk. “I’m dying of anticipation.”

“O-okay.” You exhale slowly.

The room is quiet but not silent—Nanami shifts slightly in his seat, arms crossed as he watches you with that unreadable look of his. The fire murmurs in the background.

You glance toward the board, at the tangled mess of parchment and ink that holds more questions than answers, and begin.

“A few weeks ago, Satoru and I got notes with riddles on them,” you say, voice steady despite the weight of what you’re about to unravel. “We didn’t know who sent them then, but obviously, that was you two. He, however, still doesn't know that.” You glance between them. “It took us sometime decode them. Mostly because of me, I think. I was too focused on trying to get into the Restricted Section. I kept making it more complicated than it needed to be.” A wry smile flickers across your lips. “Didn’t realize I already had the answer.”

Shoko snorts. “Sounds about right.”

You shake your head, turning back to the board. “Anyway. We figured out the riddles. But we didn’t know who was practicing the said dark magic.”

“We told you it was someone with dark hair,” Shoko points out, arms folded across her chest.

You give her a flat look. “You didn’t tell us it was Geto Suguru. How were we supposed to know it was him with just that one hint?”

Shoko huffs, looking mildly offended. “I put it in Satoru’s quill case.”

You blink. “What?”

She lifts her chin, indignant. “The note. I put it in Satoru’s quill case. Suguru gave him that for Christmas last year. It has Satoru's family crest on it.”

There’s a beat of silence as you stare at her, processing.

“Oh,” you say. A pause. “Wait, what?”

Nanami exhales sharply through his nose, the sound quiet but weighted, and when he finally speaks, his voice is even softer than before.

"I'm guessing Gojo knew from the very beginning who it was," he says. "He just didn’t tell you. Because it was his best friend."

The words settle heavily between you, like stones thrown into deep water, sinking too fast for you to catch them. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You blink, lips parting slightly, eyebrows knitting together as the realization unfurls inside your chest—too much, too fast.

"I..." You swallow, shaking your head slightly. "I can’t do this right now."

Your voice is quiet, but the panic threading through it is unmistakable. The walls of the Room of Requirement feel closer, the flickering candlelight too dim, the fire suddenly not warm enough.

"Wait," Shoko says quickly, pushing herself to the edge of her seat. "Calm yourself a bit. Don’t panic. Breathe."

But how could you? How could you possibly breathe knowing that everything could have been different?

"Shoko, you don’t understand," you say, voice trembling just enough to betray you. You take a step back, hands curling into fists, nails pressing into the flesh of your palms. "There's going to be a war. An inevitable one, and Satoru is going to be right dead in the center of it. We could’ve stopped this a lot sooner if he had just—" Your voice catches. "...If he had just told me."

Shoko’s lips part slightly, her brow furrowing in concern, but it’s Nanami who speaks first.

"I think coming to terms with the fact that your best friend is slowly losing his mind was hard on him," he says, measured as always, like he’s thought about this long before now. His voice is steady, but not unkind. "What would you do if it were Shoko? If you saw the signs, if you knew—would you tell everyone? Or would you keep it to yourself until you felt it was right?"

The question stills something inside of you, stills the rising panic clawing at your ribs.

That isn’t fair.

But the words don’t leave your mouth. Because the truth is—you don’t know. You’ve never had to consider it before. What would you do, if it were Shoko? If the signs had been there, if the truth had been staring at you all along, if you knew what she was becoming but didn’t want to know?

You don’t answer.

Nanami doesn’t push.

"Let’s not think about that right now," Shoko murmurs, her voice softer now. A sigh escapes her lips. "Just… tell us the rest. You can talk to Satoru later. I don’t think he’s going to hide anything else from you anymore."

You breathe out, forcing the tension from your shoulders, running a hand over your hair before finally giving a small nod.

"Yeah," you say, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Okay."

And so, after a long moment of staring at the polished wood of the long table, tracing the faint grain patterns with your eyes as if they might offer some clarity, you finally speak. The words come slowly at first, uncertain, before they gather momentum like a storm rolling in over the horizon.

You tell them everything.

The wild goose chase that led you through dead ends and tangled riddles. The reason you’ve been falling behind in classes, too preoccupied with shadows lurking at the edges of your vision, too consumed by something far larger than yourself. You tell them about the genealogy and the list you'd made of pureblood students, the weeks spent poring over lineages and old records, trying to untangle a history that had already written its ending. The wild goose chase Gojo had pushed you into, one he knew would come up with a dead end.

You don’t tell them about the night you found him bruised and battered, about the way his body had looked under dim candlelight, all pale skin and deep scars. You don’t tell them about how you reached for him before you could think better of it, how you’d pressed trembling hands against his wounds, whispering healing charms under your breath like they were prayers. You don’t tell them how, even now, the image of him sits heavy in your mind.

But you tell them everything else. Including the day you learned it was Suguru. And some of today.

The moment you say the name Sukuna, Shoko’s eyes widen. Nanami furrows his brow, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he folds his arms tightly across his chest. There’s a beat of silence before you continue, a silence so thick it almost feels suffocating. They know who he is.

"And," you say, voice barely above a whisper, "do either of you know anything about Horcruxes?"

You already know the answer before they shake their heads.

You sigh, fingers drumming against the table before pushing yourself to stand, turning towards the pinboard littered with notes, parchments, stolen scraps of information. You reach for one of them—a copied page from a book deep in the Restricted Section, enchanted to preserve its fragile ink.

"Horcruxes," you say, voice even, "are Dark Magic. The darkest. A Horcrux is an object in which a Dark wizard or witch has hidden a detached fragment of their soul in order to become immortal. As long as the receptacle remains intact, so too does the soul fragment inside it, keeping the maker anchored to the world of the living, even if their body suffers fatal damage. It is, by far, the most terrible of all Dark Magic."

Shoko lets out a slow breath, one you can tell she’s been holding since the moment you spoke the word Horcrux. Then, with shaky hands, she reaches into her pocket, pulling out a cigarette. The flick of her lighter is loud in the quiet room, the flame sparking before catching. She exhales a plume of smoke towards the ceiling, shoulders tense.

"How exactly does one make a Horcrux?" Nanami asks, and his voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it. A tension, a quiet dread, a thing he is holding back.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you take a slow step towards the pinboard, brushing your fingers against a yellowed scrap of parchment, one that holds the answer.

"Horcruxes can only be created after committing murder," you say, and your voice feels distant, as if it belongs to someone else. "The most supreme act of evil, as a means to tear the soul. The process involves a spell, but it also requires… a horrific act. Something else. Something beyond the killing itself."

Your throat is dry when you finish speaking. You don’t elaborate further.

Shoko exhales another puff of smoke, watching the way it curls into the air before vanishing entirely.

"Do we know what spell it is?" she asks, voice flat.

You shake your head. "No."

Nanami clears his throat, shifting his weight slightly. His voice is quiet when he speaks, deliberate. "How many does… Sukuna have?"

You hesitate. Your chest tightens.

And then, barely above a whisper, you say, "Twenty."

Silence.

Shoko is the first to react. She lets out a bitter, almost disbelieving laugh before running a hand down her face. "Oh, bloody hell," she mutters, more to herself than to either of you, her cigarette trembling slightly between her fingers. "We’re losing this fucking war."

You shoot her a sharp look, narrowing your eyes.

She lifts her hands in mock surrender. "Sorry," she says, though there’s no real weight behind it. Just the unshakable understanding that she’s right.

"So, after that, on a pure whim," you continue, voice even, "and because Dumbledore hinted at it, Satoru and I went to the Ministry of Magic."

The words barely leave your mouth before Shoko furrows her brows, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "Dumbledore?" she echoes. "He knows all of this is happening and he's just quiet?"

"Let me finish," you say, exasperated. "Anywho, we went there disguised as Satoru's parents. To get into the Department of Mysteries. And…" You pause, mouth suddenly dry. "We saw a memory. Through a Pensieve."

Nanami leans forward, the scrape of his chair against stone barely audible over the distant crackling of the fireplace. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell from the way his hands tighten into fists on his lap that he wants you to continue.

So you do.

"I was the one who saw it. Gojo’s mother was there. And a Seer. And she… she predicted this."

You don’t need to look at them to know that both Shoko and Nanami are holding their breath.

You grab a blank parchment from the pile near the long table, then reach for your wand. With a flick, you enchant the quill and the inkwell, and ink spills onto the paper in deliberate, flowing strokes. The prophecy comes to life in front of you, each letter bleeding into the parchment as if carving itself into history.

Once it’s done, you peel it from the desk, walking toward the pinboard. You pin it in place, stepping back as the ink settles into its final form.

Then, you wait. You watch them as they read it. As their expressions shift.

Nanami is the first to react. His breath comes slow, controlled, but you can see the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his fingers twitch ever so slightly where they rest on his knee. Shoko exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair before letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

"I never knew it was this serious," she mumbles, shaking her head. "I thought Suguru was just… straying. But this is—" she exhales, tilting her head up to stare at the ceiling as if it might give her answers, "this is so much more than just straying off the damn path."

"I'm aware," you murmur. Your gaze lingers on the prophecy, its words stark against the parchment. Then, you turn to Kento.

He is quiet for a moment, staring at the floor as if weighing something in his mind. Then, when he finally looks up, his voice is steady.

"He already has one."

Your breath catches.

You turn back to the prophecy, scanning the words again. Sure enough, there it is. Right in front of you. Hidden in the ink, waiting for you to see it.

The Dark Lord waits, scattered in twenty pieces, his whispers buried in stone and bone and blood. But the first has been found. A hand unknowing, closest to your son, holds what should have never surfaced. A heart still torn between shadow and light.

It’s silent for a long, heavy moment. Then, softly, Shoko whispers, "Oh. Oh. Is that what that thing was?"

Your head snaps toward her. "What thing?"

She presses her lips together, then leans forward, stubbing out her cigarette on a scrap of parchment and leaving it there. When she speaks, her voice is quiet.

"Kento said Suguru had something in his hand the day he saw him," she says. "Said he was trying to do something with it. But he failed."

You feel your pulse spike. "What was it?"

Nanami shifts in his seat. His brows are furrowed, expression unreadable. "Some kind of jewelry," he says after a beat. "A ring, a locket—something like that. If I remember correctly." His gaze flickers to you. "It glinted in the night. I wouldn't have been able to see it otherwise."

A ring. A locket. Something like that.

Your fingers curl at your sides. Your mind races, filling in gaps, connecting threads you didn’t even know were there.

Suguru had it. The first. He didn't know how to use it.

And for the first time in what feels like forever today, you exhale, a sharp breath pushing out of your chest, and let out something that feels dangerously close to a laugh. A breathless, almost incredulous smile pulls at the corners of your lips.

"He doesn’t know how to use it," you say, and the words sound foreign, unbelievable even as they leave your mouth.

Shoko’s head snaps up. "He doesn’t?" Her brows lift, her eyes sharpening with interest.

You nod, still grinning, still letting it sink in. "He doesn’t know the spell," you say again, firmer this time, "Just like us. He has no idea how to use it. He probably knows the ritual Sukuna performed when he made the receptacle, sure, but he doesn’t know how to absorb it. He doesn’t know how to become Sukuna’s vessel."

Silence. The distant hum of magic humming in the walls.

Nanami exhales slowly, a measured sound, like he’s letting himself believe it in pieces. "That buys us time," he murmurs, voice even.

"More than time," you say, your breath coming fast now, the weight in your chest loosening for the first time tonight. "This—this is good."

Something sharp and triumphant cuts through your voice, and when you look up, Shoko’s already watching you, her lips twitching, her cigarette forgotten between her fingers.

"Okay," you say, inhaling, rolling your shoulders back. "Here’s what I need from you two."

They straighten at once.

"Find out as much as you can about the ritual," you tell them, stepping forward, hands bracing the back of your chair. "Whatever you can get your hands on, I’ll take it. Anything. If you can find anything on the absorption process, even better."

"That would require us to go to the Restricted Section," Nanami points out, voice steady, "How are we supposed to get in without raising suspicion?"

For a second, it's quiet.

Then Shoko lifts her chin, something glinting in her gaze. "I’ve got it," she says. She sits up, snuffing out the last embers of her cigarette against a stray piece of parchment before flicking it onto the table. "I can get Slughorn to give us permission. I’m in his Slug Club, anyway."

She glances at you. "I know you dropped out because of everything else you've got going on."

You nod, lips pressing together. "I quit last year because I became a Prefect."

"Exactly," she says simply. "So it won’t look suspicious if I’m the one asking."

Nanami hums, nodding along, considering it.

"Good," Shoko says quietly, then shifts in her chair, watching you carefully. "And, erm…" She hesitates. "I think, just maybe, you should approach the Suguru angle with Gojo."

You blink at her. "What do you mean, 'Suguru angle'?"

She exhales, shaking her head. "Try to figure out where he’s doing what he’s doing. He probably realized the Black Lake was too conspicuous for him to be practicing dark magic there. If he’s serious about this, really serious, he’s already found a new place. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere not easily accessible."

Your lips thin as you consider it. You don’t like it. You don’t like the idea of talking to Satoru about this right now—not when you’re already angry, not when the hurt of his silence is still fresh. But you know she’s right.

"Alright," you murmur finally. "Makes sense."

And then, before anyone else can speak, the door swings open.

You turn at the same time as Shoko and Kento.

Gojo Satoru stands at the entrance of the Room of Requirement, eyes wide, his breath just slightly unsteady. The light from the torches lining the stone walls flickers across his face, casting half of it in shadow, but you can still see it—the shock. The way his whole body tenses when he takes in the room. The pinboard. The parchment. The faces of the people sitting at the long table, staring back at him like they know everything.

His mouth opens. "What the bloody hell is—"

But before he can even finish the sentence, Shoko and Nanami stand.

"We’ll be back in a bit," Shoko says breezily, brushing past him, her fingers already digging into the pocket of her robes for another cigarette.

Nanami is more measured, placing a hand on your chair as he steps away, his voice quieter, meant only for you. "Sort this out," he murmurs. "We’ll be back once you do."

Then, with a final glance at Gojo, they slip out of the room, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind them.

And then it’s just the two of you.

Gojo stares at you, his expression unreadable, but you know him too well—you can see it, the flicker of something behind his eyes, the tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for his blindfold even though he isn't wearing it. Like he wants to hide.

The air in the Room of Requirement is thick, heavy, charged with something electric and sharp, like the moment before lightning splits the sky.

"Why were they here?" he asks again, his voice slow, deliberate, as if each word is pulled from the depths of something ugly. "Why were they sitting here, looking at all our work? Why have you gone and put them in danger?"

Your spine straightens. You exhale through your nose.

You don’t know how to approach this, how to tread the thin line between confrontation and whatever twisted kind of loyalty still lingers between the two of you. Should you let him rage, let him try to talk his way out of it? Should you let him explain before you say the words that have been sitting in your chest like lead?

Or should you laugh in his face? Should you remind him exactly what it feels like to be kept in the dark?

Fuck it. You’re choosing the latter.

"When the fuck were you going to tell me you knew about Suguru from the very beginning?"

The tone shifts. It’s dead silent. You step forward. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and for the first time tonight, his confidence wavers. His brows furrow, and he blinks, once, then again, as if he needs a moment to process the fact that you’re not asking—you’re accusing.

"I did not—"

"Don't you dare lie to me." Your voice is eerily calm, even to your own ears. "You knew. You knew from the beginning. You said you found the note in your quill case. The one with your family crest."

Gojo says nothing, but the shift in his stance is enough. His lips part, then press back together, like he's trying to think of what to say, how to spin this into something palatable, something that won’t make you hate him.

But you don't give him the chance.

"The one Suguru gave to you last year for Christmas," you say, voice quiet now, final, like a blade pressing against the soft of his throat.

"I-I told you, I didn’t know until I confirmed it," Gojo says, his voice breaking, desperate in a way you’ve never heard before. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

You shake your head, pressing forward, your movements deliberate, and before he realizes it, he’s backing up, until the back of the sofa is against his legs and he has nowhere else to go. The firelight flickers behind you, casting long shadows over his face, over yours, over the room that has borne witness to months of secrets, of sleepless nights, of a war neither of you were ready for but have been forced to fight anyway.

"Gojo," you say, voice deadly quiet, "you lie to me one more time, and I walk away. I drop everything. I leave you to fight this war by yourself, and I won’t look back even if—"

You can’t bring yourself to say it. You can’t even bring yourself to imagine it.

Your throat bobs. The silence between you is thick, suffocating.

"Tell me the truth," you say, voice barely above a whisper now, but somehow heavier than anything you've ever spoken. "For once. Please."

Gojo exhales, and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t try to charm his way out of it. His shoulders sink, his mask crumbles, and something inside him breaks.

"I knew from the beginning," he admits. His voice is raw, like he’s dragging the words out of his chest. "That it was Suguru."

The confirmation should not hurt as much as it does. But it does.

You inhale sharply, blinking once, twice, feeling the heat behind your eyes, the way your pulse roars in your ears.

"So you sent me on a wild goose chase for no reason whatsoever?" you ask, voice shaking, too close to his face now, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. "You let me go weeks without sleep. You let me end up in the Infirmary. All because you were scared of telling me the truth?"

Gojo’s hands twitch at his sides. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

"I’m sorry," he whispers, and his voice is so full of regret, so full of something that looks like guilt and something that looks like shame and something that looks like every broken thing inside him. "I-I didn’t want Suguru to get hurt. He’s my—"

"Best friend," you cut in, shaking your head, rolling your eyes, feeling the exhaustion seep into your bones, "yes. You’ve made that quite clear, by putting all of us in danger."

Gojo flinches like you struck him.

"Fawkes," he says, softly. It is not the teasing lilt you are used to, nor the lazy drawl that usually stretches your name into something playfully insolent. No, this is different—a quiet fragility in a way you have never heard from him before. "I’m sorry."

The room feels smaller now, like the walls have drawn inward, sensing the shift in the air. The parchment on the walls—maps, theories, pages ripped from books, all of it evidence of what the two of you have built together—rustles faintly from a draft you cannot place.

Gojo takes a breath, shallow, uneven. "I didn’t mean to hurt you," he says, "I didn’t mean for you to end up in the Infirmary, and I really, really didn’t mean for it to become this bad. I’m sorry."

A muscle jumps in your jaw. Your hands curl into fists at your sides. You are so close to him, too close, the heat of his body pressed against yours like a suffocating thing, a reminder of how easily he has wormed his way into every part of your life.

You shake your head. "What good is your apology going to do right now?" Your voice is thin, breaking apart at the edges. You swallow against the tightness in your throat. "We have to work. We have to figure out how to—"

"Fawkes."

His grip on your arm is sudden, warm, and firm enough to pull you against him. Your breath catches. It is exactly like earlier today, when you could not breathe, when he had held you upright and let you lean into him, when the weight of it all had pressed so violently against your chest that you thought you might shatter under it.

You look up at him now, forcing yourself to keep your expression blank, forcing yourself to ignore the way his touch—steady, grounding—threatens to unravel you. But your chin quivers, just slightly, and you curse yourself for it.

You exhale sharply. "There’s no point, Gojo." The words come out quieter than you mean them to. "Everything surrounding you is a lie. Everything you tell me is either a lie or half of the truth. I’m done."

"You can’t be," he whispers.

His throat bobs as he swallows, as if he is trying to push back something he cannot name. His fingers tighten around your arm, just barely, like he is afraid you will slip through them if he lets go. His eyes are wide, shining in the dim firelight, rimmed red in a way that makes something ache in your chest.

"Not now," he breathes, "not when everything is just starting."

You don’t pull away. But you don’t move closer, either. "How am I supposed to believe anything you say?"

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before looking at you again. "I know," he says, shaking his head, voice hoarse, "I know. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything you want to know from now on. I won’t hide anything, I promise." His hands tremble slightly as he moves, as he lifts them and cups your face, as if grounding himself in the feel of your skin beneath his palms.

You stiffen. His fingers are warm against your cheek, tentative, as if he is afraid you might pull away, might shatter like glass beneath his touch.

"Just don’t—" His voice breaks. He swallows. "Don’t leave."

Your breath catches. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, hesitant, careful, like he is memorizing the shape of you. His hands have always been steady, in duels, in Quidditch, even in your reckless Marauder stunts, but now they tremble just the slightest bit. You cannot tell if it is fear or exhaustion or something else entirely.

"I was stupid," he whispers, his forehead almost touching yours now. "I thought I could do everything by myself because I am the strongest. But I’m not."

You blink. He exhales shakily.

"I need you to be who I am," he continues, softer now, as if admitting it is costing him something. "I’m not a Marauder without you."

Something in your chest twists violently, and you cannot tell if it is anger or grief or something far, far worse.

You pull away from him. The air between you turns cold the second you do, like the warmth of his hands had been the only thing keeping it from suffocating you both.

You rub at your arm, where his fingers had been wrapped just seconds ago, trying to erase the sensation, the weight of it. His touch lingers like an ache, like a bruise that hasn’t formed yet. Your breath is uneven, but you force your voice to stay steady. "Nanami sent us the notes."

Gojo's brows knit together, but he doesn’t say anything. He only watches you, his face unreadable.

"Or, well," you correct yourself, "he saw it happen. And he told Shoko. And they thought it best to send us the notes."

A sharp pause. You can hear the low crackle of the fire, the distant echo of footsteps outside the Room of Requirement, the way Gojo’s breath hitches, like he’s bracing for impact.

"What?"

"Yeah," you say, looking up at him again, studying his expression—how he stiffens, how the realization settles into his bones, how his lips press into a thin line. "They sent us the notes because they thought we’d be able to do something about it. It’s how I know that you knew from the beginning."

His fingers twitch, curling into his palms.

"Shoko told me about the quill case."

Gojo exhales sharply. The sound of it is almost a laugh, but not quite. "O-oh." He nods once, slowly, then wipes a hand over his face. "Right. Of course."

You hesitate. "Y-yeah." The words feel thin.

A long silence stretches between you. He isn’t looking at you now, staring instead at the scattered parchment on the walls, at the hastily scribbled notes, at the maps and the half-finished equations, at the things the two of you have been piecing together, brick by brick, clue by clue.

You exhale. "So I told them everything."

His gaze snaps back to you, sharp, searching.

"It’s why they were here," you continue, voice quieter now. "They’re going to help us."

Gojo hums. His expression is unreadable again. "And I’m assuming I can’t say anything against it?"

You look him straight in the eye. "No."

Something shifts in his face. For a second, he looks tired—exhausted, even. But then he nods, and there’s something almost resigned in his voice when he says, "That’s alright too." Another pause. Then softer, "That’s perfectly alright."

He steps closer again, hesitant this time.

You don’t move away, but you can’t bear to look at him.

"Fawkes," he says, softer now. 

The room is quiet. Not silent—never silent—but quiet in a way that makes it hard to breathe, a quiet that seeps into the walls, into the very air between you. The glow in the room is too dim to be comforting. This is not a comforting place anymore. This is a room built for secrecy, for the unspoken, for the things no one dares to say aloud. And it is waiting.

You don’t look at him when you speak. You can’t.

“Let’s just get our work done, please.”

It comes out barely above a whisper, the words steady but brittle, like the glass panes of the high-arched windows, delicate and too easy to shatter. You walk toward the long table again, fingers trailing absently over the rough-hewn wood, and release a breath that is far too shaky for your liking. But before you can gather yourself, before you can push it down, you ask, “Oh, um, Satoru?”

He looks up immediately. His name on your tongue is a hook in his ribs, pulling taut. Always, he is waiting for you to call on him. Always, he turns too fast, listens too carefully.

“Yes?”

“Is there anything else I should know?” You still don’t face him. Instead, you keep your hands busy, pressing the edges of a parchment flat against the table. “About this whole situation?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. A long, harrowing second where the only sound in the room is the slow crackle of the fireplace. But then, a shift. A sharp inhale.

The almost-imperceptible tension in his shoulders, in his spine.

When you do look up, he is already looking at you, wide-eyed, guilty in a way he can’t quite hide. His throat bobs, like he is forcing something down, like the words are already thick in his mouth. You narrow your eyes.

“Out with it, please.”

“I—” He hesitates. He wets his lips, exhales sharply, then straightens. “You have to promise me you won’t be angry.”

Your stare flattens.

“I mean it,” he presses, raising his hands in a pitiful show of defense. It’s almost funny—if you weren’t so tired, if you weren’t so very sick of this entire thing, maybe you’d laugh. Instead, you cross the space between you.

“Satoru.” Your voice is low, edged with something dangerous. “You realize we can’t keep going like this. With me in the dark all the time.”

A breath. A moment.

“You’re right.” He closes his eyes, just for a second. And when he opens them, there is something raw in his face, something hesitant and young and unsure. “Here goes, I guess.”

A pause. A bracing.

“Suguru is a Legilimens.”

The words hit like a curse. You still. “You have to be joking.”

“He’s—” Satoru exhales, shaking his head. “That’s all of it. I’m not hiding anything else.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

“Wait, no,” you say, shaking your head, as if that will change what he just said. “Shut up, Satoru. Do you not realize what that means? He can read your mind! Everyone’s minds! He knows we’re the Marauders, and he definitely knows that we’re trying to stop him!”

“He doesn’t know! Well, he knows we’re the Marauders but he doesn’t know that we’re trying to stop him,” Gojo says immediately. “He doesn’t read everyone’s minds like that.”

“Satoru,” you snap, frustration curling sharp in your throat, “you really can’t be serious—”

“He doesn’t,” he repeats, firmer this time. He clenches his fists. “I know it. He doesn’t read my mind specifically.”

“How do you know that?” Your voice is rising now, unable to help it. “You defend your best friend with all your might. But you’ve known from the beginning, Satoru. You’ve known that it’s him all along. That he’s practicing dark magic on school grounds, that he’s trying to collect Horcruxes, and you kept me in the dark for all of it. Like a stupid puppet.”

“I am certain he doesn’t read my mind!” he says, and there is something desperate in it now, something like insistence, like panic. He shakes his head, hard, like he’s willing it to be true. “He does not. He cannot. He will not. If he does, he’ll die.”

The words drop like lead between you. You blink. Your breath stills.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He hesitates. It’s a strange thing—to see Gojo Satoru hesitate, to see him falter. It is a chink in armor you did not think was penetrable, a glimpse of something fragile beneath all that gleaming arrogance. Finally, he exhales.

“We…” He swallows. “We made a blood pact.”

You stare. The words don’t land, not at first. They slip through your mind like water, too large to process, too absurd to be real. “You made a blood pact with Geto Suguru?”

The horror in your voice is palpable as you continue. “You made a blood pact with a dark wizard?”

“He was not a dark wizard when we did it! And we were stupid and only fourth-years! We didn’t know what we were doing!” he fights back, something heated in his eyes, “He would not read me. He can’t read me. I-I made sure of it. There will be dire consequences if he does.”

“I know what a blood pact is,” you say, and you hate the bitterness in your own voice, the way your chest twists with it.

For a second, you are quiet. Too quiet.

You’d let go of his arm a while ago, but now you are thinking.

Something isn’t right.

“A blood pact is not made with just one person’s conditions,” you murmur, and your voice feels like it belongs to someone else. “What was your part of the pact, Satoru?”

The guilt that crosses his face is immediate. That is when you know.

“I vowed that I would not betray him.”

Your chest tightens.

Your breath hitches. The world is tilting, slightly, like a chessboard mid-topple, like something irrevocable has just clicked into place.

“You are inadvertently betraying him right this very second.”

“No, I am not,” he insists, shaking his head. “You know blood pacts do not need to be direct. I do not believe I’m betraying him. I believe, completely, that by helping take actions against his dark magic, I’m helping him.”

“A loophole to a blood pact?” you ask, voice barely more than breath. “Are you serious?”

“I am not dead yet, am I?” he asks, laughing hollowly. “Dire consequences are nowhere to be seen. I’m fine.”

The anger snaps back so fast you barely register it.

“What if you aren’t one day?” Your voice rises again, this time without restraint. “What if you’re dueling with him or something, and you drop dead? What am I supposed to do then? Live with the fact that you’re gone?”

The words are out before you can stop them, before you can weigh them, before you can take them back. They echo in the stillness of the room, reverberating off the stone walls, hanging in the charged space between you. And Satoru? Satoru just stares.

His breath comes uneven, shallow, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. His brows knit together, faintly, lips parting as if to say something, but nothing comes. He looks confused. Not at what you’ve said, but at why you’ve said it. At why you care.

“Fawkes,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, like he’s trying not to startle something fragile. “I’m not going to die.”

He steps forward, instinctive, but you step back. He stops.

Your head shakes, slow, resolute. “What if you do, Gojo?” Your voice is uneven, something raw lurking just beneath it. “What if you leave me all alone? What then?”

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. Not right away. His throat bobs again, and he looks at you—really looks at you—like he’s seeing something he wasn’t supposed to, like he didn’t expect it.

And you hate it. You hate the way his gaze lingers, searching, pulling apart your words for something unspoken. You hate the way the room feels smaller now, like the walls are closing in, like something between you has been cracked wide open.

You hate the bitter, twisting thing crawling up your ribs, taking root in your chest, making itself at home in the hollow places neither of you want to acknowledge.

So you don’t. You say nothing else. You only turn, walking away, back to the table, back to your work, back to anything that isn’t this.

You wake to the soft crackle of dying embers.

The Room is quiet now, still wrapped in the remnants of last night—scattered parchments on the table, ink pots half-open, books stacked haphazardly as if the two of you had torn through them in desperation before exhaustion won out.

For a moment, you don’t move.

Your body is sore, stiff from sleeping on a couch not meant to hold you for this long. The cushions are plush, but they don’t erase the weight pressing into your limbs, the ache behind your eyes. You sit up slowly, exhaling as you push the blanket off you—when had you even pulled it over yourself?

Then, your gaze drifts.

Across the room, Satoru is sprawled on the opposite couch, long legs bent awkwardly, his arms crossed over his chest like he’d fallen asleep still determined to argue. His breathing is slow, steady. The faint glow of the fireplace flickers over his face, turning his white hair gold at the edges, making the shadows under his eyes look deeper than they should.

You don’t remember much of last night, only fragments—the two of you combing through pages of research, flipping back and forth between theories and dead ends, the tension never fully fading. You remember the way he had scowled, bitter, whenever Kento had an input on anything. That he and Shoko were helping. That it wasn’t just the two of you anymore.

They had left around four in the morning. You had stayed, not because you thought you’d find anything else, but because leaving had felt impossible.

You had tried, at first, to keep working. Then you’d gotten distracted by what Dobby had packed you. And then you’d forced yourself to work again. To go over the same notes, to dig through the same sources, to look for something—anything—you had missed. But your eyes had burned, and your hands had begun to tremble, and you had forced yourself onto the nearest couch, curling up closest to the fire, ignoring Gojo’s presence entirely.

You hesitate, glancing at him again. His blanket has slipped, one shoulder exposed to the cold air. It’s instinct, maybe, or something quieter, something smaller, but before you can think too much about it, you reach forward, pulling the fabric higher, covering him again.

He stirs.

A breath, sharp. Then a shift, a slow unraveling of sleep. He inhales, blinks rapidly, groggy and disoriented before his gaze finds yours.

“Oh,” he murmurs, sitting up quickly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry.”

You frown. “For what?”

He exhales, tilting his head back, pressing his fingers against his temples. “I don’t know. Just—sorry.”

There’s a nervous energy here now, thick and crackling. The fire crackles again, punctuating the silence, and you cross your arms, glancing away.

“There’s no reason for you to apologize,” you say, voice quiet.

His hand drops to his lap. He looks at you again, searching, as if trying to find something in your face that he can’t name.

“We should go for breakfast,” you say softly, “Utahime’s probably wondering where I am.”

He hums, “I should go, too.”

You look at him for a few seconds, and for those few seconds, it feels like it’s just the two of you. The world beyond the Room of Requirement recedes—Hogwarts, the war, the things you know you shouldn’t say aloud. Everything dissolves, leaving only the soft crackle of the dying embers in the fireplace, the quiet rhythm of your breath, the space between you that neither of you dares to cross. He’s looking at you, his expression unreadable, the blue of his eyes sharp, like winter morning frost. And you are looking back at him, knowing something you cannot name, something that roots you to the spot, unwilling to move.

He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to say something. And for a moment, you think you might.

But then you stand, the movement stiff and awkward, your limbs sluggish from sleep, and the words you might have said slip away. You fidget with your fingers as you glance toward the door. The warmth from the fireplace lingers against your skin, the weight of last night still pressing down on your shoulders.

“You should perhaps,” Gojo says, his voice still rough from sleep, “change before you go to the Great Hall.” A pause, then, dryly, “You still look like my mother.”

You blink, looking down at yourself. Oh. You had forgotten—crisp white dress shirt, untucked from the black trousers due to you sleeping in them, the long black coat draped over the sofa behind you. It’s not a bad look, but it’s not yours. It had been necessary last night, however, to present yourself as his mother when you’d infiltrated the Ministry. But now, with the morning light filtering in, you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

You pull out your wand, murmuring, “Multicorfors.”

The fabric shifts and morphs, your clothes shift and settle into something that feels more like yourself. A multicolored jumper, the Gryffindor emblem embroidered near the collar, the threads slightly frayed where your mother’s careful embroidery had begun to wear over time. Beige jeans that are wide-legged, familiar and soft from years of use. Your shoulders drop slightly. This is better. This is you.

Gojo doesn’t say anything, but you feel his gaze lingering, feel him watching as you nod once and turn toward the door. The wooden panels creak softly as you push them open, and behind you, you hear the quiet shuffle of his footsteps as he follows.

It’s quiet as you make your way through the castle halls, but unlike the quiet of the early morning, when sleep still clung to your bones, this silence is heavier. For as long as you’ve known him, Gojo has never let silence settle for long. He has always been someone who filled the spaces with something—easy laughter, a careless joke, a passing observation that made the world feel lighter. But now, there is nothing.

You don’t know if it’s exhaustion, or if it’s the weight of everything you learned last night pressing down on both of you. Either way, neither of you breaks the quiet.

When you reach the Great Hall, you spot them immediately—Shoko and Nanami, already seated at the Gryffindor table, unbothered by the stares Shoko’s presence earns. She is hunched over a steaming cup of tea, her face drawn with fatigue, while Nanami reads something, chewing absently on a piece of toast.

Utahime isn’t here. Probably still asleep. And Suguru is nowhere to be seen.

You slip into the seat beside Shoko, offering her a small, tired smile before reaching for a glass of water. The coolness soothes the dryness in your throat, grounding you, anchoring you to the present.

Gojo sits across from you, but you don’t look at him. And he doesn’t say anything, either.

You watch as Gojo reaches for the serving spoon, lazily scooping a heap of scrambled eggs onto his plate. He takes his time, as if every movement is too much effort, dragging on as he adds a portion of sautéed mushrooms and a couple of sausages, barely looking at what he’s doing. Nanami, opposite him, chews on a slice of toast with the same absentminded exhaustion. His book is open, resting on the table, but his eyes are fixed on a single line, unfocused. He isn’t reading. He’s just staring.

Shoko cradles her teacup between her hands, fingers curled around the warmth, but she isn’t drinking. The steam curls into the cold morning air, dissipating in soft, lazy tendrils. None of them are speaking. The clatter of cutlery and the distant murmur of the Great Hall should fill the silence, but somehow, among the four of you, it feels heavy. Too quiet.

They’re all zoning out. You can feel the weight of it, pressing down, turning everything sluggish, hazy, muted. Like sleep paralysis while still awake.

You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice, trying to break through it.

“Guys,” you whisper, urging, “Come on. Cheer up. We can’t get like this.”

Shoko barely reacts. She blinks, slow and lazy, before murmuring, “We’re not sad, stupid.” She shifts her teacup to one hand, rubbing at her temple with the other. “I’m just tired. I reckon Kento is, too. It’s just you and Satoru who look like you’ve seen hell.”

Your grip tightens around the tea cup you had just reached for. You let the warmth seep into your fingertips, grounding yourself, but it doesn’t help much.

“That’s sort of because I have,” you say, voice lighter than it should be. The words don’t match the feeling in your chest. You glance at Gojo as you speak, sharp and accusing. Just a little jab. Just a small way to let him know you haven’t forgotten.

His eyes flicker toward you, narrowed, quiet in a way he rarely is.

Nanami’s gaze shifts. He watches, his exhaustion momentarily pushed aside, studying the way you look at each other. His brow raises. “What is that supposed to mean?”

You don’t look at him. You don’t look at Shoko either. Your eyes stay locked on Gojo’s. You want him to see it coming. You want him to know that you have no choice but to say it.

“It means,” you murmur, slow and deliberate, “that Gojo, here, has given me some very important information that he should have given me a long time ago.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, just the faintest shake of his head. It’s so small that if you weren’t looking at him, you might have missed it. It’s a warning, a plea, a quiet, desperate beg.

Don’t say it.

But you have to. Maybe not all of it. But some of it.

You turn to Shoko first. Her gaze sharpens, curiosity overpowering the exhaustion. Then to Nanami. He is already waiting, arms crossed, ready for whatever it is you’re about to say.

You swallow once before you speak.

“Suguru is a Legilimens,” you say, voice controlled but firm. “He can read minds.”

The moment hangs. Suspended. A thread pulled too tight. Shoko’s jaw falls open. Her fingers tighten around her cup.

You see the realization unfold in real time.

Her tiredness vanishes in an instant, her eyes widening as her mind catches up, as the implications sink in, as she pieces it all together.

Across from her, Nanami is still. Staring.

Then, suddenly, he exhales sharply, setting his book down with slow, deliberate movements, as if he needs to physically hold onto something to steady himself. His fingers tap once against the wooden surface of the table. His face betrays nothing, but you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, in the way his jaw locks.

No one speaks.

For a moment, the sounds of the Great Hall—the scraping of forks against plates, the distant laughter, the echoes of chatter—feel too far away.

And then, just like that, the air shifts. The weight of this knowledge crashes down, pressing into the space between the four of you. And you know, without anyone saying it, that they’ve both been stumped. 

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Shoko mutters, her voice edged with something sharp, something incredulous. She doesn’t look at you. She looks at Gojo.

Then, suddenly, she leans in, whispering, but it’s the kind of whisper that crackles with restrained fury, the kind that feels louder than a shout. “How dare you not tell us something that important beforehand? Honestly, Gojo, you stupid git. None of us can perform Occlumency. Do you know how hard this makes everything for us?”

Gojo exhales through his nose, tilting his head back just slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, as if suddenly exhausted, he reaches into his pocket for his reading glasses, slipping them on in a slow, deliberate motion, like they might shield him from the weight of their glares.

“I was only trying to protect him,” he mutters.

The word ‘him’ sits heavy between you all.

Gojo adjusts his glasses, looking at Shoko again, like he’s daring her to argue with him on this. “If it was her,” he jerks his chin toward you, “you would’ve done the same.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Shoko snaps, “because she isn’t trying to absorb Horcruxes and revitalize a crazy wizard who likes killing everyone.”

You snort, lifting your teacup to your lips. “Shoko wins.”

“Stop that,” Gojo huffs, narrowing his eyes at you before turning back to the other two. His glasses catch the candlelight, making it hard to see his expression beneath them. “We can still do this.”

Nanami raises an unimpressed brow. “Really?” His voice is flat, even. “How are we possibly supposed to do… this? We can’t fight someone when they’ll know exactly what we’re going to do before we even do it.”

“He won’t hurt us,” Gojo says. His voice is calmer now, quieter. “I’ll make sure of it. I promise. None of us, absolutely none, will get hurt.”

The words settle over the table like dust.

It’s too big of a promise. Even Gojo must know that.

Shoko exhales sharply, pressing her fingers into her temples like she’s willing the headache away. Nanami leans back in his seat, arms crossed, brows furrowed, deep in thought. You stare into the dark amber of your tea, watching the ripples along its surface, the way it stills, the way it waits.

Nanami is the first to speak again.

“What are we supposed to do now?” he asks. “I mean, how are we supposed to approach this at all? We don’t know anything about absorbing Horcruxes. We don’t know anything about Sukuna. His name might be buried in the footnotes of some books in the Restricted Section, but he isn’t mentioned anywhere specifically.”

No one answers.

The four of you stare at one another, the weight of your own ignorance pressing down like a thick fog. You try to sift through everything you know, everything you’ve read, every lead you’ve ever had. But all of it comes back to the same thing. The prophecy. It isn’t enough.

Then, Gojo speaks.

“My mother.”

Your head snaps up. His voice is firm, certain. He doesn’t hesitate. “She might know something.”

Your expression hardens immediately. “Absolutely not.” The words come faster than your thoughts, automatic, firm. “We will not be going to the Ministry again. We are not contacting your parents—”

“Trust me.” 

It is not the first time he has said those words.

But it is the first time they feel different.

His voice cuts through yours, quiet but forceful. It makes you stop. He looks at you then, properly, his glasses slightly slipping down his nose. His brows knit together, just barely. His lips press into something unreadable. His expression is serious in a way that you don’t see often.

“My mother is not my father.”

The silence that follows is different this time. You watch him carefully, scanning his face, waiting for something—something defensive, something stubborn—but there is nothing but certainty.

And for the first time, it sinks in. The world slows.

The Room of Requirement feels closer than the Great Hall. You remember it. All of it. The way you'd crouched down in front of him, seen his most vulnerable side that even Suguru had never experienced fully. The way his entire pale body was filled with cuts and stitches. The gash that you'd undone—the same one Dobby the House-Elf had novicely stitched, because his father forbade any healing.

You remember the incantations you'd whispered under your breath, wand glowing, watching his blood trickle back into his body, leaving only the scar so his father wouldn't hurt him more upon seeing it. The quiet between you, the way his breath had evened out as the pain faded.

You remember looking back up at Gojo and seeing the relief on his face. You'd watched his smile come back when he realized that the pain was gone.

The tension in your body does not leave completely, but it shifts. Not quite loosening, but settling.

You still do not want to go to her.

But you know you will.

Shoko exhales, sets her teacup down carefully, the porcelain making a soft sound against the table. Then, she looks at Gojo, gaze measured, decisive. “I don’t think Kento or I should come with you for that,” she says. “I think we should search the library for anything about Sukuna that you two missed.”

Nanami nods almost immediately, as if he’s been considering the same thing. “I agree,” he says. “We weren’t at the Ministry. We shouldn’t be coming to see your mother.”

It’s logical. The right choice. But it makes everything feel more real.

Gojo’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the way his fingers curl slightly against the table, his shoulders drawing back as he processes it. Then, after a moment, he nods. “Right,” he says. His voice is quiet, but there’s no hesitation. “Alright.”

As the four of you step out of the Great Hall, the corridor leading toward the Boathouse is alive with noise—frantic voices, hurried footsteps, the occasional shriek of frustration. The usual morning murmur of students moving between classes or lingering over breakfast has twisted into something far more chaotic.

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd. People stand in clusters, talking in hushed, urgent tones, eyes darting around as if searching for something unseen. Others pat at their pockets, at their robes, their satchels—searching. A few are outright panicked, their voices rising above the rest.

“What’s going on?” you ask, your brow furrowing as you glance at Gojo.

He only shrugs, but his eyes are already fixed on the scene before him, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows something the rest of you don’t. There’s a glint in his glasses when the torchlight hits them, an unmistakable spark of amusement that makes you eye him warily.

Then, you pay attention to the shrieks.

“Where is it? I just had it—”

“I’m missing my Remembrall!” someone else cries out from further down the corridor, their voice tinged with disbelief.

Another voice follows, equally distressed. “I had fifteen galleons in my pocket just seconds ago!”

More students are checking their robes now, some overturning their bags, some spinning in place as if they’ll find what they’re missing lying at their feet. The anxiety is infectious, spreading like wildfire, and soon, the entire corridor hums with suspicion and alarm.

You glance at Shoko and Nanami, but they only shrug, both of them watching with mild curiosity.

Gojo, on the other hand, is grinning now, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he surveys the commotion like it’s the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head, the way he shifts his weight onto one foot, pleased, expectant.

He knows something.

And whatever it is, you have a feeling it’s about to make itself known. You eye the corridor again, stepping closer to Gojo unknowingly, before you finally see it. 

A flicker of movement in the periphery of your vision—quick, darting, barely there before it vanishes again. The shadows in the corridor shift, and then, out of the murmuring chaos, a small creature scurries forward, its tiny claws clicking against the stone floor.

Your breath catches as you watch it—fur dark and glossy, a deep, ink-like sheen that catches the torchlight, but its snout is lighter, pinkish, twitching as it sniffs the air. Its eyes, round and black as polished obsidian, gleam with something both mischievous and knowing.

And it’s heading straight for Gojo.

It scales his leg with ease, nimble paws gripping onto the fabric of his trousers, moving with a confidence that suggests it has no doubt in its own ability to get what it wants. Gojo doesn’t startle, doesn’t even flinch—he merely raises a brow, watching as the small creature climbs higher, right up to his waist, before it stretches a tiny paw toward his face, reaching—

For his glasses.

Gojo grins, catching it before it succeeds, fingers curling around its tiny body. It squirms in his grasp, but only briefly, before settling against his palm, its small chest rising and falling in quick, excited bursts. You can hear the faintest sound of snuffling, of the creature’s nose twitching rapidly, as if it’s still searching for something, still determined to find something shiny to snatch.

“Niffler,” you whisper, exhaling in quiet disbelief as Gojo, entirely unfazed, tucks the small animal into his pocket.

You gape at him. “Gojo, you can’t just—”

But he’s already turning, already moving, leading the four of you toward the quieter hallway, away from the ongoing commotion. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t explain. Just keeps walking, casual, as if he hasn’t just stuffed a Niffler into his pocket like a particularly unruly quill.

Your frustration simmers, but before you can scold him, he stops abruptly, pulling the small creature out once more.

You watch as he holds it up to his face, as if inspecting it, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. The Niffler tilts its head in return, mirroring him, tiny paws twitching. Gojo blinks at it. It blinks back.

Then he nods, satisfied. “It’s a baby.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Hagrid,” you mutter. “He’s probably lost one.”

Gojo hums, rubbing the Niffler’s tiny head with the pad of his thumb, and it makes the faintest chirring noise in response.

Shoko, who has been watching this entire interaction with mild amusement, rolls her eyes and stretches her arms above her head. “Alright,” she says, turning toward Nanami, “I think it’s about time we go check the library.”

Nanami nods in agreement, shifting his book under his arm. “We’ll try to find anything useful. Maybe we missed something before.”

Shoko looks at you and Gojo, then at the Niffler still nestled in Gojo’s hand. “You two should go take that thing back to Hagrid before it robs the entire school blind.”

“Yeah,” Nanami agrees, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. “Handle that first, then go deal with… whatever you’re planning with Gojo’s mother.”

You glance at Gojo, who merely shrugs, still preoccupied with the Niffler.

Shoko waves a lazy hand as she and Nanami turn to leave, already heading toward the library. “Good luck,” she calls over her shoulder, her voice dry.

You watch them disappear down the hall, the weight of what’s ahead settling in your stomach once more.

Gojo, still grinning, taps your shoulder with the tip of the Niffler’s snout. “C’mon,” he says, tucking the tiny creature back into his pocket. “Let’s go find Hagrid.”

The Niffler does not stay put.

No sooner has Gojo tucked it away than it wriggles free, its small paws gripping onto the hem of his pants as it pulls itself back into the open, its nose twitching, eyes bright and mischievous. It pops its head out of his pocket, looking directly at you—round, shiny gaze unblinking, expectant.

You soften immediately. How could you not? It is, objectively, adorable. You reach forward instinctively, running a careful hand over its soft fur, scratching lightly at the top of its head. It chirrs, a pleased little noise, and you smile. Which, evidently, it takes as an invitation.

Before you can react, the Niffler scrambles out of Gojo’s pocket entirely, landing with an almost comically quiet plop onto the stone floor of the hallway. It pauses, stretching out its tiny limbs as if testing its newfound freedom.

Gojo watches, unimpressed. “You realize it’s going to run, don’t you?”

You barely hear him. You’re already crouching down, reaching for it. “No, no—come here, it’s alright—”

But of course, it does exactly as Gojo predicted. It bolts.

Its tiny feet barely make a sound as it scurries across the hall, slipping effortlessly between shadows, darting past the ankles of unsuspecting students still lingering from the commotion. The flickering torchlight catches the glossy sheen of its fur, a quick flash before it vanishes around the corner.

Gojo chuckles. A low, knowing sound. “Told you so.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, already moving to chase after it. “Come on, let’s catch it.”

“We could just use the Summoning Charm,” Gojo begins, lazily, not quite making an effort to keep up. But then, he stops. His gaze sharpens, a flicker of something shifting behind his glasses. You follow his line of sight, and—

The Niffler has stopped.

It is at the very end of the corridor now, a dark, small shape against the cool grey of the stone floor. It does not run. It does not hide. It simply… waits. Its head turns back towards you, as if making sure you’re still watching.

You straighten. “It stopped.”

Gojo presses his lips together, contemplative. “Do you think it wants us to follow it?”

You look at him. He looks at you. Then he nods. The two of you move forward, cautiously at first, then faster when it darts off again. It weaves through the dim corridors, past wide-eyed students still murmuring about their lost belongings, past the grand staircases shifting overhead.

It leads you downward.

Past the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room, deeper into the castle’s stone belly, where the air is cooler, where the dungeons press against the foundations of Hogwarts itself.

You frown. “Where is it going?”

But it doesn’t stop. It does not linger near the dungeons. It turns sharply, scurrying up the staircase again. Up, up, up, higher and higher, the two of you following in its wake. You’re breathless by the time you realize where you are. Gojo hums beside you, entirely unaffected, his hands by his sides, his long, lanky stride making the chase look effortless. “It’s going toward Dumbledore’s office.”

Your lungs are burning. “What?”

He shrugs. “Dunno why.”

You groan. “Why?”

“How am I supposed to know?” he retorts, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m in the same boat as you.”

Then the Niffler takes one last sharp turn. And suddenly, you are not alone.

Because standing at the very end of the hallway, framed by the shifting candlelight, is the headmaster himself. Dumbledore.

The Niffler does not hesitate. It scurries right up to him, climbing his robes with the same eager ease it had when it clambered up Gojo’s leg. Dumbledore does not move, does not react, merely watches in quiet amusement as the small creature settles onto his outstretched palms.

He lifts it, the long sleeves of his robes shifting as he studies it with a curious, knowing gaze.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“This,” he murmurs, voice lilting, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, “would be Pip. He’s a new addition to Hagrid’s pets.”

You and Gojo share a look. 

Dumbledore watches the two of you for a long moment before he moves, stepping toward you with the kind of quiet grace that makes him feel untouchable, otherworldly, like he exists in a time entirely separate from the one you are bound to. He does not hurry. He does not need to.

With a gentle pad of his thumb, he strokes the baby Niffler’s fur. Pip, warm and impossibly small, lets out a soft chirp, burrowing deeper into his palm, entirely unbothered by the tension in the air.

Dumbledore exhales, the corners of his lips curling into something like amusement, though it does not quite reach his eyes. As he hands Pip to you, he says, “Curious, isn’t it? How creatures have a way of leading people exactly where they need to be.”

You glance down at Pip, who wiggles in your grasp, before flicking your gaze back up to him. “Sir, I’m not sure what exactly you mean.”

He regards you carefully. Not unkindly, but knowingly, as though he is staring at something within you that you yourself have yet to realize. “Miss [L/N],” he starts, “not all knowledge is meant to be uncovered so soon. But perhaps, the two of you may be short on time.”

A beat.

Gojo shifts beside you. You do not look at him, but you can feel his stare, the way he turns toward you first before setting his sights back on Dumbledore. There is something sharp in his posture, something electric in the way he carries himself now. As though he, too, understands that they are teetering on the edge of something irreversible.

Dumbledore continues, undeterred. “I cannot stop you from doing what you must. But I can ensure you are safe.”

There is no doubt in his voice. No hesitation. Only quiet certainty.

Gojo exhales, slow and measured, but then he is stepping forward, his hands pushing deep into his pockets as he tilts his head. “Sir,” he says, his voice smooth, “can’t you do something about this? I mean, you already know everything. I’m sure you do. Why can’t you take any action?”

Dumbledore smiles at that—soft, understanding, but lined with something heavier. “That,” he says, “is because every action I take will be closely monitored by your father. And the Minister of Magic. I cannot use my wand without them knowing what spells I conjure.”

Oh.

The realization lands heavy in your stomach. The Headmaster of Hogwarts himself, shackled. Forced to move only within the constraints of the world he has built himself into. That is why he has been keeping his hands clean, why he has been letting the rest of you run headfirst into the unknown.

You sigh. “Sir, we think we should first figure out what exactly it entails. The Horcruxes and their absorption.”

“You would be right to do that,” he says, nodding slightly. “Come to me, when you’re done searching for information. I may have something that will guide you in the right direction.”

His gaze lingers, and there is something there—something unspoken, careful. It makes your stomach twist.

Then, as if in afterthought, he adds, lightly, almost playfully, “A record of sorts. An old thing, long forgotten, but still quite useful.”

You exchange a look with Gojo, a flicker of understanding passing between the two of you before you return your focus to Dumbledore.

He nods, but then he is stepping past you, walking toward the arched window at the end of the corridor, where the gray sky spreads vast and endless beyond the glass. His voice, when he speaks, is casual. But it is never just casual with him, never just words.

“The fields toward Hagrid’s hut,” he muses, “are rather peaceful at this time of day. A good place to gather one’s thoughts.” He clasps his hands behind his back, peering out at the grounds. “Of course, the path is rather open. But there are ways to walk unseen, if one knows how to step carefully.”

A pause.

Then, without turning back, he says, “Should you find yourselves there, I do hope you do not linger too long. It would be… unwise.”

And just like that, the conversation is over.

The two of you run.

The wind drags against your clothes, the cold air biting at your skin, but you push forward, feet pounding against the earth as the castle looms behind you. The Niffler is warm in your hands, tucked securely against your chest, its tiny claws gripping at your sleeve, its small, round body rising and falling with each breath. You glance down to make sure it’s comfortable, adjusting your hold so it doesn’t jostle too much. It peers up at you, dark eyes bright, unbothered by the urgency, as though it is entirely content in your grasp.

You glance at Satoru. “I suppose we’re Disapparating to your home?”

“We are,” he says, barely winded. His voice is casual, but his gaze flickers around, scanning the landscape, searching for a place that is truly hidden. “We just need to find somewhere completely out of sight.”

Then his attention shifts to the creature in your hands, his pace slowing just slightly. “It’s cute. Pip. Got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, looking down at the Niffler. Its tiny nose twitches as it burrows into your jumper’s sleeve. The two of you slow to a brisk walk, breath evening out, the grass crunching beneath your feet.

The fields stretch wide ahead of you, untouched and open. No students wander this far past the castle, anyway. Only Hagrid’s hut sits in the distance, a plume of smoke curling lazily from the chimney. The air is cool, the sky a dull blue.

“Should we go give him to Hagrid first?” you ask, adjusting Pip in your hands.

Satoru narrows his eyes at the creature, considering it, before glancing back at you. “Nah. I suspect he’ll be useful to us. If we need to swipe something from my home, that is. Let’s keep him for now.”

You eye him, unimpressed. “I still can’t believe the only reason you know everything you do is because you’re technically a thief. And an unconventional spy who gets caught from time to time by your father.”

He smirks, pushing his hands into his pockets. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my unconventional skills.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you mutter.

He lets out a small huff, shaking his head. “Alright, are you prepared? You get sick from Disapparition, right? Would you prefer it if I got us into my room again? So you can have a few moments before we speak to my mother?”

You shake your head. “It’s no matter. Let’s just get this done.”

A breeze cuts through the fields. You exhale, slow and measured, before stepping closer.

Step by step, you close the distance, until the space between you is almost nonexistent. You feel the warmth radiating from him, the way the air seems to shift, heavy and quiet. You let out a breath, looking down at Pip, then back up at him, your voice softer now.

“Hold me.”

Satoru stills.

“What?” he asks, his breath coming just a little faster.

You smile—just barely, teasing, the faintest curve of your lips. “Don’t you need to touch me to Disapparate me along with you? I haven’t learned it yet.”

“Oh,” he mumbles, blinking once, twice. “Right. Of course.”

There’s a beat. A hesitation. Then he reaches for you. 

The violent pull is back.

It doesn’t just take you—it seizes you, yanks you from the inside out, your entire body forced through a space too narrow, too suffocating. Your stomach twists, knots itself into something unrecognizable, your guts wrenching as if someone has reached inside you and wrung them like a wet cloth. There’s no air. No weight. No direction. Just a terrible, gut-churning sensation, as if your very bones are unraveling, as if you are collapsing inward and being thrown forward at the same time.

Then, just as suddenly as it starts, it stops. Your feet slam onto a cobblestone path. Your knees nearly give out.

You gasp, the nausea surging hot and awful up your throat. Your stomach lurches, twisting again, fighting against itself. For a horrible second, you think you’re going to vomit. You clutch onto the nearest thing, which is Satoru’s sleeve, knuckles tightening, eyes shut. The world spins violently around you, and you focus on breathing. One. Two. In. Out. Do not throw up. Do not throw up.

Satoru’s arm is still around you, steadying you as you keel forward.

“Fawkes, you good?” His voice is somewhere above you, wry but laced with something softer.

You swallow hard. Nod. Force yourself upright. The nausea lingers, a sour taste in your mouth, a hot wave in your chest, but it’s not as bad as before. That’s the worst part. The fact that it’s getting easier. That your body is learning, adjusting. That Disapparition—this awful, gut-wrenching, stomach-turning thing that you’ve grown to hate more than anything—is becoming familiar.

You exhale, long and shaky, before finally looking up. And stop breathing altogether.

The house, or what should be called a house, though nothing about it is ordinary enough to warrant the name, looms before you, towering, sprawling.

A mansion. A manor.

Its sheer scale is suffocating. Sharp, formidable stonework stretches high into the sky, cut through with vast windows, each one a dark, reflective eye. The glass glows faintly in the moonlight, but it isn’t warm—it’s cold, untouched, as if the place is meant to be observed, not lived in. The roofline is broken up by chimneys and sharp balustrades, delicate but unyielding. Ivy curls up along the lower portions, thick and dark, trying in vain to soften the edges of a structure that refuses softness.

It’s beautiful in the way something haunted is beautiful. In the way ruins are beautiful—except this is not ruined. It is intact. It is alive.

Your head turns so fast to look at Satoru that your neck twinges.

“I was inside that?” your voice is too quiet, almost incredulous. “The last time we came?”

Satoru exhales sharply. “Yes,” he mutters. “We were inside that.”

Your eyes flick back to the mansion. It is massive. It is horrifying. It is beautiful.

“That is,” you say slowly, “a horrifyingly beautiful mansion. And big. And I can’t believe that something this big is in London.”

Satoru shoves his hands into his pockets, gaze flat. “Thanks,” he deadpans. “I hate it.”

You blink at him. “Right. Of course you do.”

He starts walking, heading toward the front doors like this is just another ordinary day, and you force your legs to move, still half-struck by the sheer weight of the place.

The double doors open on their own as you approach, revealing a grand hall so large it almost makes you dizzy.

Marble stretches beneath your feet, gleaming, catching the flickering light of the chandeliers overhead. Everything is vast. The walls, lined with intricate carvings, stretch so high you can hardly see the ceiling. A sweeping, bifurcated staircase curves up to the right, its bannisters smooth and dark, splitting into two separate landings above. Balustrades line the mezzanine, delicate and detailed, polished so that even in the dim glow of candlelight, they shine.

The space is silent, the kind of silence that swallows you whole.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until you see Satoru already halfway through the hall. You shake yourself, quickly following.

You glance right, and through an open doorway, you glimpse a billiards table. You straighten, frowning. A whole room. For snooker.

Of course. 

Something small scurries past the edge of your vision, just then. A familiar figure, ears twitching, moving fast, and then—

“Master Satoru—”

"Dobby," Satoru interrupts smoothly, "where would my mother be at this time?"

You force your attention away from the billiards room, looking toward the house-elf. Dobby’s ears twitch again, and he fidgets slightly, gaze darting toward Satoru, then away.

"Master Satoru," he says hesitantly, "I can't tell you that, I'm afraid—"

Satoru hums. “Dungeons or library?”

Dobby squirms. Visibly uncomfortable. Satoru smiles. Pats the elf lightly on the head. “It’s okay, don’t worry. I won’t rat you out. I’ve got this.”

You smile at Dobby as you pass, pausing briefly. “The pastry you sent with me last time was really good, by the way.”

Dobby’s ears perk up. His expression brightens. “I’ll make sure to give you more this time.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have time to eat later,” you admit. “But sure. I’d like that.”

The two of you walk, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the sheer vastness of the place. Dobby trails behind, small and silent, his presence barely more than a flicker against the scale of it all.

Satoru leads you through the snooker room you had mentally dismissed a minute ago, and you blink, looking around as you step inside. The absurdity of it hits you first. Then the grandeur. The ridiculous, ridiculous grandeur. The deep green of the felt, the polished wood, the way the overhead lights cast perfect, crisp shadows against the walls. A whole room dedicated to this. An entire space, immaculate, untouched, meant only for the occasional amusement of knocking balls across a table.

You force yourself to walk forward, past it, into another stretch of hallway that is just as overwhelming, just as impossibly extravagant. You try to take it in, try to remind yourself that this is not a museum, not some historical estate, not a tourist attraction.

It’s Satoru’s home.

And that makes it even stranger.

Your fingers brush against the edge of your sleeve as you glance around, your heart giving a traitorous little kick of excitement when you see what’s ahead.

The library.

Your steps pick up slightly as you enter, as if drawn forward by some gravitational force. It is grand. Vast.

Rows upon rows of dark mahogany shelves stretch upward, polished to a deep, rich shine, so tall you would need a ladder just to reach the highest tiers. The ceiling disappears into shadow, the walls lined with books, the weight of them pressing down in a way that is not stifling but exhilarating. This—this is a library meant for reading, meant for existing inside, meant for getting lost in. The space is warm, not in temperature but in atmosphere, an old, settled quiet that feels untouched by time.

In the center, a designated seating area with deep leather chairs, tucked neatly around small tables. And those lamps—the classic ones, old-fashioned, heavy with history, the green glass shades casting a muted, intimate glow against the dark wood. The kind of lamps you’ve only ever seen in places where knowledge is sacred. Like the Hogwarts library. 

You inhale, eyes wide. “Oh my god,” you whisper.

“I knew you’d like this one. Remind me to bring you around in the summer if we’re alive,” Satoru murmurs, pushing his glasses up, unimpressed.

You barely hear him. Or you ignore him. You can’t tell the difference.

He stops walking, glancing at one of the bookshelves, tilting his head slightly before humming in vague interest. You watch as he steps forward, lifting a hand. His fingers brush against the top of a book—no, not a book. A block disguised as one. You squint, your stomach twisting slightly in anticipation.

Satoru steps back.

You take a step back too, just in case.

Dobby shifts uncomfortably at your side, his small hands twitching, and you swallow, suddenly clammy with anticipation.

The bookshelves move.

Not in the ordinary way, not like a door swinging open or a cabinet being pushed aside, but in the way magic moves when it forgets the laws of reality exist. The shelves fold into themselves, sliding back, layer upon layer peeling away, collapsing inward like a collapsing star.

It is seamless. Effortless. It is not a door opening. It is a secret unfurling. You gasp. The space beyond reveals itself slowly, another section of the library, deeper, older, hidden. The air here is heavier, the scent of parchment and ink more concentrated, as if time itself has thickened.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, crossing into the new space without so much as a glance back. You swallow your awe and follow. The moment you step through, the bookshelves slide back into place, as if this were an entirely different room. 

“I was wondering when you’d be coming home,” a voice. 

You flinch at the sound. The voice is smooth. Low. Measured. You tense, your spine stiffening instinctively as you turn. Gojo’s mother.

Mirai.

She stands, hunched over, at a podium—no, a lectern. The kind of furniture that exists in places of power. The kind that commands attention without trying. The kind you wouldn’t dream of even thinking if you were buying a house for yourself and decorating it. 

The lighting here is dimmer, the glow of the lamps casting long shadows across the floor. It only makes the space feel more cavernous, more secretive. Your gaze flickers, taking in the details, the delicate gold accents lining the bookshelves, the heavy wooden table in the center—the color and wood identical to the one in the Room of Requirement, only this one’s circular instead.

Satoru barely reacts.

“Mother,” he says, dry, unimpressed.

She looks up, adjusting her glasses as she takes the two of you in. The glasses, you realize distantly, are beautiful. Oval frames, thin, delicate, with spectacle chains that glint faintly in the low light, encrusted with stones so fine they can only be precious. Platinum? Silver? Some other metal you don’t even know the name of?

Her gaze flickers between the two of you, sharp and assessing.

“I’m guessing you’ve found out something is happening,” she says, voice smooth as ever.

Satoru exhales, leaning casually against a shelf, arms crossing over his chest. The smirk that pulls at his lips is almost lazy, but knowing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know who was impersonating you and father at the Ministry?”

Her brows furrow, ever so slightly.

You shift, your palms damp, but you force yourself to glance around, taking in the details so you don’t have to feel the weight of the tension pressing against your skin. The books, the lectern, the grand structure of the bookshelves—raised slightly, a small step leading up to them, as if the act of retrieving a book is something to be ascended toward. It makes your stomach flip in some strange, giddy way. You love it here.

Mirai steps down, her movements smooth, unhurried. She pulls her glasses off, letting them rest against her collarbone, the spectacle chain glinting faintly.

Then, her eyes. Sharp, piercing, so much like Satoru’s as they flicker between the two of you.

She is composed in a way that feels calculated, her posture precise, every movement measured. A deep green coat flows around her, the fabric shifting with each step, its weight a quiet nod to both wealth and history. There is something structured about it, the way it cinches at the waist before cascading into a fuller silhouette, the high collar framing her face with an air of hushed charge. The buttons gleam in a neat row, catching the light like polished brass, fastening everything into place—elegance, control, restraint. The sleeves taper smoothly down to her wrists, fitted just right. Everything about her is perfect.

And then, her voice. Low, certain. "It was you?" she asks.

Satoru doesn’t blink. “It was I,” he says, almost pleased with himself. Then, glancing toward you, “And her. She might’ve told Evelyn that you’d read her research paper, though. Make sure you do that, and maybe compliment her or something. She seemed a little jumpy.”

You inhale sharply. “Sorry,” you blurt. “Mrs. Gojo. I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out—”

She ignores you at first. “Polyjuice Potion?”

Satoru nods. Then, finally, she turns to you.

"You certainly dressed the part,” she remarks, her gaze sweeping over you, coolly appraising. “Although your coat wasn’t as long as I like mine to be.”

You blink. “Oh.” A pause, then meekly, “Sorry?”

“Don’t worry, darling, you did fine.”

She waves you off without so much as a glance, already moving, already shifting her focus elsewhere. There is something effortless about the way she moves, something deliberate, as though every action is carefully measured, calculated. She reaches for the lectern, her fingers pale against the dark grain of the wood, picking up the book and parchment she had been studying as though it were of no more consequence than a discarded letter. She does not hesitate, does not pause, simply turns and walks past you, the long hem of her dress sweeping against the marble floor with a whisper of movement.

You watch her as she places the book down on the large, round table in the center of the room, the sound barely a whisper against the wood. Then, without looking, she speaks.

“Come sit.”

A glance over her shoulder. First at Satoru. Then at you.

“You as well.”

You scramble.

The movement feels inelegant, out of place in a room like this, in the presence of someone like her. You reach for the chair closest to Satoru’s, gripping the back of it before pulling it out and sitting down, hands clenching briefly against the arms before you force yourself to release your grip.

You do not look at her.

Instead, you look at him.

Satoru sits beside you, careless in a way only he can be, his body angled slightly, his arm resting lazily on the table’s edge. His expression is unreadable as he stares at his mother, but his hand—his hand finds yours beneath the table, warm, steady. His fingers slip between yours, intertwining, holding.

Your breath catches.

It is an absurd thing to focus on at a moment like this, but you cannot help it, cannot stop the way your pulse speeds up, the way your skin burns where he touches you. You blink, hard, forcing yourself to steady your breathing, forcing yourself to look away from him, to look at her.

“I’m guessing you already know,” she says, voice smooth, even. “Since you looked through the Pensieve.” A pause. Then, sharper, “But seriously, Satoru, I raised you better than that. You cannot break the law and expect me to lie. What if they use Veritaserum on me someday?”

She fixes him with a look, one that is not quite exasperated, but close.

Satoru rolls his eyes, still holding your hand as he leans back slightly. “Mother,” he drawls, “You’ve practiced Occlumency for a reason.”

She exhales, a sigh that sounds half-resigned, half-amused. Then her gaze flickers back to you. Then to him.

“Who saw the memory?”

“I did,” you say softly, raising your hand the way you would in class, voice barely more than a murmur. Then, instinctively, “Sorry.”

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Quit apologizing, dear.” A beat. “I’m guessing my son probably forced you to go there in the first place.”

You do not know how to answer that.

The woman standing before you is not the woman you saw in the Pensieve. That version of her had been different, sharper in a way that felt less like a mother and more like something else entirely. But this—this is something else. You get the distinct impression that she assumes roles the way one might change outfits, slipping into them with effortless precision, adapting, adjusting, becoming whatever the moment requires.

You wonder which version of her this is.

“Actually,” Satoru starts, as if this conversation is of little importance to him at all, “Have you heard of the Marauders?”

“The hooligans at your school that disrupt decorum and steal things?” she asks, raising a delicate brow. “I doubted it was you and your friends.”

“You’ve got me right,” Satoru nods, as if pleased with himself. Then, with a smirk, “But it isn’t Suguru or Shoko or anyone else. It’s her.”

There is a heavy pause. A single blink.

“Oh,” she says simply, considering. Then, almost amused, “That makes things a lot easier.”

“If I were to start from the beginning,” Satoru begins, but Mirai lifts a single finger, silencing him before he can go on.

She turns—not to either of you, but to the far end of the room, where Dobby stands, still and silent. You realize then that you had forgotten he was even there, standing as he has been this entire time, as if waiting for something. The realization makes something twist in your stomach, a sharp little pang of guilt. You try for a small smile, something apologetic, but it feels more like a grimace.

Mirai does not acknowledge your reaction.

Instead, she regards the elf for a moment, her gaze unreadable, before speaking. “Dobby, we might be here for a while. Hours, perhaps. Could you get us tea and refreshments?”

“Yes, Madam Gojo,” Dobby nods immediately, disappearing with a small pop.

You wish you could do that. Disappear, just like that. Not the sharp, gut-wrenching twist of Apparition, but the way elves do it, seamless and quiet. No sound but a hush of displaced air. No warning. Just gone.

You wish you could be anywhere but here, in this room, where the air feels thick enough to choke on, where something tight and coiled sits heavy in your chest. You were giddy at first, but the tension felt like it would drown you any second.

Unfortunately, there is nowhere else to be.

“Anywho,” Satoru drawls, stretching his legs out under the table like this is any other conversation, like he isn’t standing at the edge of something irreversibly dangerous. “As I was saying, we were… made aware of someone attempting to use dark magic at school. Anonymously, of course. And so, we investigated it. As the Marauders. After everything, here we are.”

His mother exhales, slow, measured.

She looks between the two of you, gaze flickering over your joined hands, the space between you, as if assessing something.

Then, finally, she asks, “How much do you know?”

Satoru’s grip on your hand tightens, the barest squeeze. “Everything,” he says. “Everything except what exactly is going to happen, and how to stop it.” A pause. Then, more deliberately, “The whole bit. Sukuna. Twenty Horcruxes. Suguru being the one behind it all. You already know the gist, though. From the prophecy.”

Something shifts in Mirai’s expression. Not quite fear, but something close to it.

“Satoru,” she says, voice careful now, “I do not want this for you. I do not want that prophecy to come into fruition.”

There is something about the way she says it that makes your chest go tight, that makes the moment feel heavier than before, like the weight of what you’re about to do is truly beginning to sink in. “Do not try to get dragged into this war.”

Satoru does not hesitate. “Like it or not, Mother, I’m already a part of it.”

There is a finality to the way he says it, an unwavering certainty, and you see the way Mirai’s expression shifts, see the way her fingers press slightly into the table’s surface, how her posture stiffens.

This could very quickly turn into something worse.

You feel it before it happens, the air in the room shifting, thickening with something unspoken. Your heart is in your throat, your pulse too quick. You do not want this to turn into an argument—not now, not when there are things more urgent at hand, not when there is something far more important to be said.

So you speak before it can escalate.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Gojo.”

Her attention snaps to you, her gaze sharp, but you force yourself to keep steady, to press forward.

“We came here for a reason,” you say, voice more even than you expect it to be, though your fingers tighten around Satoru’s under the table. “That is to find out what exactly Horcrux absorption entails. We don’t know what’s supposed to happen. Or how it will happen at all.” You swallow, throat tight. “We don’t know anything about that kind of magic, and we couldn’t find anything on it in the library at Hogwarts. In the limited time we had, of course. There may be a lot we missed just because we were short on time.”

A moment of silence. Then another.

You exhale, shakily. The room feels colder now, or maybe you are just beginning to realize how real all of this is. How much you don’t know. How much you still need to figure out.

Mirai watches you. Then, at last, tilting her head as she regards you. “You’re much smarter than I thought you’d be. You should consider Research if you haven't already done so. The Department could use someone like you.” A pause. “I’d say you’re the brightest of Satoru’s friends.”

Something in your chest unfurls, unexpected but not unwelcome. It’s the kind of thing you’ve heard before, the kind of praise professors have given you in passing, the kind of validation that normally doesn’t mean much. And yet, coming from her—from Gojo’s mother—it makes something warm flicker at the edges of your ribs.

Before you can think of what to say, Satoru exhales sharply through his nose. “Mother, please stop trying to recruit my friends into working for you.”

She ignores him.

Her gaze lingers on you, sharp and assessing, before she finally speaks again. “Tell me, in detail, how much you know.”

You inhale, steadying yourself, choosing your words carefully.

“Well,” you start, fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the table. “From what Satoru has told me, and from what I’ve been able to find, Sukuna was a dark wizard with a fixation on power—his objective wasn’t conquest or control, just the elimination of the strongest. And when he supposedly died, he fractured his soul, creating twenty Horcruxes. Somehow, in this day and age, Suguru has found one. And if someone were to absorb enough Horcruxes, they might become a vessel for him.”

Satoru takes a slow, measured breath through his nose. Then he exhales, looking at his mother. “I could’ve told you all of that.”

Mirai doesn’t even blink. “I know.” A pause. “But you would’ve said it in that sarcastic tone I have neither the patience nor the tolerance for at the moment.” Then, almost offhandedly, she adds, “And I like her more.”

Satoru makes a noise of protest, but she speaks over him, still looking at you. “She seems more sensible than you. And looks like she keeps you out of trouble.”

You don’t dare say anything, but Satoru makes a quiet scoffing sound.

Mirai ignores that, too. “That’s a lot more than you should know,” she murmurs, thoughtful now. She studies you with something almost unreadable, something careful and heavy. “I hope you understand that people have been killed in my Department for less.”

Your hands tighten in your lap, nails pressing into the fabric of your robes.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say quietly, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “Satoru made that clear when he told me everything.”

Mirai hums. “I’d assume so.”

Then, finally, Satoru shifts forward, voice pressing into the space between you like a blade slicing through the tension. “So how do we stop it?” he asks. “What’s the ritual?”

His mother exhales, long and slow. Then, without a word, she reaches for the book and parchment she had brought from the lectern earlier. She sets them down in front of you, the pages crackling slightly as she spreads them across the table.

“This,” she says simply.

Satoru frowns, eyes scanning the parchment. The sheet is large, covered in ancient text and something even more incomprehensible—diagrams, circular and intricate, layered with symbols you can’t place. They are runes, of course, but not the kind you’ve studied before. Not the ones etched into the corners of your textbooks, not the ones carved into the stones of Hogwarts, not even the oldest ones you’ve come across in the Restricted Section. These are something else entirely.

His mother reaches out, tapping a few of them.

“Sukuna was a dark wizard,” she says, tone careful. “That much is known. But where his Horcruxes are hidden is not. No verifiable records of him exist, nothing about his followers—he had quite a few, by the way—nothing about how his magic worked. The information is ancient.” Her fingers skim across the parchment again, tracing the lines of the diagrams. “It’s like the way the Egyptians lasted for so long that they had to study their own history. What little we know about Sukuna comes from fragments, secondary sources, myths passed down through centuries.”

Something about that sparks in your mind, some half-buried recollection. “The Ancient Egyptian civilization lasted over three thousand years,” you murmur, the words coming unbidden, “the only major interruptions being the short twenty-year period of Atenism being made the state religion. And later, when it was annexed by Rome, which led to its decline.”

Mirai glances at you then, just briefly, something unreadable in her expression. But there’s something else there, too—something almost like approval.

“You know your history,” she says. It isn’t quite praise, but it’s close.

Satoru looks at you at that, but he doesn’t say anything. Mirai turns her attention back to the parchment, fingers moving from the runes to the dense columns of text.

“Well,” she continues, voice steady now, “most of these suggest Japanese origin. Heian era.”

“The golden age of Japanese culture,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

Mirai nods. “That’s what it suggests. That he was alive during that time. But no one in the Department, not even me, has been able to decrypt these runes.” Her fingers tap against the parchment, the ancient symbols etched into the brittle surface like the grooves of a fingerprint, impossible to erase, impossible to alter. “We can’t understand them, no matter how hard we try. I’ve brought in experts, some of the best minds in magical linguistics. Nothing. Even Bathsheba Babbling, your Ancient Runes professor, was consulted. No luck.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, frowning. “No one from Mahotokoro?” His brow arches, blue eyes sharp with skepticism. “Come on. If anyone should be able to read this, it’s them. The Japanese Wizarding School. It’s their language. Or, was. I think.”

His mother exhales, slow and measured. “It’s our language too,” she says. “And yet I don’t see either of us—” she gestures between them, a slight wave of her hand, “understanding what this means. Any of it.”

You press your lips together, stifling a laugh, but before the moment can stretch into something lighter, something less sharp, the sound of hurried steps against stone makes you glance up. Dobby appears at the edge of the room, scurrying in through—

A bookshelf?

Your brows lift, and before you can say anything, Satoru leans in, voice low. “There are multiple entrances. That one’s small enough for elves.”

“Oh,” you whisper back.

Dobby climbs up onto a stool—one that must have already been waiting for him—and carefully places three teacups onto the table, each nestled in a saucer. A small porcelain container follows, filled with tiny cubes of sugar. His hands are steady, practiced, but when you catch his eye and offer him a small, grateful smile, he stiffens slightly, his ears twitching.

You mouth thank you, and he quivers, just barely.

Before you can say anything else, another elf appears, this one balancing a much larger tray. Dobby takes it carefully, adjusting his grip before stepping forward and setting it down with practiced precision.

You blink. Two plates of strawberry pastries.

Your gaze flickers to Satoru just in time to see his mouth part slightly, eyes bright with interest. But then, you notice what he’s really looking at—a third plate, larger than the other two, piled high with soft white pillowy spheres. Not quite spheres, actually. Something round, but pliable, edges dusted in a fine white powder that you can only assume is sugar.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. He reaches out and takes one, biting into it without ceremony. You see it then. The thin outer layer gives way to something soft, something thick—white cream wrapped around a pale green filling. You tilt your head, curious, before Mirai speaks.

“Kikufuku,” she says, watching Satoru chew fondly. “A type of mochi. The green bits are edamame-flavored. He likes them a lot.”

“Oh.” You glance back at Satoru. He’s already reaching for another.

He swallows, then grins, gesturing toward the half-eaten mochi in his hand. “Mum took me to this bakery in Tokyo when we were in Japan. I was a kid, maybe six or seven. They had these, and I thought they matched my hair, so I asked for them.” He pauses. “Didn’t expect the inside to be green, though.”

You stare at him. “You wanted it because it matched your hair?”

He nods, completely serious. “Yeah.”

“And then you ate it anyway?”

“Obviously. Been my favorite ever since.”

“You are—”

“Insufferable?”

“Ridiculous.” You take a slow sip of your tea, letting the warmth settle in your chest before setting the cup back down. “Anyway, we should probably get back to…”

You trail off. Mirai is watching you.

Not just watching, but watching—her gaze steady, unreadable, something almost like fondness flickering just beneath the surface. You’re not sure what it is, not sure if you should try to name it. But then she blinks, snapping herself out of whatever thought she had been lost in, and clears her throat.

“Right,” she says, a bit too briskly, shifting her attention back to the parchment. “As I was saying, there is nothing known about Sukuna. Not yet.”

Satoru finishes the mochi in his hand, brushing his fingers off against his pants. “What about Horcruxes?”

She exhales, long and slow, pressing her fingers into her temples, as if trying to smooth away an oncoming headache. The book before her is ancient—a dark olive green, its spine barely holding, pages so brittle they seem to whisper when the air shifts. It looks as though it has been read and reread for centuries, as though it remembers too much. She drags it toward herself with careful hands. 

“Horcruxes are something we know about,” she says at last, her voice measured, clipped, as though she is trying to convince herself that it is enough. “Not enough, according to me, but enough for now.” She inhales again, deeper this time, knuckles turning white where they grip the book’s edge. “Merlin, help me. I can’t understand why I’m sharing classified information with my teenage son and his friend, potentially putting both of your lives in danger, but—”

“Mum,” Gojo interrupts, tipping his chair back onto its hind legs, arms crossed, voice flat. He is already bored of this argument. Already exhausted by it. “Our lives are already in danger. Stop worrying.”

Mirai’s fingers tighten around the book. There is something in the way she looks at him now—something unreadable. Motherly, but distant. A deep inhale, a slow exhale, and then she is flipping the book open, splaying her fingers across the brittle pages as though steadying herself. Her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose, and she pushes them back into place before speaking again.

“You already know what a Horcrux is,” she says. Her voice is quieter now, but no less heavy. “It’s a receptacle. Binds someone to the living world, even after death.”

You nod, chewing slowly, letting the flavor settle on your tongue. The pastry is soft, dusted in sugar, but the sweetness is cut by the sharp, tart burst of strawberry jam. You glance up at Dobby, who stands quietly at the room’s edge, eyes round and luminous in the dim light. You nod at him in approval, and he bows, delighted, before disappearing with a soft pop.

Mirai continues, her voice steady but her fingers still tense where they rest on the parchment. “A Horcrux is made through murder. Afterward, a ritual is performed—an ancient, unspeakable spell that encases the torn fragment of soul within an object. A Horcrux is never random. It is always an object of deep personal or historical significance. When I was a student at Hogwarts, Slughorn told me that Horcruxes were the ‘wickedest’ form of magic in existence. But Slughorn has a malleable spine. He is easily swayed.”

“Very few wizards know how to make them,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “I’m guessing you do.”

“I do,” she says. She places her teacup down with careful precision, the soft clink of porcelain ringing through the still air. “But it isn’t necessary for you to know. Hence, I won’t be telling you.”

“Sorry?” Gojo straightens, blinking once. “We deserve to know. We deserve—”

“No.” She shakes her head, the motion deliberate, firm. “You deserve to know what I tell you, you deserve to know. Nothing more, nothing less. You should know how to end a Horcrux. You should know how to stop your friend. That is all. I am not giving you information that is unnecessary. I will not have my only son playing with things he doesn’t understand. I will not have my only son die because of them.”

The silence that follows is sharp, the kind that slices before you even feel the wound.

Gojo exhales sharply through his nose, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling as though it holds answers. And then, in a voice that is too calm to be anything but violent, he says, “I was dying every single day living with him.”

Mirai stiffens. You know it’s an unfair game. 

“You never did anything about that,” Gojo continues, quiet but unwavering, and something inside the room shifts. Something in the air presses heavy against your lungs. “I try to find excuses to stay at Hogwarts every summer, but I come back here anyway. Because of you. Do you know how hard that is? To come back here, to see his face, to know that you stay with him despite everything he’s done to me?”

She does not speak. She looks down at her lap, fingers curled so tightly against her robes that her knuckles glow white.

Your throat tightens. Slowly, carefully, you reach for Gojo’s hand. His fingers are sticky with sugar, dusted in white, and when you pull his hand toward you, pressing it into your lap, his grip is tight. He doesn’t look at you, but his fingers press into your skin, firm and unyielding, as though grounding himself. You squeeze back. You don’t mind the stickiness, the way the sugar clings between the creases of your palm. You wouldn’t mind anything uncomfortable if it meant this—if it meant anchoring him, if it meant making him feel something other than what he is feeling now.

When Mirai finally speaks, her voice is quiet, so quiet it barely reaches above the sound of the fire cracking in the hearth.

“I can’t apologize for things that have already happened,” she says. Her voice is neither defensive nor pleading. Just tired. “I tried to do my best as your mother despite everything else.”

“Trying wasn’t enough,” Gojo mumbles. “Your trying got me a gash so deep that I had to ask her to heal it. I had to make sure the scar wouldn’t be gone in case he’d hurt me again because of it. Do you know how painful it is? Do you?”

She looks at him, unblinking, but her eyes are glassy behind her spectacles. You can tell. “I do, because my mother was the same, Satoru. I tried, despite your father treating you horridly. Trust me. Trying was all I could do.”

“Satoru,” you whisper.

The sound of his name tugs him back, just for a second. His eyes flick to you, unfocused at first, pupils slow to adjust before dilating, but then there’s recognition. His breath comes sharp and shallow, his fingers curled so tightly against his palm that his knuckles have gone white. You exhale, softer this time, tilting your head just slightly, enough for him to see the movement, enough for him to understand what you mean: Breathe.

His chest rises and falls once, twice, the movement deliberate, strained. His mother watches, expression unreadable, then looks down at the book in her hands uncomfortably. The sound of her fingers turning the brittle pages is nearly imperceptible, but you hear it, hear the paper sigh under her touch, hear the way she clears her throat before she speaks again.

You glance down at your hands. Sugar coats your palm, fine and white, dusted over your fingertips like ash. It has transferred from Gojo’s hands to yours, clinging stubbornly to your skin. The ghost of something sweet.

“A Horcrux cannot be destroyed through ordinary magical means,” Mirai says at last, her voice shaking, “It requires highly destructive magic. Horcruxes radiate a dark aura. An influence, a corruption. They take from those who possess them.”

“Possess them?” You frown. “Does that mean the same thing could be happening to Suguru? That he’s being controlled by whatever thing he found?”

“What thing?” Mirai repeats. She tilts her head slightly, waiting.

You nod. “A type of jewelry. A locket, maybe. Or a ring. Something small, something that catches the light.” You pause, thinking back. “Whoever saw it, said it was in the dark. They couldn’t get a clear look. But it was one of those two. A locket, or a ring.”

Mirai hums, a contemplative sound, her fingers tapping absently against the fragile spine of the book as she tries her best to straighten herself. “Whatever it is,” she murmurs, more to herself than to either of you, “it must have held significance to Sukuna. A soul, when split, becomes something less than human—both in form and in essence. And some Horcruxes, particularly those made by the truly powerful, develop a will of their own. They defend themselves.”

“Oh, God,” you whisper, barely resisting the urge to groan. “How do you destroy one?”

“With something stronger than it,” Mirai replies simply. “A basilisk’s fang. A magical artifact imbued with raw, ancient power. The Sword of Gryffindor, perhaps.” She shakes her head. “There aren’t many options.”

You exhale slowly, mulling over the information. “And the ritual?”

“The ritual is… complicated.” She sighs, rubbing at her temple. “Again, we don’t know everything. But we know enough. It’s a process that allows a wizard to reclaim the fragments of their soul, to draw them back into a single vessel. But the process requires a location of immense significance—one tied irrevocably to the original caster.”

“Something tied to Sukuna?” You furrow your brow. “So… Japan?”

“Possibly,” she says. “But where, exactly? That is the question.”

“Damn,” Gojo mutters. Mirai flicks him a sharp glance at the language, and he mumbles an automatic apology before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What’s the most important place to a person?” he asks, voice thoughtful, gaze distant.

You blink at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, as a person. What’s the one place in the world that matters most? The one that holds the most weight, the most history?”

The Room of Requirement. The answer sits on the tip of your tongue, burning there, desperate to be said. It’s the place where the two of you have spent countless nights—plotting, hiding, finding solace in stolen hours of mischief and whispered schemes. It’s yours. But that’s not the answer he’s looking for. It’s not logical enough. Sukuna wasn’t sentimental. He wouldn’t have needed comfort. He would have needed something practical. Something that mattered.

“Where he was born?” you say at last, though the words feel uncertain even as you speak them.

Mirai doesn’t respond immediately, but her expression sharpens, eyes narrowing in thought. She looks down at her notes, turning them over in her mind, and beside you, Gojo smirks.

“Or?” he prompts. You glance at him, confused. “Or what?”

His smirk widens just slightly, but there’s something in his eyes now—something knowing, and expectant. He nudges you, grinning as if you’ve missed something obvious. “You’re getting rusty, Fawkes. Think about it. Sukuna wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t some run-of-the-mill dark wizard. He was obsessed with power. He spent his life eliminating threats, making sure no one could challenge him. He killed people for sport.”

You shake your head. “I don’t—”

And then, suddenly, you do. The realization crashes into you all at once, unraveling in your mind like a thread pulled too fast. You turn to Gojo, and he’s already looking at you, already knows that you understand, already knows that you’ve both come to the same inevitable conclusion.

“The place of his death,” you say.

“The place of his death,” Gojo repeats deliberately, as if saying it aloud makes it more real, more inevitable. He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back against the chair again, staring at the ceiling like the answer is written there. “Probably somewhere in Japan. And somewhere that is… very well known. Mostly. Probably. Merlin, I hope not.”

“Even if it is well known,” Mirai says, tone measured, “a part of it will be hidden from Muggles. That much is certain.”

You hum, fingers tracing idle patterns over the grains of the wooden table. “What about the ritual of absorption itself? Is there anything you know about it?”

“Yes,” she nods, flipping through the pages of the book. “Horcruxes aren’t usually absorbed. But, for research purposes, we got our hands on one once. And we experimented with it.”

Gojo makes a noise, something caught between disbelief and exasperation. “Experimented?” His eyes narrow. “With a dark magic artifact?”

“Yes,” she says, flatly, like it is the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s my job, isn’t it? To uncover what has yet to be understood?”

You don’t miss the way Gojo’s mouth twitches like he wants to argue but can’t. She doesn’t give him the chance.

“Anyhow,” she continues, flipping another page, “we believe it was once used by dark wizards to steal or consume the power of another’s fragmented soul.”

“Vessel,” you whisper, the word rolling off your tongue before you can stop it. A sharp, quiet sound in the heavy stillness of the room. “Becoming a vessel for the fragmented soul.”

“Exactly,” Mirai murmurs. Her gaze flickers up to meet yours before settling back on the text. “The ritual must take place at a site with a deep magical connection to the fragmented soul. In Sukuna’s case, that would be his grave, as my very dear son, whom I am definitely not fearing for the life of, mentioned.”

Despite yourself, you smile, just a little. Now you see where Gojo gets his dry, sardonic humor.

But Mirai isn’t finished. She exhales, something weighty in the movement, before pressing on. “The process involves three elements. The vessel, which is the person performing the ritual, the one absorbing the Horcrux. In this case, Geto Suguru. The conduit. This would be the receptacle containing Sukuna’s fragmented soul. The third, however, remains a mystery. A magical force strong enough to contain the essence without consuming the vessel in the process.”

A pause.

You swallow. The room suddenly feels smaller. “So,” you begin, voice quieter now, thinking through the weight of it all, “if it goes wrong, Suguru faces—”

“Imminent death,” Mirai says, just as softly. But there is something else in her voice, something clipped and unforgiving. “Or something far worse.” She meets your gaze, unflinching. “He does not know what he is dealing with. And I intend on finding this location—Sukuna’s grave—so I can put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. I will not have my son be put on the frontlines of a war that should not exist.”

Satoru’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

She tilts her head, watching him carefully. There is something unreadable in her expression, something that makes the air between them crackle, taut with unspoken things. 

“If you think I’m letting children stop a dark wizard and get your hands on an artifact like Sukuna’s Horcrux, you’re out of your mind.”

Gojo’s chair scrapes sharply against the floor as he stands, the sound splintering through the quiet. “Mother, you cannot be serious.” His voice is tight, and it’s not often you hear him like this. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. There is something far more dangerous about the way his voice lowers, like a thread about to snap. “We are the only ones who can do this without getting Suguru killed. If you—if they—get involved, he’ll die. You know what the Aurors are like. You saw what they did to Credence Barebone in New York in the twenties.”

“He didn’t die in New York,” you murmur. “He was… displaced.”

“And did that solve the problem?” Gojo’s gaze snaps to you, fierce, insistent. “They made it worse. You said it yourself.” He gestures at you with his palm, frustration bleeding into his movements. “If they had just let Newt Scamander handle it, if they hadn’t interfered, it wouldn’t have escalated.”

There is a moment of silence before Mirai sighs, rubbing at her temple. “How do you two know all this?” she asks, exasperated. “This isn’t being taught at Hogwarts, is it? Because if it is, I’ll need to send some very urgent owls—”

“Relax, mother,” Gojo rolls his eyes. “Fawkes considers this kind of thing light reading.”

Mirai’s expression shifts—barely, subtly—but enough for Gojo to see it. Enough for him to understand where this is going.

“Still,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not letting you kill my friend. Or displace him. If you get involved, you’ll throw him in Azkaban, and I’ll never see him again.”

Mirai doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t so much as blink.

“Satoru,” she says, voice calm, quiet, unwavering. “He is a dark wizard. He will be sent away. That is the law.”

And that—that—is when something in him snaps.

“I don’t care!”

His voice cracks through the air like a whip, like a fracture, like the beginning of something irreversible. You flinch despite yourself, knowing that this is the moment it happens. The moment everything spirals.

It is time to leave. Gojo will burst, and he will take you with him back to Hogwarts. The unraveling has already begun.

"Come on, Fawkes," he says, voice low and seething, the weight of it pressing against your chest. "We must leave this place at once."

"Satoru, listen to me—"

"No." His voice cuts through the room like a snapped wand. You stand, caught between instinct and hesitation, but he's already looking away from you, already turning, his jaw locked tight, the muscles in his neck drawn taut. His hands tremble—not with fear, never with fear, but with something else, something sharp and bitter and vile that seeps into his irises with fury. He turns his gaze to his mother, and whatever light lingers in his eyes dims into something cruel. "I will not. I hope you have a terrible day. Goodbye, Mother."

"Satoru—"

Mirai Gojo’s voice is the sound of something breaking. You feel it even as he yanks you forward, his grip on your wrist tightening, fingers pressing into the thin fabric of your sleeve. He moves quickly, pulling you through the doors, past the cold marble and tall, unfeeling windows, but the click of heels follows. His mother is behind you, pacing after him, still speaking, still trying.

"Satoru, Dumbledore is an incredibly selfish man!" she calls after him, her voice warping under the high ceilings. "He won’t act until he realizes it’s begun to affect him personally, and by then, he will do anything—anything—to ensure he comes out on top! It’s why I had your father put him under surveillance! Please, stop walking away from me and just listen—"

He stops. And so do you.

It’s abrupt, jarring, even. He makes a sharp turn, and before you can speak, he grabs at your sleeve again. You blink up at him, but he isn’t looking at you, isn’t even breathing properly. His tongue clicks once, twice, three times, rapid, impatient, his mind already leagues ahead, already somewhere you can’t follow.

"Stall her," he murmurs.

"What?"

"Stall her," he repeats, more urgently now, eyes flicking to his mother behind you, then back to you. "Wait here. Talk. You’re smart, right? You’ll manage. She likes you, anyway."

Before you can react, before you can even process what he means to do, he’s gone—pushing past his mother, heading up the stairs two, three at a time, disappearing into the high halls of the estate.

Mirai Gojo stops walking. And you are left standing there, the air thick with words left unsaid, biting at the inside of your cheek, wishing for something to ground you as you stare at the floor.

Then, tenderly, brokenly, "Can I ask something of you?"

You look up. Her voice is different now, no longer the sharp edge of a woman trying to pry open the locked door of her son’s mind. Now, it wavers. She steps forward, hands curling into the folds of her dress, fragile in the way she looks at you.

"I don’t want anything to happen to him," she says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. Then, with more force, more desperation, "Anything. I can’t… I can’t bear it."

You feel it before you understand it.

Something tightens inside your chest, a sharp, breathless ache that buries itself beneath your ribs and wraps around your throat. It is an unfamiliar feeling, terrible in its clarity, overwhelming in the way it presses against you, in the way it makes the world tilt on its axis.

The idea of something happening to him. The thought alone is enough to make you sick. For all his recklessness, for all the ways he invites trouble like an old friend, for all the ways he believes himself untouchable—what if he isn’t? What if he isn’t? What if he isn’t?

He cannot always be the strongest. The greatest. Honorable. And the thought haunts you. Your breath is shallow, your hands cold. And before you can stop yourself, before you can even think, "I can’t either."

The words slip out, and you realize with startling, terrifying certainty that they are true. Mirai Gojo stares at you, blinking her tears away.

"Then you’ll ensure it?" she asks. "His safety?"

You nod, your throat tightening further. "With my life."

She exhales, the sound small, almost defeated. "I’m sorry to ask that of you," she murmurs, looking down. "But it is the only way. He won’t—he won’t listen."

You swallow, feeling the weight of something irreversible settle onto your shoulders. "I understand," you say, voice steadier than you expect. "If I were in your place, I’d do the same."

And before she can say anything more, you hear the hurried thud of boots against the stairs. Gojo is rushing back down, skipping two, three steps at a time, and in the dim light, the sharpness of his face is more pronounced, the tension in his shoulders wound tight enough to snap. 

And the faint, familiar chirring sound from his pocket.

Your eyes widen. Pip. The Niffler had probably slipped away the second you arrived, and knowing him, he had spent that time collecting whatever he could get his tiny, greedy hands on.

Gojo barely spares his mother a glance.

"Alright," he says, grabbing onto your arm. "Let’s go."

And then—

Darkness. The sharp, gut-wrenching pull of disapparition. And silence.

Gojo doesn’t hesitate when the two of you walk into the Room. He steps forward, hoists the Niffler into the air, and, with a sharp grin, flips the creature upside down.

"Let’s see what you’ve got, Pip."

A moment of stillness—then a rain of stolen treasure.

Galleons clatter against the wood, rolling to a stop against the uneven surface. A delicate chain, unmistakably his mother’s, slides across the table before catching the light in a glint of gold. A sigil ring, heavy with meaning, lands with a quiet thunk beside it, its crest unmistakable—the Gojo family seal. Small, glistening gemstones follow, scattering like fragments of a shattered spell.

And then, last of all—a phial.

It does not clatter. It does not roll. It hovers.

Suspended in midair, the artifact is a delicate yet foreboding creation, its craftsmanship meticulous, its purpose unmistakable. At its heart, an opalescent gemstone glimmers—violet, blue, and gold shifting uneasily beneath the light. Silver filigree coils around it, twisting into vine-like patterns, an intricate cage meant to contain what should not be freed.

It hangs in the air, unmoving, its weight heavier than the metal that encases it. A pact sealed in blood. A promise not easily broken. 

This phial is the only evidence of the blood pact Gojo Satoru made with Geto Suguru. 

You reach out, fingers brushing the smooth surface, and as soon as you make contact, the phial drops into your palm with unnatural weight. Your grip tightens around it instinctively, your jaw clenching. You do not look at Gojo, but you can feel the shift in the air beside you, can hear the way his breathing changes—shallower, controlled.

You glance at him then, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

The moment is broken by the door swinging open.

"Guys!"

You barely have time to slip the phial into your pocket before Shoko and Nanami step in, breathless and wide-eyed.

Gojo huffs, shaking off whatever had settled between you. He reaches for his sleeve, but before he can pull away completely, you grab onto it, holding him in place. He stills but does not pull away.

"We found something," Shoko says, voice hushed but electric. She glances over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to have followed them. "In the Restricted Section. Can you believe it?"

You lift a brow, waiting. She nods quickly, whispering a sharp "oh" in realization before nudging Nanami, urging him to pull a slip of parchment from his pocket. He hands it to you, and you smooth it out over the table, eyes scanning the inked lines of text.

Your breath catches.

"Your mother was right," you whisper, glancing at Gojo. "Japan. Kyoto, specifically. The burial site of Sukuna Ryomen. But it doesn’t say where in Kyoto. It’s a big city, after all."

Gojo exhales sharply. "No fucking way." His gaze flicks to Nanami. "How’d you find it?"

Nanami adjusts his glasses, expression unreadable. "Tricked Slughorn into thinking we were interested in Japanese locations and runes," he murmurs, though there’s something stiff about his tone. "It felt like committing a crime."

"Welcome to the club," Gojo mutters. There’s a short, humorless laugh before he shakes his head. "Feels like shit the first time. The more you do it, the more exhilarating it gets."

You refocus on the parchment, tracing the words with your fingertips. The air is thick with possibility, with something sharp-edged and thrilling that makes your heart pound.

"Satoru," you say, measured, "we should probably go talk to Dumbledore. He said we should come to him after it’s done, right?"

He nods, jaw tightening. "Yeah."

Shoko and Nanami exchange a look, something wary and unspoken passing between them. Then, Shoko’s gaze drifts down to the Niffler in your arms, and her lips quirk.

"You still haven’t returned that thing to Hagrid?"

You glance at Pip, now curled against your chest, small paws clinging to the front of your robes. His fur is impossibly soft, and despite everything, despite the night pressing in around you, you feel something settle, something warm. You stroke his head gently.

"He led us to Dumbledore earlier," you murmur. "I want to keep him. But I know I can’t. At least, not now. Maybe I’ll ask Hagrid to give him to me before I graduate."

"You’re just collecting creatures now?" Gojo raises a brow.

You narrow your eyes at him. "Pip is not a creature. You said it yourself. He’s cute."

Shoko makes a low, teasing noise at the back of her throat. Gojo scowls.

"Fuck it," Gojo mutters then, his breath sharp as it leaves him. His hand rakes through his hair, the gesture quick and restless before it falls back to his side. "Let’s go to Hagrid after we see Dumbledore."

A pause lingers, stretching just long enough to be felt.

Shoko watches you both, arms folded, gaze keen in that way of hers that suggests she sees more than you would like her to. "When are you going to fill us in on everything that happened with your mother?"

You hear them land in Gojo’s silence, in the way his fingers flex where they hang at his sides. You feel them in your own breath, caught between your ribs. Mirai Gojo’s voice flickers through your mind, distant and clear all at once, echoing with something that had felt less like fear and more like inevitability.

"Meet us at Hagrid’s in half an hour," you say quickly, not giving her a chance to press further. Your fingers curl around Gojo’s sleeve, tugging him forward. "I’ll tell you afterward."

And then you run.

It is not like before.

This is not the reckless, breathless chase of childhood, not the kind where Gojo is laughing ahead of you, a blur of white hair and mischief as you swear you’ll hex him for whatever prank he’s pulled this time. This is not the kind where you are running after him or from him, the space between you filled with nothing but the thrill of the game.

This is different.

This is the sharp slap of your feet against the stone, the echo of your breath tearing in and out of your lungs, the cold bite of the castle’s air as you tear through the corridors. The walls blur as you pass them, a rush of shadow and torchlight, of portraits who barely have time to stir before you are gone.

The tower looms ahead.

The gargoyle sits, unmoving, its stone face impassive. The final stretch. You push yourself forward, legs screaming, lungs burning. You skid to a stop, breath catching in your throat.

“Sherbet Lemon,” you gasp.

For a moment, nothing happens. And then, stone grinds against stone, the gargoyle shifting aside to reveal the spiraling staircase behind it.

You don’t wait. Your feet hit the first step, and then the next, the staircase moving beneath you as you ascend, Gojo right behind you, the Niffler wriggling in his grasp. The office door swings open before you even reach for it. 

And the room is still. Faint candlelight casts long shadows, stretching along the walls lined with ancient books and impossible artifacts. The air hums with quiet magic, the kind that lingers in places where knowledge is older than time itself.

Dumbledore is nowhere to be seen. Your eyes dart across the space, searching. Then you hear it. Soft, measured steps, descending from above.

"Ah," a voice greets, gentle and knowing. "The two of you."

He emerges slowly, stepping down as if he has all the time in the world, as if this meeting is nothing more than a quiet inevitability. His robes shift as he moves, deep blue threaded with gold, the fabric catching the flickering light.

"You’ve gotten everything you need, I trust?"

The question is light. Deceptively so.

His hands fold together, gaze settling on you both with the kind of ease that makes something bristle inside you.

Gojo exhales, the sound quiet, and nods. "Yes. We do."

"Not entirely," you cut in, voice sharper than you intended. "We still need the location. The specific, exact location of Sukuna Ryomen’s tomb—if there even is one. Kyoto is too big. We need something more. Exact."

Dumbledore smiles. It is slow, faint, touched with something unreadable. The kind of smile that does not belong in a moment like this. The kind that suggests he knows more than he will say. He does not answer immediately. Instead, his gaze flicks, thoughtful. First, to the Niffler in Gojo’s arms. Then, to Gojo himself. And finally, to you.

"I promised you something," he says, as if recalling a distant conversation, an old favor once exchanged. "And here you are, ready to collect."

Your fingers twitch. "You said you have something that will guide us."

"That, I do."

And yet, he does not move with urgency. He turns instead, a slow pivot, his hand lifting to rest lightly upon Fawkes’ plumage. The phoenix shifts beneath his touch, feathers gleaming in the low light, but makes no sound. 

Then, Dumbledore steps past her. Toward the shelves. There is no hesitation in his movements. His fingers trail absently across the spines of books, skimming the dust that has settled over them. And then, without ceremony, he reaches.

Something wrapped in leather. He pulls it from its resting place, the drawer sliding shut with a quiet click. The object is old. You can see it in the way the edges of the leather are softened from years of touch, darkened with time. Dust still lingers upon its surface, undisturbed. 

He steps forward. And he places it in your hands. You unroll it. A map.

At first, it appears blank. The parchment is thick, the edges lined with deep maroon leather. The surface is empty, untouched, except for the faintest shadows of something beneath, something waiting to be revealed.

"It works the same way yours does," Dumbledore says, voice light.

Your breath stirs in your chest.

"The—" You swallow. "You know about The Marauders’ Map?"

His lips curl, just slightly. "This one works quite similarly. A minor enchantment. One the Ministry will not bother with. They will dismiss it as my own eccentricity, an old man playing with parchment and ink." He winks.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lifts his wand. He presses the tip against the map’s empty surface. And he speaks.

"I solemnly swear," he murmurs, voice quiet, "I am up to no good."

At first, there is only silence.

Then, the ink does not appear in tendrils. It spreads.

A darkness unfurling like roots beneath the surface, creeping outward, seeping into the parchment’s fibers. It does not move like ink. It does not sit upon the surface but within it, sinking into the very bones of the map, pulsing, alive.

And within its depths, a dot. A single point of light, swallowed in the dark. Your dot. 

You stare.

"If you get close enough," Dumbledore murmurs, watching your face carefully, "you’ll find that it will lead you exactly where you need to go."

a/n. this was proofread with me being half asleep on the train. i'm pretty sure it's alright, but if there are any problems, do let me know! and thank you for following along with me on this journey, and supporting me even through tough times!

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[bomiten]

the concept of you ⋆˚｡⋆

#%! oneshot (1,652) words #%! mark lee x gn!reader

synopsis .ᐟ writer!mark experiencing a writers block before a due project and gets frustrated bc he thought he hadn't looked hard enough when in fact, all he needed was to look in front of him (you).

content warning .ᐟ not much dialogue, feelings realization, love from a writer's (mark) pov, super sappy, lots of romance!!!, fluff, mild profanity, extremely self indulgent

Every writer needs their muse, their motivation. an inspiration, anything. Mark had too many thoughts, too many things to write about but none trivial enough. or maybe he just hadn't looked hard enough, or in front of him, at that.

He had a project due in two days and his paper is blank. Not even a pen mark. He had looked everywhere, anywhere. At anything. He had looked inside, and out. He’d seen multiple things but none stuck. He could write about the grievances of stray dogs. He could write about the neverending push and pull of chasing your dreams.

He could write about love, but ultimately it’ll not be as accurate. He has yet to even feel love himself.

The possibilities were endless. But none of them seemed to strike him enough. To leave an impression. None of them were compelling enough. 

Mark is sitting completely idle at his study desk, his nightstand the only source of light in his room. He’s absolutely defeated. He won't be able to write anything and then he’ll lose his job and he’ll be miserable for life.

No you won't. A voice inside his head had said, strangely it sounded a lot like someone he knew. He couldn't quite pinpoint who, but it rang a familiar gentleness.

Before he even knows it, he’s pulling his phone out of his back pocket and haphazardly typing a quick ‘coffee?’ to a contact he visits way too often than he’d like to admit.

And when an instant reply of ‘sure! meet you at the usual’ pops up, Mark is quick to his feet and already throwing a coat on. He grabs at his keys and his wallet before hesitating on his journal. Surely he wouldn't need it there, right? Right.

He's walking out of his door when he feels giddiness surge through him. A slight buzz in his bones he couldn't quite get rid of no matter how many deep breaths he'd taken. A little jump in steps, and a thin smile on his face. He was excited to see you. 

By the time he reaches the coffee shop you frequent, he’s already shaking. From the cold air of spring, or excitement. Or both.

“Hi” you smile over at Mark when he takes a seat, his freckles soft against his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Spring really brings it out “hey” Mark echoes back.

Mark asks what you’d like to get, as if he hasn't had it memorized that he could write the exact order down with his eyes closed “you know what I get” Mark smiles, a shy blush on the tips of his ears “yeah, I do” he says with a giggle, making you do the same. 

He just wanted to make sure. Sure of what? If he still knew everything about you. 

Mark didn't need long conversations, or deep talks. Your presence was enough. The familiarity of everything else in between and the knowing glances thrown at one another. 

Or maybe it was the fact that you’d always have a fun little story to tell. A small incident that somehow you’re able to turn into a much longer story. It's okay. Mark had always been a listener kind of guy. You didn't need him to say anything to know he was listening. It was the way his eyes would never leave yours, or the way he laughs softly at your witty remarks. 

And when Mark returns with both your orders, you’re already shaking in your seat to tell Mark your rendezvous from yesterday. All is normal, he’s leaned back on his chair, both hands engulfing his coffee in hopes to gain a little warmth. 

His thoughts then trained back to his paper due in two days. Which brings him into a slight panic. He’s only now realizing he can’t be wasting time like this. Not that he thinks being around you is a waste of time. But you get his point.

He watches you make gestures with your hands, maybe to reenact whatever story you're telling. He watches the way your lips move and the way it creases up into a smile every time something funny happens— you always cover your laugh behind your hand. He wishes you’d stop that, your smile was beautiful— He watches the way your cheeks get a pretty shade of pink when an embarrassing detail slips up.

Has he always noticed these things? He's an observant guy. Of course he is. It's the heart of being a writer; observing and interpreting. But had he always been this observant to you?

He knows your favourite color, your favourite show. He knows when you're upset, when you’ve achieved something you just can't keep the excitement in. He knows your house inside out, probably the same way you do to his. Heck, he knows your exact coffee order. Who even does that? 

Mark does, obviously. He's seated in front of you, no fucking clue what you're talking about anymore because he's too caught up in absorbing every little detail on your face. He laughs at something you said, but it doesn't quite process inside his head. He's laughing because you're laughing.

And maybe that's it. Mark laughs when you laugh. Mark cries just as hard as you do regardless if he knows the reason. He walks with you in absolute silence with no intention of breaking it. Mark sleeps on a futon next to your bed whenever you ask him to. Mark would’ve given you the moon if you asked. He would've given it even if you didn't ask. 

If Mark was asked what he didn't like about you, he’d be able to list down a maximum of five things. He didn't like how you never finish your food. He didn't like how you don't dry your hair before going to bed. He didn't like how you think it's okay for an animal to hurt you because at least then, you were able to pet it.

But Mark, those were only 4. He doesn't know the fifth one just yet. He doesn't look for it, either. He likes to think about what he likes about you. 

He likes the way all your teeth show when you smile. He likes the way you link arms with him when walking down the street. He likes listening to you talk for hours on end. He likes it when he knows you’d always call him first. He likes it when you shine in the things that you love doing. He likes it when you–

And oh. Oh. There were many things Mark liked about you. Too much, really. But he realizes, when you break his train of thought to tell him “mark, I have to go soon. I have too meet up with someone”

The fifth thing he didn't like about you, was the fact that he could never tell if you liked him the way he does.

I like you in what way? Mark’s eyes grow positively three times its size. He doesn't know if it's from the realization that he likes you, or from what you just told him. 

Mark is in panic now. He can't possibly let you leave, let you go. “What? Who?” You watch Mark scramble to put his coffee down, eyes shaking trying to watch your every move.

The sight makes you giggle, “I still have work, mark. I was just on break” and Mark is standing. He's standing and walking next to your chair, hands trying to look for pockets to shove it in “I could walk you to your building..?”

God he's so awkward and obvious. You grab your coat and stood next to him, your arm already linking on his “sure. you can walk me out of the café” Mark seems to nod at that, walking with you out the shop, before it dawns on him what that meant. 

Before he even knows it, you’ve both already exited the shop. He's panicking again, his hands getting clammy and awkward. You laugh at him, “I’m gonna go now, Mark” trying to pry your arm out of his hold gently.

Mark looks at you defeated, he’d already given up in trying to sabotage your little meet up with whoever and he hasn't even done much to prevent it at all “m’kay..”

He's so annoyingly endearing and obviously you can’t help but laugh at him. Head thrown back and all. Mark looks at you puzzled. What’s funny?

It takes you a minute to recover, nearly tearing up. Just as you take a step away, a thought passes just as fast as the breeze. You hum, if Mark wasn't going to do it first, then you will.

You lean close to his face with a grin, Mark trying his best to be normal about it. You giggle once more before landing a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth, the feeling fleeting. And you're gone just as fast, laughing at Mark’s face going cherry red as you're waving goodbye, walking down the street with a hop in your step.

Mark stood immobilized. What the fuck just happened. He brings a hand to where your lips had kissed, the touch still burning his skin as if you were still there, kissing him.

He takes a tentative step away, slowly walking the opposite direction with a dazed look. His mind was far away and his eyes were unfocused. He damn near crashed into a pole and the only thing he worried about is your kiss mark disappearing.

That day, Mark had walked home and sat on his little study desk, his paper slowly filling up with words. That day, Mark had written about love. Because now, he can finally say what it felt like to be in love. And how it felt perfect because it was you, he was in love with you.

He had written about the concept of you. 

I love mark lee. You love mark lee. Me and da homies all love mark lee fawk 😞❤️‍🩹

© bomiten 2025 - all rights reserved. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or share my work on other platforms. thank you.

[myrtlebranch1019]

My Thoughts on Solas in *Dragon Age: The Veilguard* (DATV)

It’s been about a month since I played Dragon Age: The Veilguard and I finally feel ready to talk about Solas. Yes, *that* Solas—the one who’s sparked endless debates in the Dragon Age fandom for over a decade, inspiring some of the most fascinating character analyses I’ve ever read. Unfortunately, the Solas we get in DATV feels like a shadow of his former self. Instead of the nuanced and controversial figure we know, he’s been reduced to a one-dimensional scapegoat with inconsistent writing that just didn’t do him justice.

Solas has always been such a compelling character—complex, flawed, and full of contradictions. But in DATV, the trickster archetype, he represented, was so poorly handled that I sometimes wondered if the characters in the game and I were even getting the same information. Take the moments when we uncover Solas’ memories: the reactions from other characters came across as weirdly more venomous toward Solas than even Elgar’nan, who was a literal tyrant. It felt like (some of?) the writers were trying to strip away any sympathy for Solas, but if anything, it had the opposite effect, if we judge from the percentage of people who chose to redeem him. (Pro tip for game writers: players don’t like being told how to feel about a character!)

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not here to excuse Solas’ actions. He’s done some truly awful things. But reducing his complexity to make him easier to blame? That’s not it. What made Solas fascinating wasn’t just his lies, treachery or rebellion but his wisdom and the fact that he cared too much. Even when he convinced himself the people of modern Thedas weren’t “real,” he still supported acts of kindness and mourned unnecessary loss. That sentimentality made him sympathetic, even while he was pursuing some pretty despicable goals. It’s that balance—the caring, sentimental dreamer weighed down by his own ruthlessness —that made Solas the perfect trickster figure and harbinger of change.

That’s why some of the decisions in DATV just didn’t sit right with me. Solas has always been willing to sacrifice others for his ideals, but that includes himself—*especially* himself. Din’an Shiral, anyone? The reveal about Varric should have been this devastating, mind-blowing moment, but instead, it felt cheap. Solas manipulating Rook by hiding Varric’s death? Totally in character. But actively using blood magic to control their mind? That felt like a shortcut, and a boring one at that. Especially, after those heated debates he had with the Iron Bull in Inquisition about how important freedom of thought is for him.

This was such a missed opportunity to dive into heavier themes like the manifestation of regret and grief—both of which would’ve made Rook more tragic and relatable. What I wanted to see from Solas, was a tragic hero who’d fought for so long he ended up becoming the villain. Not unlike his mortal enemy Elgar’Nan. What I got instead was a caricature of the trickster archetype, stripped of all the depth we saw in Trespasser.

Another thing that bugged me was how DATV framed Solas’ rebellion. The in-game conversations by the Veilguard team seem to suggest that he started it out of spite toward Mythal and/or Elgar’nan, which just isn’t true. Solas rebelled because he believed—to be more precise convinced himself—that the Evanuris were waging war on the Titans in the name of freedom. And realising that this wasn’t the actual motive was his first attempt to “fix” his mistakes. In other words the part he played in the war, and at the same time protect his people from tyrany the worst of fates in his eyes. That’s such a crucial part of his story, and seeing it misinterpreted by the cast, felt like such a disservice to the complexity of the character.

That’s not to say everything about Solas in DATV was bad. The dialogue was exquisite and stood out as classic Solas, especially when it came to the contrast between his wisdom and cunning or the need to offer guidance vs the manipulation (props to Trick for really nailing those moments). The animations were incredible, too, and perfectly captured his aura. And, of course, Gareth David-Lloyd absolutely killed it as Solas. His performance brought so much life to the character, even when during the moments when the writing fell short.

Still, I can’t help but feel disappointed. Solas has always been my favorite DA character, and seeing him reduced like this was frustrating. He’s a character built on contradictions—sentimental but ruthless, idealistic but pragmatic, sympathetic yet maddening. DATV had the chance to explore all of that and take him to new depths, but instead, it just… didn’t. And as a fan who’s loved his journey for years, that’s hard to swallow. Needless to say I would still devour any novel or media about him, because I’m definitely left wanting more from his story.

[papercorgiworld]

hi!! Could I request a fic with like Mattheo and Theo, or either of them. The reader wears glasses but only for reading stuff so her "friends" makes fun of her and Mattheo or Theo comforts her?? Love your fics xx

I got this request a century ago, but I promised myself I would only post this if I finished the second request as a way of keeping myself motivated... Did not really speed up the writing process, but here we are! The good news is: I finished the second request... bad news, I will only post it if I manage to finish the third request.

Anyways, thank you for the request and I'm sorry for my absence, I hope you've all been well. Either way you all deserve the world and lots of happiness. Sending you lots of love! AND of course: Happy Readings!

Merlin, she looks beautiful

Reader that needs glasses with Mattheo or Theo

Gently you stroll through the endless bookcases searching for something that would help you and your friends with your Transfiguration’s group project. “Found it.” You mumble to yourself, thinking that no one would hear you. However, a sneaky slytherin was adoring you from a bit further. Lounging with his friends in a corner of the library his eyes traced you until Draco snapped his fingers. “You’re gonna start drooling if you don’t stop that.” Your eyes move to the laughter but you can only guess what it’s about.

Your friends groan as you drop the books on the table. Honestly you weren’t excited about it either, but the work had to be done. Everyone grabs a book. Flipping through the pages you quickly spot an interesting chapter. You squint your eyes as you try to read, cursing yourself you grab your bag searching for your glasses. You blink, remembering how much more fun reading is when you don’t struggle with every letter. 

Merlin, she looks beautiful. 

Your one paragraph in when your vision gets misty. Confused, you take off your glasses and everyone at your table starts laughing. The person opposite of you had used a spell to fog your glasses to everyone’s amusement. 

You felt your insecurities peak. Wearing glasses was new for you and you hadn’t quite adjusted to life with them, feeling a little stupid. “What’s up with the glasses? Are you going blind?” Someone at the table quipped, making the others chuckle. Instead of explaining why you had to wear glasses you just fell silent, everyone staring at you until you finally stuttered some words out. “I’m gonna read this later. I need to meet up with someone.” You could hear the snickering as you left the library. 

You feel your heartbeat quicken and turn around a corner, pressing your back against the wall you try to calm yourself. You look down at the glasses in your hand and for a moment you stare up the staircases. If you would go up and drop your ugly glasses, you would be rid of them forever. It wasn’t going to work like that, but for a second it seemed like a good idea to just pretend like you didn’t need them.

Theo

POV: Theo watching you when you hurried out of the library, clearly upset.

You sigh and turn to continue walking without having anywhere to go, but suddenly you feel magic tug at you. You’re swirled around so that you’re now face to face with Theodore Nott. “Ey bella, you seemed upset when you left the library.” You blink staring at Theo who you had never known to show emotion leave alone concern for you. “Uhm… no it’s fine. I’m good.” You nod a few times as a way of convincing him, compensating for your shaky voice. “You forgot this.” Theo shows you the case for your glasses. You stare at the pattern, a bit concerned about whether or not he thought it was cute or not. You mentally cursed yourself for caring about what Theodore Nott thought of you simply because he was a popular guy. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Thank you.” You reach for the case but Theo immediately lifts it higher and out of reach for you.

A slytherin bully playing around was really the last thing you could use right now. Even though Theo and his friends were notorious for causing trouble, you had always been spared from it… that is until now. “Can I please have it back?” You bravely ask, stressing the please and hoping that the slytherin would be merciful. “Only if you promise to find some better friends.” You meet his eyes and he can see the clear confusion. “They make you feel unhappy with yourself. You make yourself small when you’re around them, I’ve noticed and I don’t like it. So promise me you’ll hang out with other people.” Your eyebrows knit together. “You noticed? Have you been watching me or something?” At your question Theodore's confident smile turns into a nervous chuckle. “I’m allowed to admire beautiful things, am I not?” His eyes look at you with cheeky innocence. 

You blush and bite your lip. “Admiring, huh?” Theodore smiles at you and hands you the case for your glasses. “Yes… and I hate it when others dim your light.” You look away from him as you put your glasses in their case. “My friends aren’t that bad. The glasses just make me look silly.” Theo shakes his head at your words and closes the distance between the two of you. “I disagree.” His voice is raspy and you can’t believe the slytherin heartthrob is standing so close to you. “Bella, look at me. You’re gorgeous. Glasses or no glasses, you turn heads when you walk by.” You drown in his eyes as his words soothe all your insecurities. Theo gently pushes your chin up. “Promise me that you’ll hang out with better people.” He whispers with an enchanting voice. When you nod, he smiles and takes a step back. “Good.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and winks before walking away.

There’s a silence as you stare at him with dreamy eyes. “Hey.” You suddenly say, to your surprise, out loud.” You can feel your heart thump loud when he turns to face you. “Can I hang with you?” The left corner of Theo’s mouth tugs up and his hand leaves his pocket gesturing for you to come with him. “Of course. I don’t mind. I could admire you all day.” You bite your lip to try and hide your happy smile and walk with him. 

Mattheo

POV: Mattheo anything but pleased with your snickering friends as you leave the library with teary eyes.

“There you are.” You wouldn’t have thought those words were meant for you if you weren’t the only one there. With dumb eyes you stare at none other than Mattheo Riddle. “You alright, love? You seemed upset when you left the library in a hurry.” Your eyes widen at the realisation. You thought you were hiding it well but it was probably obvious to anyone with proper eyesight that you were close to crying when you practically ran out of the library. Mattheo took your silence as an invitation to get closer to you. Significantly closer. It made you worry what people would think if they saw you so close to him. Hogwarts loves juicy gossip. 

“You look gorgeous with or without glasses so don’t worry about it.” Mattheo smirks, confidence radiating off of him. Not knowing how to take the compliment, you chuckle and look away from the handsome slytherin towering over you. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to lie?” You replied jokingly, but as soon as you meet his eyes you realise that considering who you’re talking to that it was a really bad joke. Your eyes fill with panic as you question whether to run or apologise. Meanwhile Mattheo lips form an amused smirk and his eyes playfully watch your nervous figure. “Not really, I was thought to never get caught in a lie. But what I said about your glasses was not a lie. It was a compliment. You’re gorgeous. Don’t doubt that, love. However, when the professors ask me later if I had anything to do with turning your friends’ hair into snakes, I’ll lie without shame.” Your mouth drops when you hear his confession. You immediately forget the sweet things he just said and panic. “What! Oh Merlin, no! Why did you do that?” As you try and walk away, back to your friends Mattheo stops you. “They deserve it and you know that. You don’t need glasses to see that they’re not real friends.” He’s still holding onto your wrist when you move closer to him. You let your head hang in defeat for a moment. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But still no reason to hex them.” 

You give Mattheo a judging look, but your soft smile gives away that you don’t really mind that he hexed them. His eyes land on your smile as he chuckles. “Hexes were invented specifically for people like them.” You shake your head but at the same time you feel yourself drawn to him. His hand moves from your wrist to your hip. “You’re stunning. So don’t ever let anyone make you feel bad about yourself.” 

Just when Mattheo is about to make a move Pansy’s coughs, making you jump and take a step back. Standing at the end of the hallway, a very sassy looking Pansy darts her eyes between you two. “Am I interrupting something?” She asks with obvious fake innocence. You immediately shake and say your goodbyes to Mattheo. 

“What did I ever do to you, Pansy?” Mattheo asks after he watched you leave. “I think it was something you said in first year.” Pansy bluntly answers before walking away. Mattheo nervously chews his lips wondering if you were okay and curious if you had felt the heat as much as he did.

***

You had gotten so flustered after Pansy had caught Mattheo and you so close together that you went to hide in the bathroom for a few minutes. Feeling fresh and calm you step outside again, only to realise that you were late for class. You rush in to find Mcgonagall stare at you in disappointment. “Let’s not waste anymore time standing there. Take a seat.” You nod, wanting to disappear now that the whole class is staring at you. You look to your left to see Mattheo sitting alone. Puppy eyes locked onto you.

Look at his eyes!!!!

You freeze as you feel the heat on your cheeks return. I must look like a tomato. Mcgonagall turns away from the board to see you still standing up. “Miss (l/n), is there a problem?” Her stern voice sends shivers down your spine and you feel like you’re a first year again. Within seconds you're seated next to Mattheo with your books in front of you. “Hello again.” Mattheo whispers amusement ringing in his voice. You nervously flip through the pages. “Chapter 4 and don’t forget your glasses.” Mattheo whispers, you softly chew your lip as you fumble to get your glasses. “I think you look cute with them.” At those words you turn to Mattheo with glasses, blushed cheeks and wide eyes. He gives you a cheeky wink… and that class you did not hear a thing the professor said to you.

Picture 1: I lost the source, sorry 😞

Picture 2: https://pin.it/57e7ZitKL

Picture 3: https://pin.it/5i3RGZvgQ

Picture 4: https://pin.it/37cX6axUM

[cercess]

Hello! I was wondering if you write for anaxa? if you do, i have req: what if he spots reader peacefully asleep in a sunny spot during the late afternoon? do you think he'd come up and join them? if you dont, sorry, feel free to delete (っ °Д °;)っ

❥ Hi anon, thank you so much for the request. I do write for Anaxa, and pretty much every adult hsr character! This idea is so cute and I hope you enjoy what I came up with.

❥Tags: Fluff

❥Rating: General

❥Word Count: 364

❥Divider Credit: X

Failure is said to be the greatest contributor to progress, but after a long series of setbacks, Anaxa finds such platitudes to be irritating. He spent days in his lab, looking over endless alchemical formulas for some hint as to what he was doing wrong. The answer to his questions remain out of reach, a fact that enrages him. Good questions yield good results, and he prides himself on his ability to inquire thoughtfully. Clearly, he’s failing to meet his usual standards.

He decides he needs a new perspective. His back aches as he rises from his chair, and his joints breathe a collective sigh of relief as they are freed from their stagnant cage. As usual, he ignores the whispers of students whilst traversing The Grove; right now, there’s only one person whose opinion matters.

The walk to your quarters is second nature to Anaxa. He has perfected the route to reach you as quickly and efficiently as possible. Finding fresh perspectives is not typically his go-to means of problem-solving, but you’re different from the close-minded scholars that infest The Grove like vermin. Perhaps his motivations are not entirely fuelled by finding answers, either. After days of not seeing you, a familiar feeling builds in Anaxa’s chest. He’ll never admit it, but he misses you.

Your home is small; typical of The Grove’s scholars. When he opens the door, Anaxa can see the whole of your little world. The large window that acts as the focal point of the space is currently obscured by your frame. It’s not uncommon for Anaxa to find you dozing in the window-seat at this time of day, and it seems your habitual naps have postponed his quest for answers. Surprisingly, he feels no anger or disappointment. He approaches you carefully, as not to disturb your rest.

Peace is not something Anaxa typically seeks; he has dedicated his life to the relentless and rigorous pursuit of knowledge. But, seeing the serene look on your face, he begins to contemplate the benefits of allowing oneself a break. He settles on the other end of the window-seat and allows his eyes to flutter closed for the first time in days.

[ponderingmoonlight]

Gojo x wifey reader request! :D They are both training and wifey does something that surprisingly turns Gojo on

Hehe this request is everything, that was soo fun to write! Let me know what you think <3

Gojo getting flustered by his sweaty wife and smacked at their training session

Pairing: husband!Gojo x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,5k

Synopsis: Your beloved husband never fails to beat you without mercy when training together. But this time, something seems to catch his eye - your chance to finally hit him with your best shot.

Warnings: not that much plot, but a lot of comedy, it's also fluffy with slight mentions of smut, a little bit of heat hehe, enjoy

Tags:  @arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld @dazaisdick @hellkaiserinphoenix  @lauv4chuuya @shadowfoxey @starlightanyaaa @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen @magalimachete @mokoartpost @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut  @mynahx3

„Good morning beautiful“, Satoru’s sleep drunken voice mutters in your ear, making your eyes flutter open against the soft daylight.

“Is it already morning?”

You stretch your sleepy limbs out in his inviting arms with pleasure, enjoying the warmth of his body heat for just a little longer. Oh, how much you love waking up next to your husband in the morning. Despite you hate getting up early, feeling his strong arms while you wake up seems like a reparation for that.

“Not a random morning, today is training day!”, your husband announces, placing himself on top of you with one swift motion of his huge body.

You giggle uncontrollably underneath him, trying to shield yourself from the endless kisses he attacks you with.

“What does that even mean?”, you laugh out, tears already stinging in your eyes.

You look so breathtakingly beautiful underneath him with little chuckles escaping your lips and your gorgeous eyes wet from joy. Satoru will always be thankful for the day you decided to be his, for the day he was finally able to call you his wife. What a privilege it is to wake up next to you, how lucky he is to hold you in his arms, to see you even at work.

“That you and I’ll be training together today. Hope you’re ready to get your ass beaten”, he teases you.

“So sure of yourself, huh? You might be the strongest, but I can make you look weak like a baby”, you purr back, hands holding onto his broad chest.

“We’ll see. Ooopsie, you’re gonna be late. Better get going my love”, he hushes against your ear, making your eyes widen in shock.

Fuck, is it already this late? As much as you hate to admit it, but it seems like you’ve already adjusted to Satoru’s bad habits like always being late and leaving your socks laying on the floor. As fast as you can you roll over the bed, putting on your uniform so hastily that you bottom it up the wrong way. You have a lesson this morning with the first years. How can you tell Yuji over and over to be on time when you’re late yourself the next day? You need to hurry up, maybe you’ll be punctual. 

“See you later”, you breathe against your husband’s cheek along with a kiss before storming out of your shared apartment as fast as you can.

-the training session-

“Better get going or you’ll be late”, you warn your students while walking past them.

“Where the hell is she going this motivated?” Nobara questions, looking after her teacher as if she’s seen a ghost.

“Training with Gojo-sensei”, Megumi explains briefly.

“Maybe you’ll be as good as her if you start training more, Nobara”, Yuji comments with a small smile.

“What does that mean, huh? I’m already training hard!”

“Oh…really?”

“Oh, there you are. I already waited.”

Your heartbeat picks up in an instant when your hungry gaze meets him, the sheer presence of his voice overpowering the mumbling of your students entirely. He’s still in his uniform, sitting on the edge of the training field with his long legs stretched out just the way you like it. Oh, why does your husband have to be not only the strongest, but also this attractive on top of it? This won’t be an easy training session, that’s for sure.

“Well, some of us have to work earlier than others”, you tease him, watching as he lifts himself up and now towers over your frame.

He’s so close you’d be able to touch him, so close that the possibility to caress his chest with the tips of your fingers becomes almost unbearable. Focus, you are at work. Nobody at Jujutsu High knows that Satoru Gojo is in fact your husband. Oh, moments like that definitely make you question keeping your relationship private.

“What’s wrong, (y/n)? Are you somehow distracted?” he questions all innocently, teasing you through the shade of his sunglasses so skilled that your knees go weak.

“Not at all. Just thinking about how I’ll beat your ass.”

“Is that so, huh?”

He comes closer. Just a few inches, but certainly enough to let your mind wander. How much being alone with your husband sounds like heaven itself right now.

“Show me, then. And hope I don’t beat yours like I always do”, he hushes.

“Satoru”, you breathe out.

Your cheeks redden instantly, eyes darting around the area. Oh god, if someone heard that…He has some nerve, talking to you like that while standing at the training area where everyone can watch and listen.

With fast steps, you walk over the large field, putting some distance between you and your husband. You will make him pay for every little dirty word coming out his mouth, one way or another.

“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” you shout over, letting your katana glide from one hand to another.

“As you wish.”

He is neck breaking fast, rapid movements way too fast to be caught by your eyes. Just before his fist slams into your body you are able to let yourself fall into a split, aiming to sweep him off his feet.

“Nice try sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that”, you warn him, aiming for a hit with your blade.

Hopeless. Everything looks so easy when he does it, escaping your every hit without even trying hard.

“I hate training with you”, you hiss through gritted teeth.

Sweat runs down your forehead like a waterfall, eyes desperately trying to focus on his figure. Damn, how is he so rapid? He even shoved his hands in his pockets, how rude. And why the hell does he take off his glasses right now?

“Fuck”, he mumbles to himself, eyes roaming all over your body.

You look like a mess, sweat making your hair stick to your forehead, uniform now completely covered in dirt, panting hard while waiting for his next move.

Why is he suddenly so turned on?

Before he can help himself, his feet carry him towards you, widen eyes looking up at him with oh so sweet confusion sparkling in them. What is on your mind? Are you as flustered as he is? God, you look even better from near, pieces of grass sticking to your face like glue.

“Are you trying to distract me? I know your dirty tricks, this isn’t working”, you huff.

You look you beautiful with your skin glistening in the harsh sunlight on this random summer day. When is this training session finally over? Are you free after it? The things he wants to do to you, things he always held back when being at Jujutsu High. After all, it is best for your relationship to be private, it is best keeping a certain distance at Jujutsu High.

The way your sharp and fast breath hangs in the air between both of you makes him lose his mind completely. Before he can stop himself, he lunges himself straight towards you, ready to kiss you with so much passion that it’ll take your breath away, ready to give you a real reason to sweat.

You smack him.

Hard.

Flat hand against his cheek.

Satoru can’t believe what just happened, rubbing his aching skin while staring down at your confident smile.

“Your dirty tricks don’t work for me, Sir!” you shout out self-assuredly.

There he stands, completely bamboozled while you begin to happy dance because you hit him.

Because you slapped him. Hard.

“I was about to kiss you, idiot”, he barks at you.

“Don’t talk yourself out of that. I was definitely able to hit you”, you remark.

Satoru has to close his eyes for a second, needs to stop the pounding in his pants. You are really something else.

“Just wait until we get home”, he mutters into your ear.

How much you love to mess with him. It isn’t hard to notice the enormous bulge in his uniform, how flustered he looks all of the sudden. After all, the man standing in front of your eyes is none other than your husband-

Your horny husband.

You aren’t exactly sure what made him feel this way. A little flirting was never enough to sweep someone like Satoru Gojo off his feet. Are you somehow exposed? Did he see something he shouldn’t? You look down on your body, uniform sitting just as it should.

Huh. Who knows what’s on his mind. As much as your mouth waters by the delicious sight of him, how much your body pushes you to close the distance between your bodies, you have to keep your composure. This isn’t the place for the things your husband currently thinks about.

“I’m definitely looking forward it. But for now, get yourself together. We still have a workout to do”, you reply with a sly grin, brushing over his arm ever so slightly.

[tawked]

I promise I will shut up about disabilities in comics, but I wanna make one last point.

There's a kind of writing where disability, or more often the abuse of someone with a disability, is employed for shock value and South Parkian offensiveness. This isn't really the kind of thing that's going to offend most disabled readers of comics. I think to be a reader of comics you kind of have to be fairly desensitized to violence or the abuse of characters. I mean, shit, Spider-Man's life is basically endless misery and he's considered a bright, optimistic, positive character with bright, optimistic, positive stories most of the time.

Rather, I think what seems to stick in the craw of most disabled readers I know, and especially myself, is when disabled aesthetics are used superficially to invoke disability but the disabled person's actual life as a disabled person isn't really considered beyond that. It's sad that Xavier or Barbara Gordon can't walk, but let's not consider what that means for their actual lives.

So there's this disconnect in the community sometimes, like...

Able-bodied reader (Lawful Good): omg! how evil! how cruel! to do that to a disabled person! this is really crossing the line! this is really beating balls!

Able-bodied reader (Chaotic Evil): lol. haha. lol. yeah charles xavier CAN'T climb stairs. funny observation, mark millar I assume

Disabled reader: how the fuck did he get up to the second floor? seriously there's no elevator or chairlift or anything

I think you can really see a difference in the two approaches in Legion.

The Legion of the comics is played as scary because he's disabled, the aesthetics of mental illness and disability are invoked purely for horror, and we're made to fear what he can inflict on others. There's no consideration of his environment beyond the superficial use of a psychiatric ward uniform and JoJo's Bizarre Adventure hair (a signifier of severe mental illness if ever there was one). He is raised in abusive psychiatric confinement but remains at that level even when removed from it, he does not react to his environment so much as he is produced by it in a near permanent sense.

Meanwhile, David of the Legion FX series (one of the best artistic communications of SCZ I have ever seen) focuses exhaustively on David's environment. On the conditions he has been made to live in and the effect they have such as the often futile and punitive nature of psychiatric confinement, and the people who have affected him in a general sense and particularly in relation to his disability.

Legion FX uses an intentionally anarchronistic combination of disabled aesthetics specifically to avoid the use of disabled imagery for any familiar purpose, be it horror or sympathy, to shift the audience's focus to his environment at basically all times.

David is abused in both narratives, that's sort of the point of Legion as a character - what happens if you abuse someone with Xavier-level powers - but in the former he's often treated as a kind of horror movie monster while in the latter he's treated as a human being first and foremost. The former never lets you doubt that he's mentally ill and being cuhraaazy and mad at Charles is his primary motivator. I want to mention that comic book Legion has a 1990s idea of what we today call dissociative identity disorder, not schizophrenia, but it hardly fucking matters because he's just written as weird, a real weirdo, he doesn't fit in and he doesn't want to fit in, have you ever seen him not raving psychotically? Okay, that's weird.

Meanwhile, the latter version plays with this idea that he might be misunderstanding his psychic powers as schizophrenia and pulls off an incredible plotline where some essential oils self-help guru lady convinces him to desist with his meds and this ends badly for everybody lol. Even once David is unambiguously confirmed to be psychic and schizophrenic at the same time (not a spoiler in comic book world), the narrative makes absolutely clear that his actions are a consequence of treatment and environment, not some inherent fiendishness. We even see a dimension-hopping episode where David's life plays out a range of ways based on key moments changing and while he's schizophrenic in every timeline, the outcome is different each time.

The former seeks to shock and offend as a horror movie would, the latter seeks to empathize and humanize.

The former reads (to me, anyway) as kind of offensive not because it's just an evil crazy person stereotype (if I were offended by this I'd just never consume any American media), but because his character feels impossible within his environment and context. He's just crazy and scary because he's crazy.

The latter is directly a result of his environment at all times and the world is built around his existence, both to accommodate and to create barriers, with the effects of those accommodations and barriers being central to the narrative.

All this is to say,

why doesn't the Xavior mansion have a stupid chairlift on the stairs Wolverine throws Xavier down

[lathalea]

Entangled ch 6: The Forge and The Smith

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Dwarf OFC (The Hobbit)

Rating: T (subject to change)

Warnings: ANGST, Thorin in the Forges 😏

Summary: Arranged marriages are common among the dwarven nobility. After reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, the Kingdom Under the Mountain needs to be rebuilt. Thorin agrees to marry a lady from the Blue Mountains, securing a mutually beneficial alliance with the Broadbeam Dwarves. Lady Mista is said to be a practical and hard-working dwarf-woman, willing to give him an heir who would secure the line of succession. A decent queen material, his advisors say. If only Thorin could let go of his past…

You can find this fic crossposted on AO3 (search for lathalea).

A/N: Thank you, my lovely readers, for your patience! I have finally managed to finish this rather lengthy chapter. I hope its contents will make up for my snail-paced writing. Special thanks to all who supported and motivated me in the recent months, and extra special THANK YOU with a cherry on top to the wonderful and diligent @legolasbadass for betaing this chapter and for all our Thorin-related discussions :) I wouldn't have made it so far without you! 💙💙💙

-*-*-*-

KHUZDUL:

Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain

‘Urdêk - local name of ‘the Lonely Mountain’ (referring to the dwarven Halls within the mountain), used by its inhabitants

Itkitî! - “Silence!” 

Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain

Kaminzabdûna - “Earth Queen”, Yavanna

Uzrak - Master, a honorary title given to revered masters of craft (miners, jewellers, smiths, and so on)

Azsâlul'abad - the Lonely Mountain (both the mountain and the dwarven kingdom known among Elves and Men as Erebor)

-*-*-*-

✨ Entangled Masterlist

Mista discreetly stifled a yawn. It was one bell before noon, and her eyes were already drooping. The last few weeks had been filled with intense work. Not only did she have to quickly learn and adjust to her duties as the new Zabdûna undu ‘Urd, but also her days were filled to the brim with countless tasks, each more important than the preceding one. Every morning before the seventh bell, she was already in the royal kitchens, then she would meet her advisors and various officials, then she would plough through the endless paperwork, and after that, a part of her day was spent on organising help for the newcomers. 

Several weeks had passed since they arrived in the Mountain, and some still lacked proper housing or means to fend for themselves. The Lonely Mountain was reclaimed almost a year ago, but the amount of work to make ‘Urdêk a thriving kingdom from the rubble the vile dragon left behind seemed to be gargantuan. Every day was a challenge; a housing quarter would be made livable again, but another one would experience problems with its water supply. The legendary Forges were working at quarter capacity only because the solid fuel conveyor line was malfunctioning and needed modernization — which meant new and complex parts made of steel. The problem was, the only place those parts could be made was… the Forges. There were also various issues with the mines, the geothermal shafts, the air circulation systems, as well as countless damaged walkways, staircases, tunnels, and passages.

It all made Mista’s head spin. She was used to managing her family’s various business ventures; she even knew a thing or two about how a dwarven stronghold like Tumunzagar was governed, but the vastness of the Kingdom Under the Mountain was a constant source of awe to her. That was why her evenings were usually filled with documents, blueprints, manuals, and reports — all of them made for heavy reading and a heavy pillow. Time after time, she would wake up in the middle of the night in complete darkness, with candles burned out, her cheek resting on a pile of parchments, her spectacles skewed.

It was not surprising that Mista found herself stifling yet another of her yawns. Discreetly, she pinched the top of her hand, hoping to keep herself awake for a while longer. She had to — it was the first King’s Council meeting she officially attended as the Queen, and she needed all her wits about her. It was imperative that she took in all the details. The first one she noticed, however, was not some important notion about the state of the kingdom but a piece of dough still stuck under one of her nails. Mista sighed inwardly. She would have to wash her hands more thoroughly when leaving the royal kitchens next time. At least she remembered to take off the apron and change her clothes to something more presentable. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass her lord husband with her ragged appearance, unworthy of a queen. She had to try better next time, she promised herself, stealing a glance at his robust figure at the opposite side of the table.

Dressed in his opulent royal robes, with the Raven Crown over his temples, the King Under the Mountain sat in his gilded chair, looking truly majestic. His dark hair flowed down onto his wide shoulders. The black and golden garments he wore somehow emphasized his warrior’s physique instead of giving him a more distinguished air, similar to the statues of the great kings of old Mista had seen in the throne room so many times. Now, there was a frown on Thorin’s face, his brows furrowed, his deep blue gaze set somewhere above everyone’s heads as he listened to his advisors. The strong line of his nose, the sensual curve of his lower lip, and the thicket of his beard made Mista sigh for the millionth time since she arrived at the Lonely Mountain. She still could not believe that Thorin Oakenshield, the handsomest dwarf under the moon, was her husband… and she was his wife. And thus, she had to act like one.

“... combined with the unusually big influx of newcomers, our food stores are far from sufficient, and winter is almost upon us!” A male voice reached Mista’s ears. It was Storemaster Yagrun, a middle-aged dwarf with a long, finely braided chestnut beard.

“Then why don’t you allocate some funds from the Kingdom’s Purse for this purpose?” said an unknown dwarf at the far end of the table. Mista did not recognize his voice, and even with her spectacles, she could not see him clearly.

Master Yagrun chuckled dryly. “Since when is gold edible, Lord Njall? Allow me to remind you that the people of Dale are not able to supply us with more food. They have barely enough for themselves.”

“Aye, and the merchant barges from the South are over three weeks late.” Mista recognized Lord Glóin’s hoarse voice. “There is no way to be certain whether they manage to arrive before the Long Lake freezes over!”

“Fishing is out of the question either…” chimed in Lord Bori, the royal chancellor, with spindly white hair. His words caused everyone to hum or nod in agreement.

“Why is it out of the question?” Mista whispered to Embla, nervously adjusting her glasses on her nose. It was better to ask about such apparently well-known issues discreetly instead of divulging her ignorance publicly.

“Smaug’s carcass poisoned the waters of the Long Lake, killing most of the fish and other water animals and plants. We managed to get rid of the cadaver, but it will take time until there is enough fish in the lake again,” whispered her secretary, and Mista thanked her with a nod.

“Any ideas?” Thorin’s deep voice filled the chamber. Several whispers were heard, but no one spoke up.

“May I?” Mista heard herself say.

The whispering ceased. All eyes in the chamber were set on her.

Her lord husband nodded politely, his right eyebrow raised slightly.

You can do this. She cleared her constricted throat, trying to stop her hands from trembling. The thought of speaking before all those honourable dwarves made Mista feel almost as terrified as on the day of her wedding. And then a recollection came; the words Thorin said to her on that day: 

During straining official functions, I tend to imagine that there are only stone statues around me, carved in amusing poses.

A hint of a smile appeared on Mista’s lips as she cast a glance around the chamber; this noble lord would indeed look quite comical as a statue of a dancing goblin; that guildmaster would make a perfect figurine of a sitting cat with a fashionable cravat around his neck; and that surly lord on the left made her think of a marble sculpture of a fussy little babe. That was what they were — simply amusing statues and not noble lords and a king. The King.

You know what to say. She rested her right hand over the notes she had meticulously prepared with Embla. It trembled a bit less than before.

You rehearsed it all evening yesterday. She took a deep breath. It had to be now or never.  

“With the newcomers arriving to ‘Urdêk, we have more mouths to feed but also more idle hands,” she glanced at the parchments before her and took. “We are able to double our local dairy production. The herds of mountain goats we received from the Iron Hills are large enough. It’s only a matter of training new dairymasters and herders.”

The whispering returned. She swallowed. It was hard to read the room, but this idea did not seem too unusual to meet strong resistance. Not this one.

Mista lowered her eyes, not daring to look at the crowned figure on the other side of the table; her magnificent royal husband.

“That could work, Your Majesty.” Lord Glóin was the first to address her. “Aye, I think we’re on to something here!”

Several other voices joined him, expressing their agreement.

Among their discussions on how to implement their ideas, Mista finally gathered her courage and let her gaze travel across the table. The King was looking straight at her, his frown gone. Instead, he offered her an approving nod. Were her eyes deceiving her, or did his lip curl up slightly? Her heart started beating faster.

He liked her idea! Mahal, he truly did!

Mista wanted to laugh and dance, and maybe even embrace him, if she dared. But it was neither the time nor the place for such frivolities. This was when she was supposed to reveal her big idea. Mista felt a knot in her stomach as she spoke again. 

“In addition,” she paused, “we could begin growing our own food.”

Her heart beat so loudly, Mista was certain that everyone could hear it.

“Your Majesty…?” Lord Njall looked as if he could not comprehend her words. 

And then the others followed; she saw furrowed brows, gritting teeth, clenched fists. One of the council members stood up and exclaimed: “Growing our food? Do we look like Elves?!” “That’s unheard of!”

“Inconceivable!”

Mista clasped her hands together under the table and took another deep breath, seeking comfort in her notes, where she laid out the matter very clearly and logically. Now, the runes seemed to dance in front of her eyes, and her tongue refused to cooperate, as the voices around her grew louder and louder.

“Itkitî!” The King Under the Mountain uttered, this one word slicing through the cacophony of voices like the sharpest of swords.

In the silence that fell after, one could have heard a pin drop. Mista’s breath hitched at her husband’s commanding demeanour.

“Lord Galar,” Thorin Oakenshield addressed the loudest council member, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “While I understand the urge you feel to address my royal spouse standing up, I believe you can sit down now and listen to all that Zabdûna undu ‘Urd Mista, your Queen, has to say.”

“But… Your Majesty!” Lord Galar protested, shaking his grey mane of hair. “Mahal the Almighty created the Longbeards to be craftsmen, not farmers! Unlike the Broadbeams, we…”

Mista stiffened — both at his insubordination and the way he spat the name of her clan, full of disdain, before his words died on his lips.

“He created the Longbeards to be resourceful and survive.” The King’s voice was now cold as ice, his eyes dark like a winter night. “That is precisely what we did in exile, with the help of the Broadbeam clan, when your family lived in the comforts of the Iron Hills. And that is precisely what the Queen of Longbeards — your Queen — is doing at this very moment. Helping us survive.”

Another wave of whispers washed over the chamber while the King continued.

“But Your Majesty!” Lord Galar added. “It is simply not done!” 

“Not done?” The King did not need to raise his voice. The contempt on his face was unmistakable. “Then pray, enlighten me, what is done? Or even better, what have you done, Lord Galar, while Her Majesty was offering food and shelter to the newcomers?”

Mista could not believe her ears. Immense warmth spilled in her chest; she decided that if she had not loved Thorin before, that would be the exact moment when she would have fallen in love with him instantly.

It took Lord Galar a while to turn to Mista and offer her a stiff bow. 

“Forgive me.”

Only then did he finally sit down.

She decided to play it safe and slightly inclined her head in response. It was not a clear sign of forgiveness, nor did she ignore him — just enough to keep the lord wondering.

That was when King Under the Mountain addressed her.

“May I ask you to continue, Your Majesty? We would like to hear more about this intriguing idea of yours.” His voice was like a sunrise on the first day of spring, and his eyes regarded her with what she hoped was kindness.

Mista was very well aware that the respectful treatment she received from the King served one goal first and foremost: strengthening her position as the Queen. It was not personal; as the wise Dagur Sture wrote, A strong King makes a strong Queen. A strong Queen makes a strong King. It was all about power and securing the royal couple’s ruling position — politics, to put it simply. Yet, Mista was thankful she was sitting down at that moment because Thorin’s words made her knees weak.

“T-thank you,” she whispered, unclenching her hands, and then repeated louder, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

With a very slightly trembling hand, she adjusted her spectacles and began speaking, trying not to mind all the eyes set on her.

“I understand that this idea may seem controversial to some, but I can assure you that underground cultivation of certain plants, highly nutritious lichen, and fungi, was a traditional way of living among our people in the old days,” she allowed herself a quick glance at Lord Galar, his lips pressed into a thin line. “And when I say our people, I mean both the Broadbeams and Longbeards.” 

Mista noticed Balin smiling at her after she delivered that slightest of jabs. Feeling encouraged, she responded with a quick smile and continued. 

“In Tumunzahar, we — they — still produce some food this way. There are no nearby settlements of Men, like Dale here, so the people of Tumunzahar are unable to rely on food from external sources,” she explained. “But even the inhabitants of the Lonely Mountain used to grow their food, centuries before Dale or Esgaroth were established. A quick study of some of the historical records found in the Royal Library revealed that there were food farms deep in the bowels of the Mountain. The Longbeards of old called them ‘Kaminzabdûna’s Gardens’. According to one chronicler’s account in The Golden Age of Azsâlul'abad, the food from those ‘Gardens’ saved our people from starvation during a lengthy Orc siege. Mahal the Almighty gifted us with craft, but his spouse gave us an equally important gift. It is up to us whether we make use of it.” As soon as she finished speaking, Mista swept her gaze around the chamber. Every single Dwarf was staring at her, but she had her eyes only for one of them — their King, Thorin. One glance at her lord husband’s face was all that she needed. Now he was clearly smiling at her. Her heart made a silly flip. His smile was not meant for the Queen, but for her, Mista. 

Or at least that was what she chose to believe in.

“We can’t allow our people to face hunger this winter. This idea is indeed worth researching, Your Majesty,” Thorin Oakenshield announced and added, “Thank you.” “It was my pleasure, my… Your Majesty,” she felt heat creeping up on her cheeks. “I will be happy to develop it further.”

“The Great Library should contain more detailed written accounts on this subject matter,” Balin said. “Unless they were destroyed by the dragon.”

Mista nodded, hoping for the best. It was to be expected: she had already heard that the famous Library Under the Mountain could be in a bad shape after Smaug’s lengthy “visit” in their kingdom. Checking its current state was yet another thing to add to her agenda.

The next part of the meeting consisted of discussions on the specifics of food farming. Mista could not help but feel pride; against her expectations, as she explained the details of food production in Tumunzahar, the concept slowly turned out to be a matter of “when” and not “if”. Perhaps she could truly make a difference here and help the people of the Lonely Mountain, and then maybe, just maybe, Thorin would smile at her again.

Mista had completely forgotten about her sleepiness, eagerly taking part in the discussions, and noticing the sudden respect and deference she was treated with now, especially by Lord Galar. His sudden ostentatiousness was not to her liking, but she needed all the support for this project she could get. Master Yagrun’s calculations clearly showed that if the food issue wasn’t solved quickly enough, half of the current population of the Mountain would have to find a different place to live if they wanted to survive the winter.

The King’s Council’s meeting was coming to an end when Mista noticed Lord Balin giving a discreet sign to a guard standing by the entrance to the chamber. A moment later, the door was opened and a Dwarf entered, approaching the table with a slight limp. Concern was visible on his weathered face, and even though he seemed tired, his black hair and beard were neatly braided. The grey garments he wore looked plain and simple, a stark contrast with the robes of the council members.

“Your Majesties, my lords and ladies,” Lord Balin rose from his chair, gesturing to the Dwarf to come closer. “Allow me to introduce Uzrak Hrothgar, the leader of the miners who recently arrived from the southernmost peaks of the Misty Mountains. He brings news this Council needs to hear.”

Uzrak Hrothgar bowed towards the King and began speaking.

“I am honoured to stand before the King Under the Mountain’s Council. Thank you for allowing me to speak.”

“We are eager to hear you out, Uzrak Hrothgar,” King Thorin II offered. “We welcome you and your people in Azsâlul'abad with open arms. May I ask what made you leave the legendary Silvervein Mines?” 

Uzrak Hrothgar bowed once again before speaking, “I say this with great sadness, but neither the mines nor our settlement are safe any longer. For a while now, we have been enduring an endless streak of orc attacks. At first, we managed to fend them off, but they grew stronger with time. Soon, it was no longer safe to hunt in the mountains and to work in our mines. Merchants stopped arriving to us for the usual trails have become too dangerous. And so, with heavy hearts, we decided to abandon our homes, and seek refuge in the safest place we knew — the Lonely Mountain, if Your Majesty allows.”

“Consider this place your home now. Mahal knows there is more than enough space for everyone here. Besides, our mines need skilled miners like yourselves.”

The leader of the Silvervein miners bowed even deeper, but before he spoke more, he was asked to report all he knew about the current strength and locations of the orc forces in the area. A map was placed on the table, and Captain Dwalin and several other dwarves began asking detailed questions about the threat. Uzrak Hrothgar’s replies were short but precise, and from what Mista was able to make out, it seemed that the orc raids began intensifying in the Misty Mountains. The Silvervein miners were not the only ones affected. This explained why there were more newcomers under the Mountain than anyone expected. The reason for the orc attacks was unknown, but there were rumours — and sightings — of a new orc chieftain. His warbands wore the mark of three red claws. They took no prisoners, killing their enemies on the spot. They knew no mercy.

This matter, the King announced, would be discussed further at a later date. The previous smile was gone from his face, and an even deeper frown marked his features, so that his eyebrows made Mista think of a raven in flight, an impression emphasized by the shape of his crown. While her lord husband was giving a few quick orders to his advisors, she let her gaze linger on his face, fascinated by the way his expression slightly softened as he spoke to Dróri, one of his assistants, only to harden into the stern mask of the King Under the Mountain a moment later. He addressed Lord Galar curtly. She did not know exactly what was said; the only thing she could hear through the murmur of voices around her was the steady rumble of his voice: decisive, commanding, cold. It was enough to make Lord Galar and a few other dwarves lower their heads in agreement — manifesting obedience to their ruler’s orders. The King did not resemble her Thorin — the one who had danced with her long ago in Tumunzahar — but she was certain that this courteous, thoughtful, and honourable prince was still deep inside him, behind that stone-like mask of the ruler of the Lonely Mountain.

When the King’s Council meeting had finally adjourned and everyone began leaving the chamber, Mista directed her steps towards her lord husband, who had just stood up from his chair. His tall silhouette towered over the majority of the council members as he talked with Dwalin and Glóin. She needed to talk to him, too. In her mind, Mista was already putting together all the right words she wanted to say to Thorin, to thank him for giving her the opportunity to speak at her very first King’s Council meeting, for supporting her, and for making her heard. She wanted him to know how grateful she was for what he did.

“Your Majesty?” Her words sounded shamefully quiet as she tilted her head up, trying to catch Thorin Oakenshield’s gaze.

“Your Majesty,” he acknowledged her with a slight inclination of his head.

Seeing Thorin’s handsome face so close before her made Mista’s breath hitch. His eyes were as blue as an afternoon sky, their depth emphasized by the golden sheen of the crown on his head. He was looking straight into her eyes, and she completely forgot what she was supposed to say.

“Thank you for attending the meeting,” he continued in his impossibly low voice, which made her think of the murmur of the winter sea. “I do hope you did not find it too boring.”

“Not at all, Your Majesty.” She shook her head, struggling to find the right words. “Not too boring. It was… good. A very good meeting. Productive.”

“I am glad you think so, Your Majesty. We all appreciated your input. Now, if you will forgive me, I hear there is an urgent matter I have to attend to in the Forges.” The King bowed courteously. “If there is anything you need, my lady, Balin is at your service.”

Before she could reply, her lord husband was already on the way out of the chamber, with a few advisors hurrying behind him, his heavy cloak following him like a dark cloud.

“How may I help you, Your Majesty?” Balin asked, interrupting the silence that fell over the now empty chamber. To Mista it seemed as if some kind of magic spell sucked the air out of the room.

She felt cold.

***

The Great Library of the Lonely Mountain was a pile of rubble. When Balin showed it to Mista, she could not believe her eyes.

“Aye, it’s not a pretty sight,” Balin admitted, shaking his head, and then pointed to the left. “The dragon tore that wall down at some point. The main entrance is buried under those stone blocks.”

“Is there a different way to enter the library?” Mista asked with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“If my memory serves me right…” Balin began, and Mista smiled to herself. He was known for his legendary knowledge of the old Kingdom Under the Mountain, and she took every opportunity she could to learn from him about her new home. 

“There were several entrances to the Great Library but they met a similar fate, I’m afraid,” Balin continued. “Me and a handful of other Dwarves tried finding a way inside in the first weeks after the Kingdom was reclaimed, but we had no luck, My Lady.”

“There is so much knowledge behind those rocks. We can’t afford to lose it.” In her mind’s eye, Mista saw rows and rows of ancient tomes waiting in darkness for someone to open them again after over 170 years of solitude. She could not believe that all of them were destroyed. Some of the books had to have survived the dragon’s destructive frenzy.

“Aye,” Balin nodded. “If we only had more time and volunteers…” Mista agreed, feeling disappointed. Every able-bodied Dwarf was busy with the most crucial matters: repairing their realm and making it livable again. The Great Library simply had to wait. Unless…

“I could write to my Father,” she said hesitantly. That was one of the last things she was willing to do — asking her Father for a favour. “He would be able to hire experienced Stone Masters for us in the Blue Mountains. But it would take time until they arrive.” “At least several months,” Balin agreed.

They did not have that much time.

Embla cleared her throat, “May I, My Lady?”

Mista nodded.

“It so happens that my husband, Sindri, is a Stone Master, and he will be willing to help,” Embla said, giving her one of her vibrant smiles.

“That’s wonderful news but what about his other duties? Will he truly have time for this?” Mista glanced at the nearest heap of large, cracked rocks.

“Of course! He’s only recently arrived from the Iron Hills with all of our belongings — as you know, My Lady, I came here first with my parents and our little Nàli — and Sindri is yet to join a workshop that suits him best.” She grinned again. “And as he doesn’t like to stay idle, he…”

“Mommyyyy!” something squeaked nearby. Mista looked around to see a chubby pebble — a boy of no more than ten years with a tangle of copper curls on his head — running straight into Embla’s outstretched arms.

“What are you doing here, Nugget?” Embla kissed her son on the top of his head. “Daddy taught me how to ride a pony today!” Nàli exclaimed with a huge smile that closely resembled his mother’s, and Mista could not help but smile at his enthusiasm.

His prattling continued until his father approached them as well. Sindri was a big, sturdy Dwarf with kind brown eyes, several thick golden braids and a bushy moustache.

“Your Majesty,” Embla turned to her. “Allow me to introduce my husband Sindri, son of Sigurd, and my son, Nàli.”

“It is an honour to meet you both,” Mista greeted them, but when her eyes rested on the boy, who immediately hid behind his mother’s skirts. “Nàli, where did you go?” chuckled Embla. “There is no need to be afraid of the queen!” Mista gathered her skirts and crouched before him. For a moment, his curious gaze searched her face just before he hid once again behind the flowing fabric. “I’m sure a brave little warrior like you is not afraid of anything,” she spoke encouragingly. “Are you?” Nàli peeked out from behind his mother again, “No!” “That’s the spirit!” said Balin.

“Are you really a queen?” Nàli asked suspiciously.

“Yes, I am,” Mista nodded.

“Then where is your crown?” Nàli’s eyes narrowed.

Trying not to chuckle, Mista looked around conspiratorially and then whispered, “It’s hidden in a very secret place, so no one can find it!” “Why?”

“So I don’t have to wear it. It is very heavy, you know,” Mista replied. 

Nàli contemplated this answer for a moment, nodded slowly and then took a step towards her.

“But then how do people know that you’re the Queen?” “I usually have the King with me. He always wears a crown,” she said. In the corner of her eye, she saw Embla stifling a chuckle. The boy looked around. “So where is he now?”

As far from me as possible, Mista thought wryly, but instead, she replied: “He is working very hard to rebuild our kingdom.”

“Does he like to ride ponies? Because I do!” Nàli stated proudly. Does he? Mista glanced at Balin hesitantly. Thorin was her husband, and yet she could not say. She tried to ignore the sudden lump in her throat.

“He does, laddie,” Balin stated. “His favourite pony is called Cobalt.” While the boy bombarded him with questions about Cobalt, his father addressed Mista. “Forgive us, Your Majesty, for this intrusion. We were on our way home when Nàli heard his mother’s voice.” When Sindri spoke, his eyes rested warmly on his wife, and as their gazes met, it was enough for Mista to be certain of one thing. This is how a loving marriage looks like, she thought, quickly looking away.

Before Embla’s husband and son left, Sindri confirmed his interest in helping out with gaining access to the Great Library and offered the assistance of a group of stone masters who arrived from the Iron Hills with him. Mista could not curb her enthusiasm — it looked like there was still hope to recover some of those precious tomes, and maybe even learn more about Kaminzabdûna’s Gardens. 

When she turned to Embla to speak to her about it, Mista saw that her secretary’s gaze followed Sindri. He carried their giggling son on his back as they walked away.

“You have a son you can be proud of,” Mista said. “And a caring husband. It has to feel good to be reunited with him.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” Embla replied with joy. “It does. I could not ask for a better spouse, and a great father to my son. It took me a bit of work to convince him to marry me, but it was worth it.”

“Don’t tell me that he was not interested in you! I saw the way he looks at you,” Mista said.

Embla giggled, “You are correct, My Lady! And one of his glances was enough to melt my heart like butter. At first, he did not think he was good enough for me, that silly Dwarf. He was too shy to ask me to court him!” “I find it hard to believe,” admitted Mista, trying to imagine the brawny Sindri acting like a shy maid.

“But that’s how it was! I was at my wits’ end when my granny had a talk with me. She told me: ‘Em, Dwarf-men are sometimes as blind as cave bats when it comes to the matters of the heart, so it’s up to us to show them the way.’ So I listened to my granny, and showed him…” Embla giggled again. “…and asked him to court me instead!”

Mista gasped in surprise. She was not certain about the customs of the Iron Hills Longbeards, but if they were similar to the traditions of her people, a Dwarf-woman would never be expected to offer such a thing. It was a Dwarf’s duty to woo the lady of his heart, not the other way around. And certainly not by showing them… things.

“Truly?” she managed to ask.

“Aye,” Embla nodded vigorously and grinned. “And it worked quite well! I was expecting Nàli before the customary courting period ended… We had a very quick wedding!” Now it was Mista’s turn to giggle.

“Then let me offer a belated — but very sincere — congratulations on your successful courting!” Their giggles echoed against the stone walls of the cavern until Balin cleared his throat. “About the library, My Lady, I believe this part seems quite intact…” He began. Mista hoped that he did not overhear much of their scandalous conversation. That was certainly not a decent topic for such a refined Dwarf as Lord Balin.

***

A week later, Mista clutched a bundle of parchments in her hand as she stepped into the Forges. It took her quite a while to find her way there; she had visited the place only once, during her first week as the queen, and now she had to rely only on her own memory. The king’s secretary, the stern Mistress Vigga, assured her that His Majesty was to be found in the Forges. Furthermore, Mistress Vigga insisted that if Her Majesty truly had an urgent matter to take up with the king, Her Majesty should consider having at least two royal guardsmen accompany her, as the fastest route was quite treacherous on account of not being fully renovated yet. Apart from that, the guardsmen would shield her from any dangers Her Majesty might encounter in the Forges: immense heat that would surely ruin her hair, open fire and fumes — disastrous to health, sparks flying everywhere — catastrophic to any lady’s skin, and those rivers of molten metal, and then there was that constant risk of an explosion or even exposure to the Forge Masters’ crude language. It was clear that the Forges weren’t Mistress Vigga’s favourite place.

Mista, however, needed to see Thorin. King Thorin. There was a delicate political issue she wanted to discuss with him, but first, they had to meet. It had been over five days since she saw His Majesty. Every day, he hurried out of his rooms shortly after dawn, before Mista could catch even a glimpse of her lord husband, only to return to the royal chambers when she was already asleep. Today, she waited for the King in his study at lunchtime, but he never arrived, busying himself in the Forges instead, and no one could tell her when His Majesty would return. Something told her it would be late, conveniently past her bedtime, as always. That was, however, not the time to dwell upon his tendency to avoid her, Mista reminded herself. Perhaps she was a bookish, unalluring girl from the Blue Mountains who did not rouse the interest of her husband, but — what was more important — she was the Queen, and she had her duties to fulfil. One of those duties was securing enough food for the coming winter for their people, and that was why she needed to have a talk with the King before the next King’s Council meeting that was to happen the next day. 

As an ancient Dwarvish saying went, if the forge will not come to the smith, then the smith must come to the forge. Or, in this case, the Forges.

Standing at the threshold of the legendary Great Forges of the Lonely Mountain, Mista felt like an ant in a ballroom. The spacious cavern felt like a kingdom of its own. It was filled with the hustle and bustle of massive machinery and countless Dwarves alike, the clanking of metal against metal intertwining with raised voices that echoed against the walls, and the constant hum of the fire in several working furnaces. Dozens and dozens of metalworkers, engineers and Forge Masters busied themselves around the cavern, shouting orders, warnings or curses, carrying or pulling various loads, forging, casting, hammering, smelting, shaping, and doing other mysterious things one was supposed to do at a place like this. Mista did not even try to understand or recognize them. Her knowledge of this craft was mostly non-existent. One thing was certain to her, though. Mistress Vigga was right: this place was hot and dirty, and the air was thick with fumes. Mista looked down at her elegant, opulent, and completely impractical dress and sighed, wishing she could take off at least one layer of her clothes. Unfortunately, as the Queen, she was expected to dress in a proper way and not parade in her chemise across the Kingdom.

It did not take her long to notice Thorin. Or rather, his lush, wavy hair, dark brown with streaks of mithril, gathered into a thick ponytail on his back — his bare back.

Mahal, be merciful.

He was working alongside the other Dwarves, sorting large pieces of metal and rock, and chunks of some ore. Like his companions, he wore only plain work trousers and thick leather gloves, which was not surprising, judging by the heat emitted by the gigantic furnaces. Shamelessly, Mista could not keep her eyes off Thorin, or rather his back, as he lifted yet another heavy-looking piece, his muscles playing under his skin that seemed to glow like molten gold as the layer of perspiration reflected the firelight from the nearest furnace. 

When the king straightened, the muscles on his powerful shoulders and arms bulged, and Mista’s throat suddenly felt very dry. She had never been able to admire his figure in such detail before, as his royal garments usually consisted of layers and layers of fabric. Now, her eyes followed the lines of that strong neck, those broad shoulders, and the wide, wide chest that narrowed down to his trim waist. Many Dwarves his age were proud of their rotund shapes, a welcome sign of prosperity, but she knew by now that Thorin led an active life, and his body reflected it. Mista’s gaze curiously rested on his shoulder blades — there was a tattoo there, partially covered by his hair, but she recognized its shape at once. It was the Durin’s Crown, seven stars etched in black ink, the unmistakable symbol of the King’s royal ancestry. There were other tattoos on his back and arms, too, each of those patterns telling a story of its own. As every Dwarf clan used its own unique symbols, Mista was unable to decipher the meaning of all of them, but she believed she recognized one of the warrior’s marks for valour and something like a symbol of a… swordsmith? Was the King Under the Mountain a Master Swordsmith? Mista promised herself to check this new piece of information later. It was fascinating — as everything that concerned Thorin. She wanted to learn as much about him as she could, to know him better and perhaps find something in common between them, or at least use that knowledge to become a better wife to him. A wife he would talk with, exchange jests with, and spend time with just like he did with his work companions at this very moment as they all tried to move an exceptionally large piece of metal from the pile of rubble before them.

Mista told herself that now, before she completely melted from the heat, was the right time to approach the King. That was why she came here in the first place — but somehow she could not peel her eyes away from his strong back, his powerful thighs, and… his firm buttocks. 

Mahal, why is it so very hot in here? 

She kept on staring indecently at his behind, feeling her cheeks burn, when a male voice said: “M’lady? Yer Majesty?”

“Captain Dwalin!” She almost jumped. “How nice to see you.”

“And the same to ye!” He grinned, his white teeth contrasting with the streaks of dust on his face. “What brings ye here, M’lady?”

“I… I wish to see His Majesty,” she faltered as this mountain of a Dwarf folded his impressive arms — his very bare and very muscular arms — against the thick leather of his apron that covered his chest.

Thank Mahal for the apron.

“His Majesty? Thorin? Now?” Frowning, Dwalin cast a glance towards the King, who was still busying himself with that stubborn chunk of metal.

Mista took a deep breath, trying to keep her eyes away from her lord husband’s glistening back.

“I see he is busy. I had a matter to discuss. But it can wait. I will wait. Here,” she mumbled, looking around, searching for a place to sit. She felt a bit dizzy, perhaps because of that overwhelming heat. Sadly, among the smoking furnaces, pieces of rubble and soaring columns, there was nothing that resembled a bench even slightly.

“Yer Majesty,” Dwalin began, shaking his head vigorously. “That won’t do, ye won’t be waitin’, not here! Gundi! Come ‘ere, there’s a good lad! Run to Thorin — His Majesty — and tell ‘im the Queen requests his presence.”

A young, lanky dwarf with a short chestnut beard nodded, made a wide-eyed, clumsy bow when he saw Mista, and then hurried away. 

“Oh no, Captain Dwalin, not now, I don’t want to disturb…” she began faintly when a screeching sound filled her ears.

Suddenly, Dwalin’s hand closed over her arm and pulled her unceremoniously to the side.

“Sorry, M’lady,” he offered just as a group of forge workers whooshed past them with a screech, dangerously close, wheeling a large cauldron filled with some smelly, fumy substance.

“I’m sorry, I did not see them!” Mista adjusted her glasses nervously, trying to regain her composure.

“When ye’re in the Forges, ye have to have yer eyes around yer head,” Dwalin said.

“INCOMING!” a shout echoed from a distance, and something heavy thudded, making the floor tremble under her feet.

Mista gasped, quickly looking around.

“Nothin’ to worry about, M’lady,” Dwalin explained. “Ye can say we’re remodellin’ the place after Smaug. That slug didn’t have even a shred of good taste.”

She chuckled nervously, trying to calm herself down.

“My Lady Mista!” A familiar rumbly voice reached her ears. Her heart fluttered.

She lifted her gaze towards the King. Thorin was approaching her fast, taking off his gloves. His brow was furrowed, and he kept staring straight at her with those piercing blue eyes of his. A few unruly strands of his hair stuck to his face, and his lips were parted as he took a deep breath. His chest rose and — oh, Mahal — Mista caught a very good glimpse of its full bare glory. The well-defined pectoral muscles dusted with dark hair, the — Mahal, was that a piercing?! — geometric tattoos, strong core muscles, and that stripe of hair trailing all the way down to… Mista swallowed.

Suddenly, her knees felt very weak.

The King closed the distance between them in two brisk strides. Somehow, he seemed even taller than usual, dominating the space around her, so very close, emanating a strange kind of heat, heady and powerful. Mista felt like a defenseless hare facing a wolf on the prowl. Instinctively, she took a step back, stumbled over something, and lost her balance, sending her parchments flying in the air. 

In the blink of an eye before she fell to the ground, a pair of strong arms — strong bare arms — caught her and held her in place. The grip was steady and reassuring, but there was a deep frown on the King’s face. “By dragon’s breath, what brought you here, My Lady?” Her royal husband’s words resembled a growl in Mista’s ears as he stared her down. “Y-your Majesty,” she mumbled, lowering her gaze, still overwhelmed by his intense closeness and the fact that the King was holding her firmly. “There is… there is a matter I wish to discuss, it’s…”

“INCOMING!” Yet another shout rang out somewhere in the Forges, and another loud thud was heard. The ground shook. She stiffened.

“Cursed supports! This is not a safe place for you, Lady Mista,” His Majesty’s gaze darkened. “Come, let us leave. Where is your escort?”

He took Mista under her arm and began leading her towards the entrance to the Forges.

“But… My parchments!” She turned back, staring at the documents scattered all over the floor.

“Dwalin?” Thorin glanced between his Captain and the parchments.

Dwalin simply nodded and moved to gather them.

Only then did Mista notice that the hard object she stumbled upon earlier was the edge of a furnace chute used for smelted ore. She refused to imagine what would have happened if she fell into it.

“Where did you leave your guards, My Lady?” Thorin repeated, looking around impatiently.

“I came here by myself, My Lord,” she admitted, trying to match his fast pace on the way out of the Forges, still feeling the warm shadow of his touch on her skin.

“By yourself?!” The King’s frown deepened further as he raised his voice. “Lady Mista, this is one of the most dangerous places in the whole Kingdom on an average day — and today it’s twice as much! You cannot venture out here alone!” “I didn’t want to bother anyone, I simply wanted to…”

“Bother? Mahal, you are the Queen, My Lady! Can you not see what would have happened if an accident befell you? What would it mean for the Kingdom, for all of us here, if you were injured, or worse? And shortly after ascending the throne? How would it look to your family?”

Mista lowered her gaze, deciding to study a tiny crack in the stone floor. She felt utterly stupid. The first thing that her family would do if anything serious happened to her would be to break off the marriage contract and all the accompanying agreements. And if things looked bad, they would demand a sizeable compensation, break off diplomatic relations between both clans or maybe even choose a more hostile path. Not because she was that precious to them; it was all about riches and power. They invested too much into the grand plan of putting a Broadbeam on the throne of the Lonely Mountain to forfeit it. Her mother made certain that Mista remembered it quite well.

As for the Kingdom Under the Mountain and its King, a seriously injured or even dead Queen meant fewer allies and no heir to the throne. And no heir to the throne, according to Dís, meant a possible rebellion and a rift within the Longbeard clan.

Perhaps another Dwarf-woman in her place would enjoy this level of importance, but Mista was a realist. She understood that she was useful to everyone as long as she was healthy, alive, and doing what she was expected to do. Like the pawn on a chessboard — yet again. 

“Forgive me, My Lord. I… I was unaware,” she said when they stopped in the outside corridor, away from the prying eyes in the Forges. “It’s just…”

“Yes?” the King said. She felt his intense gaze on her face, but she did not feel brave enough to look up.

“I simply wanted to talk… I did not know you were that busy,” Mista began, realising how foolish she sounded, suddenly very much aware of how close the King was, how her abundant skirts brushed against his legs, how she felt the heat and the masculine power his body radiated. His scent reached her nostrils: hot fire, ash, and leather, dizzying with its raw intensity. And then there was his bare torso in front of her, his glistening skin, his pectorals rising and falling, and a pale scar across his shoulder. Her fingertips tingled; one small move of her hand and she could learn how it felt to run her fingers along the ridges and hollows of his chest. The fluttering deep inside her intensified, and she clasped her hands nervously.

Mahal help her.

“What did you wish to talk about with me, My Lady?” The King’s voice softened slightly.

“It’s a delicate matter of state, an urgent one,” she explained hesitantly. “Coming here was my last resort.”

“Your last resort?” the King replied.

“You see… I have been trying to meet you in our rooms for a few days now,” she whispered, still not daring to raise her gaze above the scar on his shoulder, bracing herself for a fiery response.

Instead, there was a long silence. And something akin to a sigh. Mista wondered whether she would now hear yet another excuse and a polite but reserved dismissal.

The King spoke, “My Lady Mista, I would be honoured to discuss this matter now.”

“You… You would?” Mista’s head snapped up. Her eyes met the deep blue sapphires of his gaze. At that moment, he somehow resembled the Thorin she remembered, at least a bit. “Truly?”

“Of course,” The King nodded, gesturing with his hand.

“Oh, thank you, My Lord.” She beamed at him, warmth spilling in her chest. He wanted to speak with her. There were no excuses this time. And he did not leave, still standing so very close to her. Without thinking, she grasped his open palm with both her hands, so large and warm, and slightly coarse against her skin.

And then his fingers stiffened under her touch, accompanied by a startled expression on his face as the King glanced at their joined hands. 

With a gasp, Mista let go of him. Feeling her cheeks burn, her heart galloping in her chest, she heard herself speak through her clenched throat.

“I- I’m sorry, My Lord,” she muttered, taking a hasty step back. “I did not mean to…”

The vertical wrinkle between the King’s brows deepened.

“My Lady…”

“Yer documents, M’lady,” Dwalin appeared beside them with a roll of parchments in his outstretched hand.

“Thank you, Dwalin!” Mista blurted out, grabbing the papers as fast as she could. Her hands were trembling, and her head was spinning. “T-thank you for your time, Your Majesty, I- I have to go!”

“What about this urgent matter?” His Majesty Thorin II Oakenshield tilted his head slightly.

The thought of her latest blunder and then facing the King — her husband — alone, his chest bare, his eyes so very blue she would drown in them within a heartbeat, made Mista dizzy, and definitely not in any shape to have a logical discussion. She would mumble like a silly goose and make him think he married a halfwit. Yes, that was it, she needed a clear mind, and her current befuddlement had absolutely nothing to do with the state of his undress or the feeling of his scorching skin against hers; it was just this awful humid heat. She embarrassed herself enough for one day. She needed to leave this place at once.

“I… just recalled that I have an important meeting,” Mista said quickly, rumpling the parchments in her hands. “May we meet in the evening? Over… over supper?”

“If you are certain that it can wait until then,” the King spoke, his right eyebrow rising.

“I am, yes!” she mumbled. “It can!”

“Very well, then. Until the evening, My Lady.” He lowered his head in farewell.

Mista turned, fleeing the Forges, feeling utterly humiliated by her own silliness. What on Mahal’s beard had she been thinking? What made her grab his hand? What would the King think of her? She was supposed to be a queen and act like one, and not a mawkish lass who could not even spend a moment alone with her own husband without embarrassing herself because of her stupid feelings.

“Would you mind escorting Her Majesty back to the royal wing, Dwalin?” The King’s voice echoed in the corridor behind her, and she thought she heard a lighter note in his words. “It turns out my royal spouse can be surprisingly energetic.”

“Just what ye need in yer dotage, ye lucky goat,” Dwalin chuckled, making her cheeks burn. Deep down she disagreed; first of all, His Majesty was far from senility, and besides, the last thing he needed was an embarrassingly lovestruck wife.

Mista did not hear the King’s reply — if there was any. The loud stomping of the Captain’s boots as he approached her drowned out all the other sounds.

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[bewitched-hours]

i have a great idea. Reader (who's the beast of gluttony) x shadow milk cookie. And shadow milk cookie has a problem restraining reader from eating the cookies in the spire.

Btw I love your writing.

Ooo! I get to do more CRK fics, yay! Beast!Reader my beloved~ (And thank you, I love writing for y'all)

Reader get's She/Her ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

You were gluttony incarnate. The last to corrupt from the virtue of Temperance and turned into the beast of Gluttony.

By the time you did corrupt, the other beasts had already broken out of their prisons. In fact, they were the very reason for your corruption.

It began with Mystic Flour and Eternal Sugar attempting to convince you to join them. Surely you were just holding back. There was no way you weren't at least a bit upset that your old friends had gone on without you. But how graceful they were to try and still make you feel included~!

Silent Salt wasn't much help but you could tell he wanted you to 'see the truth' behind your virtue and let it consume you like they all did. It hurt but it was hard not to give into their honey-laced demands and fall to darkness. Especially when they were all showing that they still considered you a friend even after your betrayal in helping them be locked up in the first place.

But it was ultimately Burning Spice and Shadow Milk pushing you over the edge. With Burning Spice to train with you since you were one of the few who could keep up with him despite restraining yourself and Shadow Milk to rope you into plays and tricking you deep into his Spire of Deceit.

You hadn't known how long you wandered the endless hallways and stairs but at some point, the loneliness and desperation made you snap and Shadow Milk wasn't sure if he was more impressed by how powerful you had become from corruption or positively horrified at the fact he first saw your corrupted form while you were chasing his minions with a raging hunger rumbling from your body.

That primal effect on your face had him completely intrigued and giddy with excitement but nonetheless, he couldn't have you eating his minions like you were some dirty witch...

"It seems our star has awakened~!" Shadow Milk exclaimed happily as his strings held you on the ground, allowing Candy Apple and Black Sapphire a break to catch their breaths. Your hunger truly rivaled their master's wrath in their eyes, especially with your incredible speed and agility.

But Shadow Milk was simply infatuated with the way you struggled against his restraints, demanding to feast on the dough of cookies. "I will not let such puny strings hold me down!" You'd protest, ripping the strings while the blue jester struggled to make new ones to keep up with your rage fueled of hunger.

Don't get him wrong, his heart was racing but not from anything even close to fear. Quite the opposite, he was in love!

It didn't take long for the other beasts to make their arrival at his spire when Shadow Milk reported your corruption to be a success. They just hadn't expected the feral look on your face...

Of course, Burning Spice was most pleased, seeing as you reminded him of when he first corrupted except with a different motive lying behind your actions and much more intensity shining from your eyes. He felt a sense of pride in the way you tore through the jester's restraints and thus forced Eternal Sugar to help and attempt to lull you into a slumber.

Speaking of Eternal Sugar, she was a bit disappointed that your corruption had turned you to try and eat fellow cookies. But she was determined to make it work so she had figured all it took would probably be to feed you lots of meat and fruits. Maybe you'd leave her garden intact if you ever came to visit and was able to quench your hunger just for a while...

Mystic Flour and Silent Salt shared a quiet satisfaction to the fact you corrupted but didn't have many other thoughts. They were just happy you were one of them now. Hell, Mystic Flour might even consider sending you sacrifices to appease you so you don't cause chaos.

But back to the matter at hand, Shadow Milk had to muzzle you pretty much as you kept trying to bite him and Eternal Sugar while she managed to draw you into a quiet slumber. "Well~! I'll say she belongs with the spire!" Shadow Milk chuckled, earning a nod from the other beasts.

"I hope you know what you're doing then. She will need to be fed more than the average cookie now." Mystic Flour responded.

"Not to mention the fact she seems to have grown the urges of a witch... Luckily she cannot create cookies though..." Eternal Sugar sighed. She had hoped you were a bit more tame as a beast...

"She'd be perfect in my kingdom but I can't have her eating my own minions now..." Burning Spice sounded almost offended...

It was since then that your corruption was announced to every cookie that had known of you before. Especially the Ancients.

They were saddened but considering the stories told of how you corrupted would often change, they had little idea of where you were, much less what would happen if they had to fight you again.

You had no problem helping the other cookies imprison them last time but they knew you had been holding back for that so they didn't dare to think about the strength you held over them in this primal form.

But when you woke back up from gluttonous hunger? You were in what appeared to be a maze. All designed by Shadow Milk to toy with you.

"My dear, I do hope you're still interested in mazes~" His voice rung out from the other side, distant cheers coming from all around to distract you. He was tricking you again, making you believe there were cookies to be eaten but he probably isolated you from any trace of them in your sleep. His spire did always twist and turn like a house with no exit. Rooms always shifting, always changing...

But then the smell of berries and meat hit your senses like a promise. You would be offended if you weren't so hungry... Maybe you can still punish the jester for assuming you'd be satisfied with this predicament.

You rushed through the maze, letting your hunger guide you to every berry and piece of meat to feast without restraint. You were quick to finish each meal and the 'crowd' would always gasp and mumble in awe. The ego-boost was nearly enough to make you pause in mocked wrath. How dare Shadow Milk taunt you with the voices of temptation...

Only when you had reached the end of the maze did the blue jester chuckle in delight. "Can you feel the thrill of the show~?" He asked you with a mocking giggle, strings wrapping around your wrists and waist to drag you towards him. You didn't fight it out of sheer curiosity. Perhaps part of you still reminded you that these were your friends and that eating them wasn't an option.

Regardless, Shadow Milk worked to gently cup your face in his hands, grinning from ear to ear when he noticed you struggling. Were you struggling against him or yourself? It didn't matter to your friend. He cared only in seeing how you reacted to his words...

"You're absolutely perfect like this~" His voice began dripping with a strange tone you had never heard before. It was clearly something positive in the general sense but it reminded you of melting honey. "The feral wrath in those eyes, the never ending hunger... The raw beauty that is you..."

His words made your face warm up, confusing you with a sensation you had never felt before but had known all the same. Love...

Previously you had only believed love would be senseless. You were happy with your friends and were too afraid of the grief that came with loving a cookie who would crumble before you but Shadow Milk and you were both immortal. Technically you would have no issue loving him in your shared madness.

As if he read your mind, a kiss was brought to your lips. Feather-light but dizzying as you began to realise you had been holding your breath for this. You hadn't even cared to acknowledge the dramatic gasp from the illusionary crowd that began to erupt into mumbled praises of how 'adorable' this display apparently was.

You savored his taste in your mouth, trying to tell yourself it was just the aftertaste of berries and meat in your mouth that he was pushing deeper into your tastebuds. The strings were long gone by now but you stayed in place all the same, your form trembling as you couldn't decide on what to do.

When your lips departed, Shadow Milk took note of your fists hanging tight at your sides and quickly grabbed them into his own. "Perhaps a dance might cool you down, my star..." He muttered sweetly, guiding your hands open and beginning a dance of hunger and chaos. Strings hung from the great nothing above to lay a path of food for you to follow.

Each step in the dance rewarded you with something to eat, coaxing you to follow along his steps and dance for who knows how long but by the witches did Shadow Milk enjoy it.

You were the eternal flame that threatened to destroy his plays if he didn't tend to your gluttony but with your endless stamina and agility, you were simultaneously the perfect actor for his shows...

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