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lazarusawakens · 17 hours ago

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The Gravity Of Falling Kings

“Kings should not weep. But tonight I am no King.”

After ending his son’s suffering, Dream returns to his realm fractured—his hands still stained, his pride in ruins. He seeks only to drown in the shadows of his grief, but you, a mortal who has lingered in the Dreaming’s halls, refuse to let him. You help him wash the blood off his hands: the unraveling of a god who has never allowed himself to be touched, to be fragile, to be held.

Tags:

Dream of the Endless x Reader, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-it Fic, Grief/Mourning, Vulnerability, Touch-Starved Dream of the Endless, Character Study, Literal Sleeping Together, Fluff and Smut, Bottom Dream of the Endless, Switch Dream of the Endless, Cunnilingus, Creampie

Rating: E, Wc: 12.7k Language: English

The air in the palace had changed.

You noticed it first in the library—where the scent of old parchment and ink usually lingered like a promise, now something darker threaded through the stillness. The candles guttered wildly though no wind stirred them, their flames stretching thin and blue as if straining against unseen shadows. The books themselves seemed to recoil, their spines pressing tighter together on the shelves as whispers slithered between the pages.

Lucienne had left you hours ago with a stack of volumes on celestial cartography, but the constellations drawn in their margins now swam before your eyes, their silver ink bleeding into the parchment like tears. You reached to steady yourself against the desk—and froze.

The wood trembled beneath your fingertips.

Not a shudder. Not a sigh.

A convulsion.

The Dreaming was hurting.

You were moving before you could think, the book slipping from your grasp to land with a muffled thump on the carpet. The corridors stretched before you, their usual dreamlike grandeur twisted into something alien and aching. The stained glass windows—those magnificent mosaics of stories yet to be—had gone dull, their vibrant hues muted to graveyard shades. Where sunlight should have pooled in golden puddles on the marble floors, there were only shapeless smears of half-light, quivering like a sick thing.

And the silence.

Not true silence—never in the heart of the Dreaming—but a terrible, gasping hush. The usual murmur of distant dreams, the laughter of figments darting through the halls, the faintest hum of creation itself�� gone. As if the realm were holding its breath. Waiting.

Then—

A sound.

Not from ahead, not from behind, but from everywhere at once. A wet, ragged exhale that wasn't a voice but wasn't not a voice either. The walls shuddered in response, veins of black cracking through the marble like spiderwebs. From the fractures seeped a substance too thick to be shadow, too alive to be ink. It dripped upward in defiance of gravity, beading along the ceiling before falling in slow, syrupy streaks.

Your pulse hammered in your throat as you rounded the final corner—

And there he was.

Morpheus.

The King of Dreams was a silhouette carved from the absence of light, his form flickering between corporeal and something far less defined. His cloak—that impossible tapestry of night sky and dying stars—billowed around him not with regal grace but in frantic, stuttering jerks, as though it couldn't decide whether to shield him or strangle him.

He moved like a man through water. No—like a man through time, each step dragging centuries behind it. His boots struck the marble with terrible finality, the sound echoing not through the hall but through your very bones. Where he passed, the floor blackened and bloomed with phantom poppies that withered to ash before they could fully form.

Closer now, you saw the ruin of him.

His hands—those sculptor's hands that had shaped galaxies from nothing—were clenched so tightly the tendons stood in stark relief, pale as corpse-flesh against the dark. Something dripped between his fingers. Not blood. Not quite. Something older. Something that sizzled where it struck the ground, eating tiny, smoking holes into reality itself.

His shoulders were hunched beneath the weight of some invisible yoke, the proud line of his spine bent in a way that made your own back ache in sympathy. His hair, usually a precise crown of midnight, hung in ragged strands, obscuring his face save for the occasional glimpse of—

Oh.

His mouth.

Parted around what might have been a gasp or a scream, his lips were stained dark at the corners. Not with blood—with words. The kind that shouldn't be spoken aloud. The kind that left marks.

The doors to his chambers loomed ahead, their carved surfaces now alive with writhing shapes—faces you recognized from the oldest, most terrible stories. They wept silently as he approached, their wooden mouths stretching in soundless pleas.

He didn't raise a hand.

The doors splintered inward, reduced to kindling by sheer force of will. The shockwave sent a gust of frigid air rushing past you, carrying with it the scent of—

Salt.

Iron.

And beneath it, something sweetly rotten. Like funeral flowers left too long in the sun.

For one heartbeat, two, he stood framed in the wreckage, a jagged silhouette against the darkness within. Then—

A sound tore from him.

Not a word. Not a sob.

The death rattle of a star.

And he was gone, swallowed by the shadows of his own making. The remnants of the door groaned, then healed themselves with a wet, organic sound, the wood knitting back together like scar tissue over a wound.

Silence fell again.

Thicker now.

Heavier.

You realized you'd pressed yourself against the wall, your fingers digging into the stone hard enough to bruise. Your breath came in shallow, rapid bursts, each exhale fogging the air before you despite the unnatural warmth of the palace.

Somewhere beyond that door, the Dream King was breaking.

Somewhere beyond that door, a god was drowning.

And you—

You were already stepping forward, your hand outstretched, your pulse a wild thing caged behind your ribs.

The door was cold beneath your fingertips.

It whimpered.

Your knuckles hovered back over an inch from the door’s surface, trembling.

Up close, the wood was no longer wood at all—it had become something alive, its grain pulsing like the slow beat of a sleeping heart. The carvings you’d seen writhing from afar now resolved into clearer shapes: Icarus falling eternally with wax wings melted to bone, Narcissus drowning not in water but in his reflection, Orpheus—

You jerked your hand back.

Orpheus.

His face was new. Freshly carved. Still weeping amber sap that smelled like funeral incense.

A sound from within cut through your hesitation—a wet, shuddering gasp, followed by the unmistakable crack of something precious breaking. Not glass. Not stone. Something deeper.

You knocked.

The door flinched.

Three raps of your knuckles, each one softer than the last, as if the very air thickened to muffle the sound. The poppies embroidered on your sleeve wilted in response, their thread curling black at the edges.

Silence.

Then—

"Leave."

The word vibrated through the door, through your ribs, through the marrow of your bones. Not spoken. Dug from some festering wound inside him and flung at you like a weapon. The hallway darkened, the torches snuffing out one by one in a wave that left only the cold bioluminescence of weeping-wall moss to light your face.

You should obey. Every instinct screamed it. This was the voice that had sculpted nightmares from raw terror, that had whispered civilizations into oblivion.

But beneath it—

A hitch. A fracture.

The sound of a being who had forgotten how to breathe.

So you knocked again.

This time, your touch lingered. The door’s surface had grown fever-hot, its pulse erratic under your palm. The carved Orpheus turned his head to watch you, sap-tears slowing.

"I said—" A thud from within, like a knee hitting the floor. "Go."

The last torches died. The darkness pressed close, thick as velvet, tasting of salt and myrrh. Somewhere in the black, the walls began to peel—strips of reality curling back to reveal the writhing void beneath the Dreaming’s skin.

You closed your eyes.

"I won’t."

Your voice surprised you—steady, quiet, a single lit match in the suffocating dark. The peeling paused. The void held its breath.

Silence stretched.

Then—

A whisper of movement. The faintest drag of fabric over stone. The door’s fever-heat bled away, replaced by an icy chill that raised gooseflesh along your arms.

When the handle turned, it did so soundlessly.

The door opened just wide enough to reveal a sliver of the room beyond—a glimpse of torn tapestries, of shattered mirrors, of a black pool spreading across the floor like a wound.

And him.

Morpheus stood half-turned away, his profile carved from moonlight and ruin. His cloak was gone, leaving only a thin linen shirt hanging open over his collarbones—damp with something darker than sweat. His right hand pressed against the wall for balance, fingers splayed like a starfish stranded on shore. The left—

The left clutched a broken lyre to his chest, its golden strings embedded in his palm where he’d gripped too tightly.

He didn’t look at you.

But his shoulders shook.

The air between you crackled with something raw—not magic, not power, but the electric tension of a storm about to break. Morpheus still hadn’t turned to face you fully, but you could see the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers flexed against the wall like he was clinging to the last shreds of his composure.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then—

“Why are you here?”

His voice was ruined. Not the smooth, sonorous tone that had once woven dreams into being, but something fractured—gravel and glass, the edges jagged enough to draw blood.

You swallowed hard, your voice softer than you intended. “Because you shouldn’t be alone.”

A bitter laugh escaped him, low and humorless. “And you presume to know what I should be?”

The shadows in the room pulsed, stretching like living things toward you, testing. The temperature dropped sharply, frost creeping along the doorframe where your fingers still rested.

You didn’t flinch.

“No,” you admitted. “But I know what it’s like to drown.”

Silence.

His shoulders tensed further, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his back. The lyre in his grip creaked, one of the strings snapping with a sound like a dying sigh.

Then—

Slowly, so slowly it was almost imperceptible—his grip on the wall loosened. His head bowed, the dark curtain of his hair obscuring his face, but you saw the way his throat worked, the way his breath shuddered out of him like he’d been holding it for centuries.

“... Come in, then.”

The words were barely audible, more exhale than speech, but they sent a ripple through the room. The door swung open wider of its own accord, the wood groaning softly, as if relieved.

You stepped inside.

The chamber was in ruins.

Books lay scattered, their pages torn and ink bleeding into the carpets like spilled veins. The great mirrors that usually reflected the Dreaming’s splendor were shattered, their shards suspended mid-air as if time itself had fractured. And in the center of it all—

Him.

Morpheus stood with his back to you still, but the tension in his frame had shifted—no longer the rigid defiance of a king, but the exhausted slump of a man who had carried too much for too long.

You hesitated only a second before closing the distance between you.

“Look at me,” you murmured.

He didn’t move.

You reached out, fingers brushing the back of his wrist—carefully, gently, like touching a wounded animal. His skin was cold, colder than it had any right to be, and beneath your touch, he flinched.

But he didn’t pull away.

So you turned his hand over in yours, revealing the damage he’d done to himself—the broken lyre strings embedded in his palm, the dark ichor welling sluggishly from the cuts.

“Let me help,” you whispered.

For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then—

His free hand lifted, trembling, to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch was feather-light, uncertain, as if he feared you might dissolve under his fingers.

“Why?” he asked again, but this time, it wasn’t an accusation. It was a plea.

You met his gaze—those endless, starless eyes now swimming with something dangerously close to hope—and smiled, just barely.

“Because someone once did the same for me.”

And just like that—

He broke.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath hot against your neck as he finally, finally let go.

You held him there, in the wreckage of his grief, and for the first time in eternity—

The Dreaming sighed in relief.

The weight of him against you was not the weight of flesh and bone, but of dying stars collapsing inward—terrible and beautiful in their surrender. His forehead pressed into the hollow of your shoulder as if seeking sanctuary, his breath shuddering against your skin like the last gasps of a drowning cosmos. You felt the tension coiled in him still, that ancient instinct to stand unbowed before the storm, even as it ravaged him from within.

You did not move.

Your hands rose—one to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through the night-dark silk of his hair, the other sliding around the narrow plane of his waist, anchoring him to you. He made a sound at the contact, something between a gasp and a sob, muffled against the pulse at your throat.

"I have you," you murmured, the words a spell, a vow.

His fingers twisted into the fabric of your clothes, clutching with the desperation of Icarus clinging to melting wax. The ruined lyre slipped from his grip entirely, striking the floor with a discordant clang, its golden strings snapping like over-taut nerves. The sound seemed to startle him, his body tensing again, but you held firm.

"It is only the echo," you whispered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear like a benediction. "Let it pass through you, as wind through a leafless tree."

And he did.

The dam broke.

His shoulders shook with the force of it, silent at first—then—

A sound tore from him, raw and guttural, the kind of noise that should not exist outside the birth of universes or the death of gods. His tears were not mortal tears; they were liquid silver, molten constellations streaking down the alabaster planes of his cheeks, catching in the hollow of your collarbone like fallen stars.

The Dreaming reacted in kind.

The shattered mirrors ceased their suspended fall, glass shards drifting downward like snowflakes to kiss the floor in perfect silence. The scattered books righted themselves, their torn pages reknitting as if unseen hands stitched time backward. The pool of darkness that had spread like a wound across the floor shrank, evaporating into mist that curled around your ankles in penitent swirls.

You swayed with him, a slow, rocking rhythm, as if the two of you stood at the heart of some sacred dance. Your fingers never stilled in his hair, combing through the strands with the patience of a gardener tending blighted soil.

"Breathe," you coaxed, your voice the gentlest of commands. "The night is long, but it is not endless."

He shuddered, his grip on you tightening—then, with visible effort, loosening. When he spoke, his voice was the rasp of a rusted gate, the creak of a coffin lid pried open after centuries.

"I... have forgotten how to do this."

You understood. He was Dream of the Endless. He was the weaver of stories, the sculptor of nightmares. He was not meant to fracture—not like this, not where any living thing might bear witness.

"There is no 'how,'" you assured him, pressing your lips to the fevered skin of his temple. "There is only the allowing."

He exhaled sharply, his breath a desert wind against your throat. "It is... a blade. Twisting."

The admission was wrenched from him, each syllable a stone lifted from a burial mound.

You cradled his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes—those twin abysses that had witnessed the birth of galaxies—were shattered glass, reflecting a pain so old it had grown roots around his bones.

"Then let me hold the hilt with you," you said, your thumbs brushing away the stardust tears. "Just for tonight."

He went very still. Then, with the slowness of continents shifting, he leaned into your touch, his lashes fluttering shut like the wings of a wounded raven. When he opened them again, there was something new swimming in the depths—something fragile and tremulous, like the first green shoot breaking through winter-hardened earth.

Hope.

Your breath caught.

"Stay," he rasped, the word rough as unpolished onyx.

It was not a command from a king. It was the plea of a man who had spent eternity building walls only to realize, too late, that they had become his prison.

You smiled—soft, sorrowful—and nodded.

"Until the stars grow cold," you vowed.

His breath hitched, and then he was pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around you like chains he had forged himself. His face buried itself in the curve of your neck, and you felt the exact moment he surrendered—the way his body went pliant against yours, the way his breath evened into something resembling peace.

The Dreaming sighed in tandem, the last of the chaos settling into something softer, quieter. The candles flickered back to life, their flames burning low and golden, casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls like silent witnesses.

And for the first time in millennia—

Morpheus allowed himself to be held.

You weren't sure how long the both of you stood there, wrapped around each other in the heart of the storm's aftermath. His breathing had slowed, his tears had dried, but he made no move to pull away. Neither did you.

Eventually, you became aware of the chill in the room—the way the air clung damp and clammy to your skin. The scent of salt and myrrh hung heavy, undercut by something darker, something metallic. Blood. Or perhaps ichor.

You shifted slightly, your hand drifting down to cradle his injured one. The broken lyre strings had left jagged furrows in his palm, the wounds weeping faint crimson.

"Let me tend to this," you murmured.

He stiffened for a fraction of a second—then exhaled, long and slow, his breath stirring the hair at your temple.

"If you wish," he said, his voice still rough, but quieter now. More controlled.

You guided him to the edge of the great canopied bed, its black silk sheets rumpled and strewn with shattered rose petals. He sat with the weariness of an ancient oak bending under the weight of too many storms, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed.

You knelt before him, cradling his hand in both of yours. The wounds were deeper than you'd thought—the lyre strings had cut to the bone in places, the edges of the gashes shimmering with trapped starlight.

"This will hurt," you warned, your fingers already moving to pluck the first shard free.

He watched you work, his dark eyes unreadable.

"Pain is an old companion," he said at last, his voice a whisper of wind through dead leaves.

You glanced up, meeting his gaze. "That doesn't mean you have to face it alone."

Something flickered in the depths of his eyes—something warm and aching and terribly, terribly human.

Then—

He lifted his free hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. The touch was feather-light, hesitant, as if he feared you might dissolve beneath his fingertips.

"Why?" he asked again, but this time the word held no accusation. Only wonder.

You held his gaze, your fingers stilling in their work.

"Because even gods deserve to be loved," you said simply.

And in the silence that followed, the last of the shattered mirrors finally stilled.

The wounds in his hands had closed under your careful ministrations, though the skin remained raised and tender where the lyre strings had bitten deepest. You'd worked in silence, your fingers moving with deliberate gentleness, while he watched you with those endless eyes—dark as the space between stars, yet shimmering now with something you couldn't name.

When the last fragment of golden string had been plucked free, you pressed your lips to his palm, feeling the tremor that ran through him at the contact. His fingers twitched against your cheek, then stilled, as if afraid any movement might shatter this fragile moment.

"Better?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted from your face to the ruined state of his chambers—the shattered glass now glittering harmlessly on the floor, the torn tapestries still hanging askew, the dark pool of ichor that had shrunk but not entirely vanished from the corner where it had first bloomed.

"Nothing is ever truly broken here," he said at last, his voice like the echo of a cathedral bell heard through water. "And yet..."

His words trailed off, but you followed his gaze to where his cloak lay discarded in a heap, its star-strewn fabric dulled, as if the constellations woven into its threads had gone dark.

You stood, your knees protesting the long stillness, and crossed to where the garment lay. When you lifted it, the fabric was heavier than it should have been, damp with something that wasn't quite liquid but clung to your fingers like the memory of rain.

"You're hurt," you realized aloud, turning back to him. "Not just your hands."

He didn't deny it. The line of his shoulders was still too stiff, the way he held himself too carefully controlled. When he moved to rise from the bed, there was the slightest hitch in his breath—a sound no one but you might have noticed.

"It is of no consequence," he murmured, though the way his fingers curled into the sheets betrayed him.

You shook your head, the cloak still draped over your arm. "Everything about you is consequence, Dream Lord."

The ghost of a smile touched his lips—there and gone like a shadow across the moon. "You speak to me as though I am still your king."

"I speak to you as you are," you countered, stepping closer. "Nothing more. Nothing less."

The air between you thickened with something unspoken. His eyes tracked your movement as you approached, dark and fathomless. When you reached out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead, he didn't flinch away, though his breath caught in a way that made your chest tighten.

"You need to rest," you said softly.

His lashes lowered, veiling his thoughts. "I do not sleep."

"No," you agreed. "But you can still be still."

The silence stretched between you, taut as a bowstring. Somewhere in the depths of the Dreaming, a clock struck an hour that didn't exist.

Then—

"There is a pool," he said at last, the words measured. "In the chamber beyond. Its waters are... restorative."

You followed his gaze to an arched doorway you hadn't noticed before, half-hidden behind a tapestry depicting the fall of Troy. Through the gap in the fabric, you could just make out the glimmer of water and the faint scent of salt and lavender.

"Will you let me take you there?" you asked, your hand still hovering near his face.

He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing your fingertips. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet you felt the words more than heard them.

"I find I have not the strength to refuse you."

It wasn't surrender. It wasn't a defeat.

It was something far more dangerous.

You slid your arm around his waist, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt, the way his ribs expanded with each breath. He was lighter than you expected, as if the act of breaking had hollowed him out, left him made of glass and gossamer.

As you guided him toward the arched doorway, the candles guttered in their sconces, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to reach for him—for both of you—as you passed.

The tapestry whispered aside at your approach, revealing a chamber bathed in soft, blue-tinged light. Steam curled from the surface of a sunken pool, its waters so black they seemed to swallow the light whole. Yet beneath that darkness, something glimmered—flecks of silver and gold moving just beneath the surface like distant stars seen through water.

You paused at the edge, feeling the warmth radiating from the pool, the way the steam clung to your skin like a lover's breath.

"Dream..." you began, turning to him—

Only to find his eyes already on you, dark and depthless and filled with something that made your throat go tight.

"Will you?" he asked, and in those two words lay a thousand others.

You understood.

The water would wash away the physical remnants of his grief. But the act itself—the allowing, the vulnerability—that would be the true cleansing.

And he was asking you to witness it.

To share it.

Your fingers found the first button of his shirt.

"Let me," you said.

And in the hush that followed, the stars in the pool below shimmered brighter, as if in anticipation.

The first button slipped free beneath your fingers with a whisper of parting fabric. Dream stood motionless, his breath held somewhere between a prayer and a protest, as you worked your way down the ruined linen. The shirt clung to him in places, stuck fast with drying ichor—black as spilled ink where it streaked across the alabaster plane of his chest.

You peeled the fabric back slowly, revealing the damage beneath.

The sight stole your breath.

His skin was a constellation of wounds—some fresh and glistening, others already fading to silver scars. A particularly vicious gash marred the space between his ribs, weeping slow, viscous darkness that dripped down his side like liquid shadow. Smaller cuts crisscrossed his abdomen, delicate as razor-kisses, each one pulsing faintly with trapped starlight.

"You lied," you murmured, your fingers hovering over the worst of the injuries. "This is more than consequence."

Dream exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond your shoulder. "A king's body is his kingdom's mirror," he said, his voice rough with something older than pain. "Would you have me show you the cracks in my realm?"

You didn't answer. Instead, you pressed your palm flat against the unharmed space over his heart. The skin there was fever-hot, his pulse a wild, stuttering thing beneath your touch—not the steady rhythm of an Endless, but the frantic tattoo of a creature cornered by its own grief.

His breath hitched.

You reached for the last button.

The shirt fell open completely, sliding from his shoulders to pool at his feet like a discarded night sky. The full extent of the damage became clear—bruises bloomed along his collarbones in sickly violet hues, their edges tinged with the gold of dying stars. More cuts laddered up his spine, as if something had raked claws down his back while he wasn't looking.

Worst of all was the wound over his heart—not bleeding, but blackened at the edges, the skin around it stretched taut and shiny like cooled magma.

"Orpheus," you guessed softly.

Dream shuddered at the name, his eyes slipping shut. "The price of mercy is always paid in flesh."

You stepped closer, until the heat of him seared through your clothes. "Let the water take it," you urged, your hands sliding to his waistband. "Just for tonight."

His fingers closed over yours—not to stop you, but to feel the shape of your resolve. "You would strip a god bare?" The question held no accusation, only wonder.

You met his gaze steadily. "I would remind him how to be touched without breaking."

Something in his expression fractured at that. His grip on your hands loosened, his arms falling slack at his sides in silent surrender.

The rest of his clothing joined the shirt on the floor.

Naked, he was both more and less than you'd imagined—all sharp angles and pale, marbled skin, but also painfully human in his vulnerability. The wounds stood out more starkly now, the bruises darker against the unmarked places. The water's reflection danced across his body, painting him in liquid shadow and quicksilver light.

You guided him to the pool's edge, your palm resting steady at the small of his back. The water stirred as he approached, its surface rippling in anticipation.

"It will hurt at first," he warned, his voice barely audible over the pool's quiet song.

You brushed a kiss to his shoulder. "Then hurt with me."

He stepped into the water.

The reaction was immediate—the black waters hissed where they met his wounds, sending up curls of silver steam. Dream arched like a bowstring, a gasp tearing from his throat as the liquid light climbed his legs. His fingers found yours and clamped down hard enough to bruise as the healing waters reached his thighs, his hips, the ruined flesh of his abdomen—

Then he was sinking, the pool swallowing him whole, until only his face remained above the surface—his eyes wide and dark with something between terror and relief.

The water around him had gone opaque, swirling with tendrils of black and gold. Already, the worst of his wounds were beginning to knit, the edges pulling together like night stitching itself back into dawn.

You knelt at the pool's edge, your fingers trailing in the water near his shoulder. "Better?"

Dream turned his face into your touch, his lips brushing your wrist. "Different," he admitted. Then, softer: "Come in."

Not a request.

A revelation.

The water welcomed you like a second skin, warm as fresh-spilled blood and twice as alive. It licked up your calves as you stepped in, swirling in eager eddies around your knees, your thighs, your waist—as if it had been waiting for you. Dream watched your descent with heavy-lidded eyes, his dark hair fanning out around him like ink spilled in wine, the water's surface lapping at the sharp edges of his collarbones.

You sank down opposite him, the pool deep enough that the water rose to your shoulders. The heat of it seeped into your bones at once, carrying with it the faintest hum of something ancient—the memory of drowned cities, of baptismal fonts, of womb-dark oceans where the first dreams had stirred.

"Come here," Dream murmured, lifting one hand from where it had been resting against the pool's floor. The water dripped from his fingers in slow, syrupy strands, each droplet catching the light as it fell.

You went to him.

The space between you closed in increments—first the brush of your knee against his beneath the water, then the press of your shin to his calf, the tentative slide of your foot over his ankle. His breath hitched when your thighs finally slotted together, the heat of him palpable even through the water's embrace.

"Let me," you whispered, reaching for him.

He didn't resist as you turned him gently, guiding him to rest his back against your chest. The wounds along his spine glistened in the low light—some already healed to thin silver lines, others still weeping faint tendrils of darkness that curled like smoke in the water. You pressed your palm flat between his shoulder blades, feeling the shudder that worked through him at the contact.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your lips grazing the knob of his spine.

He exhaled sharply, his head tipping back against your shoulder. "Yes." A pause. "No." Another. "I cannot tell anymore."

You understood. Some pains ran too deep for simple definitions.

Reaching for the carved soap dish at the pool's edge, you worked the lavender-scented bar between your palms until they were slick with lather. The first touch of your hands to his skin drew a sound from him—something raw and unguarded, torn from a place he'd long thought buried.

You washed him with the reverence of a pilgrim at an altar.

Your fingers traced the ridges of his spine, the wings of his shoulder blades, the delicate dip at the small of his back—each touch a benediction, each stroke a silent plea for him to feel, to remember that he was more than his function, more than his failures. The soap turned the water milky where it ran down his body, carrying away the last traces of ichor, of grief, of Orpheus' blood.

"You are not ruined," you murmured against the shell of his ear as your hands smoothed over the marbled plane of his chest. "You are loved in the ruins."

Dream trembled beneath your hands, his breathing ragged. When you reached the wound over his heart—the one that had refused to close—he caught your wrist, his grip just shy of painful.

"That one will not heal," he said, his voice rough with warning.

You turned your hand in his grasp, lacing your fingers through his. "Not all wounds should," you agreed softly. "Some are meant to be carried."

His throat worked as he swallowed. "And if I grow weary of bearing it?"

You brought his knuckles to your lips, pressing a kiss to each one in turn. "Then you let me help you hold its weight."

Something in his expression fractured at that. His free hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone with a tenderness that belied his strength. The water around you shimmered, responding to the shift in his mood—the black giving way to deep blue, then violet, then a gold so bright it hurt to look upon.

The god of dreams, brought low by a mortal's hands—not in worship, but in salvage.

When he kissed you, it was with the desperation of a drowning man who'd finally found shore. The water sang as it held you both, its melody older than time, sweeter than forgiveness.

You reached for the silver ewer resting at the pool's edge. Dream's breath hitched when you poured the first stream over his shoulders, the scented water cutting through the last remnants of ichor clinging to his skin. Lavender and myrrh filled the steam between you as you worked your fingers through his hair, black silk slipping through your grasp like strands of liquid night.

"Lean back," you murmured, guiding his head to rest against your collarbone.

He obeyed with a sigh that seemed to rise from the very foundations of the Dreaming itself. The water embraced him as he arched backward, his body a pale crescent moon reflected in the star-strewn surface. You cradled his skull in one hand while the other massaged the soap through his hair, working up a lather that smelled of forgotten temples and midnight gardens.

His breath came unevenly when your nails scraped gently along his scalp.

"You've done this before," he observed, voice thick as honey left in the sun.

You smiled against his temple. "Only in dreams."

A shudder ran through him at that, his fingers flexing where they gripped your thigh beneath the water. You took your time, kneading the tension from his scalp, tracing the elegant bones behind his ears, rinsing until the water ran clear and his hair floated around him like a dark nebula.

The wounds on his chest had closed to silver scars by the time you reached for the sponge. He watched through half-lidded eyes as you dragged it down the column of his throat, over the sharp peaks of his collarbones, following the path of soapy water as it cut through the residual shadows clinging to his skin.

"You missed a spot," you teased when he tensed at your touch along his ribs.

Dream's lips quirked, the first ghost of amusement you'd seen since he returned. "An oversight I'm certain you'll correct."

The water rippled as you shifted closer, your knees bracketing his hips. You took your time with the hollow of his throat, the delicate dip of his sternum, the faint stretch marks along his sides—each touch a reclamation, each stroke a silent vow. When you reached the scar over his heart, you paused.

"Does it still pain you?"

He covered your hand with his, pressing your palm flush against the marred flesh. "Only when I breathe."

You leaned forward until your foreheads touched, steam curling around your faces like a lover's whisper. "Then breathe with me," you urged, and demonstrated—slow inhale, slower exhale—until his chest rose and fell in time with yours.

The water around you warmed in response, turning the precise gold of dawn light through honey. Dream's hands found your waist, his thumbs tracing circles against your skin as you finished your ministrations, the sponge trailing lower—over the sharp planes of his abdomen, the jutting crest of his hips, the long lines of his thighs—until every last trace of blood and grief had been washed away.

When you finally leaned back to admire your work, Dream caught your wrist. Water dripped from your joined hands as he raised them to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles that sent heat curling low in your belly.

"Your turn," he murmured against your skin, and the pool's water darkened in anticipation.

Dream's hands were infinitely careful as they turned you in the water, his fingers tracing the path your own had taken moments before. The ewer trembled slightly in his grasp as he poured a stream of scented water over your shoulders—not from uncertainty, but from the weight of this vulnerability freely given.

"Close your eyes," he murmured, his breath warm against your temple.

You obeyed, and the world narrowed to sensation: the slip of liquid silver through your hair, the careful scrape of his nails against your scalp, the occasional drip of warm water trailing down your neck. His touch was methodical, reverent, as if memorizing the shape of your skull through his fingertips.

"You're quiet," you noted when the silence stretched.

The hands in your hair stilled momentarily. "I am... unpracticed at this." A beat. "At being gentle with my hands when they are not shaping dreams."

You turned to face him, water sloshing gently around your waist. His eyes were dark with something fragile—not quite fear, but the quiet terror of a god learning devotion might not require worship.

Taking the soap from his grasp, you pressed it back into his palm and guided his hands to your shoulders. "Then practice on me."

His exhale ghosted across your lips as he began.

Where your touch had been confident, his was exploratory—each stroke of the sponge a question answered only by the hitch of your breath. He washed you like a man deciphering scripture, tracing the slope of your neck, the wings of your shoulders, the delicate hollows above your collarbones. When the sponge caught on a scar—that old childhood mark you'd nearly forgotten—his thumb followed the ridge of it with unbearable gentleness.

"How?" he asked, the word rough with unspoken meaning.

You covered his hand with yours. "Fell out of a tree. I was trying to touch the clouds."

Something shifted in his expression. The sponge continued downward, over the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, each pass slower than the last. The water darkened around you, shifting from gold to deep violet as his breathing grew uneven.

When he reached the old knife scar along your ribs—that thin white line from a life before the Dreaming—he paused. "And this?"

Your fingers twined with his. "A reminder that not all sharp things mean harm."

Dream made a sound low in his throat and pressed his lips to the scar in a kiss that burned more than any wound. The water surged warm around you as his hands slid around to cradle your back, his forehead coming to rest against yours.

"You are..." he began, then stopped, the words failing him—perhaps for the first time in his eternal existence.

Silver tears fell into the water between you, rippling outward in perfect circles. You drew him close without words, his forehead coming to rest against your collarbone as his shoulders shook. The Dreaming itself seemed to hush around you, the very air holding its breath as its ruler wept in the safety of your arms.

The water grew still.

The candles burned low.

And in that quiet, in that dark, there was nothing but the salt of shared tears and the warmth of two bodies trying to remember how to be human.

—-

The water had stilled to perfect black glass around you. Dream's breathing had steadied, though his forehead still rested heavy against your shoulder. You carded your fingers through his damp hair one last time before murmuring, "Wait here."

His eyes snapped shut the moment you began to rise, turning his face away with courtesy. You watched the tension return to his shoulders as you stepped from the pool, water cascading from your skin in liquid shadows.

The towels hung warm from a heated rack, their fabric impossibly soft between your fingers. You dressed quickly in the folded garments left nearby—a nightshirt of silver-blue silk that fell to your knees, its sleeves whispering against your wrists. Only when you were fully covered did you clear your throat.

Dream still knelt exactly as you'd left him, head bowed, eyes firmly closed. Water droplets clung to his lashes like captured stars.

"Your turn," you said softly, holding out the second towel.

He rose with liquid grace, keeping his back to you as he stepped from the pool. You pressed the towel into his waiting hands, your fingers brushing his palm—cold where yours were warm.

"I'll look away," you promised, turning toward the arched windows where the Dreaming's eternal night stretched beyond the glass. Behind you, the whisper of fabric told its own story: the slide of linen over damp skin, the quiet hitch of breath as he fastened the trousers, the soft sigh of silk settling across shoulders.

When the silence stretched too long, you risked a glance over your shoulder.

Dream stood half-dressed in loose black trousers, the matching shirt dangling forgotten from his fingers. His head was tilted toward the ceiling, throat working as he fought some invisible battle. Fresh scars mapped his torso in silver trails, glowing faintly in the dim light.

You crossed to him without thinking, taking the shirt from his limp grasp. "Arms up," you murmured.

He obeyed like a sleepwalker. The silk whispered over his skin as you guided it onto him, your fingers brushing the nape of his neck when you smoothed the collar into place. When you reached for the buttons, his hands closed over yours—not to stop you, but to feel the shape of your knuckles beneath his palms.

"The bed," you suggested, nodding toward the canopied expanse. "Just to sit."

He followed like a man in a trance, sinking onto the edge of the mattress with none of his usual grace. The silk sheets whispered beneath him as you settled at his side, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

Outside, the Dreaming's false stars burned cold and constant. Inside, the only light came from the dying candles, painting his profile in gold and shadow.

Dream exhaled slowly, his fingers finding yours in the space between you.

Neither of you spoke.

Dream stared at his hands—those sculptor's hands now bare of rings—turning them over as if seeing the scars for the first time.

The silence between them was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Outside, the Dreaming's eternal night pressed against the windows, stars frozen mid-twinkle in the velvet sky.

"You never sleep," you said at last, your voice barely disturbing the quiet.

Dream's fingers stilled. "No."

"But you rest."

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that wasn't quite amusement. "Not as mortals do. Not as you mean."

You watched the candlelight play across his profile—the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the shadow his lashes cast. "What is it like? When you...pause?"

For a long moment, you thought he wouldn't answer. Then:

"I become the space between breaths." His voice was softer than the flickering candlelight. "The hush before a dream begins. I am both there and...not." His throat worked. "It is the closest I come to forgetting."

The admission hung between you, fragile as a soap bubble. You resisted the urge to reach for him, letting the silence stretch until he broke it himself.

"Why did you come to me tonight?"

The question startled you. "You were hurting."

His dark eyes finally met yours. "Many have seen me hurt. None have..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the bathing chamber beyond, to the towel still draped over your shoulder, to the space between you that had somehow become sacred ground.

You studied the constellation of scars across his knuckles. "Maybe no one ever asked if they could."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "And you did."

"Not at first." You smiled faintly. "I believe I barged in quite rudely."

The corner of his mouth twitched—almost, almost a smile. Then it faded. "They will say this makes me weak."

"Who?"

"The Fates. My siblings. The dreams and nightmares who rely on me to be constant." His fingers plucked at the silk sheets. "I cannot...I must not be this." He gestured to himself—to the vulnerability laid bare between you.

You turned fully to face him. "You just carried the weight of killing your son. If that isn't strength, I don't know what is."

His breath hitched. The candles guttered as if in sympathy.

"You think it strength?"

"I think," you said carefully, "that it takes more courage to feel than to hide. To let someone see you bleed." You reached for his hand slowly, giving him time to pull away. He didn't. "That doesn't make you weak. It makes you real."

Dream's fingers tightened around yours almost painfully. When he spoke, his voice was raw. "I don't know how to be real."

The confession hung between you, trembling like a spider's web in the wind. Outside, a shooting star streaked across the frozen sky—impossible in the Dreaming, yet there all the same.

You brought his knuckles to your lips. "Then let me show you."

For the first time since you'd met him, Dream's shoulders relaxed completely. The candles burned a little brighter. The sheets grew warmer beneath you. And when he leaned his forehead against yours, the night outside the windows softened at last—not into dawn, but into something kinder.

The candle between them burned lower, wax pooling like molten pearl across the silver dish. Dream's fingers still rested in yours, his thumb tracing absent circles against your pulse point - not the measured movement of a monarch, but the restless fidgeting of a man unmoored.

"You asked what it is to rest as I do," he said suddenly, his voice rough with disuse. "It is like...holding the ocean in cupped hands. The weight remains, only now you must keep perfectly still or lose it all."

You watched the play of shadows across his face. "That doesn't sound restful."

A humorless smile touched his lips. "No."

The admission hung between you, fragile as the candle's flame. Outside, the Dreaming's perpetual night deepened, the stars brightening as if leaning closer to listen.

"You could change it," you ventured. "The dreaming. Make dawn come, if you wished."

His fingers stilled. "I could."

"But you don't."

Dream turned his face toward the windows, his profile carved from moonlight and sorrow. "Some wounds need darkness to heal." His throat worked. "As do some kings."

You shifted closer, your knee brushing his. "Tell me about him."

The air grew heavy. Somewhere in the palace, a clock struck thirteen.

"He had his mother's laugh," Dream said at last, so soft you felt the words more than heard them. "When he was small, he would hide in the Library of Dreams, certain Lucienne couldn't find him behind the atlases of forgotten realms." A ghost of a smile. "He was always wrong."

Your thumb stroked the inside of his wrist, feeling the flutter of his pulse. "What else?"

"He...collected shells from the shores of dreams. Kept them in a box by his bed until the day he left." Dream's voice fractured like thin ice. "I never asked why he took them with him."

The confession hung between you, raw and aching. You brought his hand to your chest, pressing his palm flat over your heartbeat.

"Tell me more," you whispered.

And so he did.

Story by story, memory by fragile memory, Dream of the Endless rebuilt his son in the space between you - not as the tragic figure of myth, but as a boy who loved sticky honey cakes and bad poetry and the particular way sunlight looked through maple leaves. His voice grew steadier with each shared fragment, the terrible hollow in his eyes slowly filling with something softer.

When the candle finally guttered out, leaving only starlight, you realized the room had changed without either of you willing it - the walls now held a faint golden glow, the scent of salt air and parchment lingering where before there had been only incense.

Dream looked around as if seeing the space for the first time. "You..." He swallowed hard. "You make it easier to remember."

The night pressed against the windows, thick and star-flecked, as Dream's voice wound through the darkness like smoke. His fingers had gone still in yours, the stories of Orpheus lingering in the air between you - honey-sticky and maple-leaf fragile.

You turned his hand over in yours, tracing the fresh scars. "And the shells? What happened to them?"

Dream's breath hitched. "Washed away. All but one." He reached into the air and a conch shimmered into existence, its ridges glowing faintly with dreamlight. "This is the only one that survived."

You took it carefully, the shell warm against your palm. When you lifted it to your ear, instead of ocean waves, you heard a child's laughter.

Dream watched you with something raw in his gaze. "You see now why I—"

The shell tumbled to the sheets as you kissed him.

Not gently. Not sweetly. But with all the hunger of a woman who'd spent eternity waiting to taste starlight. His lips were cooler than you expected, his startled gasp warmer. For one terrible second, he froze—

Then the Dreaming itself seemed to exhale as he kissed you back.

His hands found your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones with reverence before sliding into your hair. The conch rolled forgotten to the floor as he pulled you closer, his mouth moving against yours with sudden, desperate need.

When you broke apart, his eyes had gone black from edge to edge, the stars within them flaring wildly. Outside, the eternal night deepened, the air growing thick with the scent of lightning and wet earth.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, his fingers trembling where they gripped your waist.

You answered by nipping at his lower lip, drawing a sound from him that had no business coming from a king's throat. His control shattered.

Morpheus lay back against the silk sheets, his body a constellation of scars and candlelight, his dark hair fanned out like spilled ink. There was no tension left in him now—only quiet surrender as your fingers traced the map of his skin with the reverence of a pilgrim at a sacred site.

You started with his hands—those beautiful, terrible hands that had shaped nightmares and spun galaxies. Turning them palm-up, you kissed each knuckle, each callus, the delicate blue veins beneath translucent skin. When your lips brushed the fresh scars from the lyre strings, he shuddered, his fingers twitching in your grasp like wounded birds.

"Shhh," you murmured against his wrist, feeling his pulse flutter like a trapped star. "Let me."

And he did.

His breath came slow and uneven as you moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the inside of his forearm where the skin was softest. The scent of lavender and myrrh still clung to him from the bath, mingling with something darker, something uniquely him—like the ozone before a storm, like the pages of an ancient book left open to the moonlight.

When you reached his collarbones, you paused to nuzzle the hollow there, smiling when his breath hitched. The sound was unbearably human, unbearably vulnerable. You took your time, mapping every dip and plane with lips and tongue, learning the taste of him—salt and stardust and something sweet you couldn't name.

His chest rose and fell beneath your touch, each breath carefully measured, as if he feared too much movement might shatter this fragile moment. The scars there were silver in the candlelight, thin lines of old pain you kissed one by one, whispering wordless comforts against his skin.

The worst one—the blackened mark over his heart—you saved for last.

Dream tensed when you hovered over it, his hands flexing at his sides. "You don't have to—"

You silenced him with a look, then pressed your lips to the ruined flesh as gently as a butterfly alighting on a flower. His gasp was sharp, his body bowing up off the bed as if your mouth had burned him. But you held firm, kissing the wound again and again until the tension drained from him, until his fingers crept into your hair not to push you away but to hold you closer.

When you finally lifted your head, his eyes were wet.

You kissed the tears away before they could fall, tasting salt and sorrow and something infinitely precious. His arms came around you then, pulling you flush against him, his face buried in the curve of your neck as he trembled.

Your fingers eventually found the silk ties of his trousers with deliberate slowness, giving him every opportunity to stop you. Dream lay motionless beneath your touch, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, his dark eyes watching you with something between awe and apprehension.

The first knot gave way beneath your fingers, the fabric loosening around his hips. You traced the newly exposed skin just above the waistband—that soft, vulnerable space where hip met thigh—and felt him shiver.

"Look at you," you murmured as the silk slid downward, revealing the pale expanse of his thighs. The dim candlelight painted him in gold and shadow, catching on the faint dusting of dark hair, the subtle tremors running through his muscles.

Dream made a soft sound when you pressed a kiss to his inner thigh, his fingers twisting in the sheets. His skin tasted of salt and the lingering herbal scent from the bath, warm beneath your lips as you mapped every inch of newly exposed flesh.

The trousers pooled at his ankles, and you took a moment to simply admire him—all long limbs and sharp angles, his body a living masterpiece of pale skin and dark hair. The most powerful being you'd ever known lay spread before you like an offering, his arousal evident but his patience absolute as he waited for your next move.

You ran your hands up his calves, marveling at the contrast of soft skin over hard muscle. His feet were unexpectedly beautiful—high arches and slender toes that curled when you touched them.

"Every part of you is perfect," you whispered, working your way back up his legs with lips and fingertips.

Dream's breath caught when you reached his hips again, his stomach muscles tensing as your hands skimmed upward. His chest flushed a delicate pink, spreading upward to his throat as you took him in fully—the proud length of him, the way his hips lifted slightly in unconscious seeking.

You didn't touch him there yet. Instead, you leaned down to kiss the sharp jut of his hipbone, smiling against his skin when he whimpered.

"Patience," you chided softly, trailing your fingers along his sides. "I'm not done admiring you."

And admire you did—every scar, every plane, every secret place that made him gasp. The candlelight danced across his body as you worshipped him with hands and mouth, learning the map of a being who had never before allowed himself to be known this way.

When you finally took him in hand, his whole body arched off the bed, a broken cry tearing from his throat. His hands found your hair, not guiding but clinging, as if you were the only anchor in a storm-tossed sea.

"Please," he gasped, and the word was more beautiful than any prayer.

As you moved upward, your nails dragged lightly through the dark hair dusting his legs, feeling the powerful muscles twitch beneath. The inside of his thighs was silken and sensitive - each kiss there drew a gasp, each nip of teeth made his hips stutter. When your breath ghosted over the very core of him, his entire body bowed off the bed, a broken sound tearing from his throat.

"Look at you," you murmured against his hipbone, hands roaming the sculpted planes of his torso. "All this power... trembling for me."

His cock lay heavy against his stomach, flushed dark and leaking at the tip. You blew gently across the glistening head, watching the way his stomach muscles clenched, the way his fingers turned white-knuckled in the sheets. His skin was fever-hot and velvet-soft, the weight of him perfect as you stroked slowly from root to tip.

Dream's head thrashed against the pillows, his chest heaving. "Please, I - I can't..." His voice broke as your thumb swiped over the sensitive underside, the words dissolving into a moan that seemed to shake the very air between you.

You kissed the tip, tasting salt and something uniquely him - like storm-charged air and the first sip of midnight wine. His hips jerked helplessly as you took him deeper, your tongue swirling in patterns that had him chanting your name like a prayer.

When you finally released him, his whimper was devastating. You crawled up his body, kissing each scar and plane until you could whisper against his lips:

"Let go. I have you."

And as the stars burned bright beyond the windows, Dream of the Endless shattered in your arms.

You rose up on your knees, the silk of your pants whispering against his bare thighs as you settled astride him. Dream's hands flew to your hips on instinct, his fingers pressing into your skin like a drowning man clutching driftwood. His chest heaved beneath you, every scar and plane you'd just worshiped now glistening with a fine sheen of sweat in the candlelight.

His head fell back against the pillows, exposing the long line of his throat where his pulse fluttered like a caged bird. You leaned down to taste it, smiling against his skin when his hips jerked upward in helpless response.

"Look at me," you whispered.

Dream's eyes were black pools edged with starlight when he obeyed, his pupils blown wide with want. His hands trembled where they gripped you, the contrast between his power and his surrender making your breath catch. You rolled your hips slowly, watching the way his lips parted around silent pleas, the way his lashes fluttered when the friction bordered on too much.

His fingers traced the hem of your shift with aching reverence before sliding beneath. The first touch of his palms against your bare waist had you gasping—his skin was fever-hot, his touch hesitant despite the hunger in his eyes.

"May I—?"

You answered by lifting the shift over your head, letting it flutter to the floor. The night air was cool against your skin, but the heat of his gaze was warmer than any fire. His hands hovered over you, trembling, as if you were something holy he feared to profane.

You took them in yours, guiding his touch where you ached for him. His breath caught when he finally cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your peaked nipples with a touch so light it bordered on torture.

"Morpheus," you sighed, rocking against him in slow, deliberate circles.

His control shattered.

One arm banded around your waist, crushing you against him as his free hand tangled in your hair. His mouth found yours in a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation, his tongue sliding against yours with all the hunger of a man who had spent eternity starving. When you broke apart, both breathing ragged, his forehead dropped to yours.

"You undo me," he confessed against your lips, his voice rough as shattered marble.

You smiled, rolling your hips again just to watch his eyes roll back in pleasure. ”Good.”

Your hand slid between your bodies with deliberate slowness, fingers tracing the heated length of him. Dream's breath caught audibly, his hips lifting in helpless response as you stroked him once—twice—watching the play of candlelight across his face as pleasure rippled through him.

His hands tightened on your hips, fingers pressing crescent moons into your skin. "Wait—" he gasped, though his body arched toward your touch.

You paused, meeting his gaze. The stars in his eyes had gone supernova, his lips parted around ragged breaths.

"Look at me," you murmured, shifting forward until you hovered over him. His length pressed hot and insistent against your core as you aligned your bodies with aching precision. "I want to see you."

Dream's fingers dug into your thighs as you began to sink down, his entire body tensing like a bowstring. The stretch burned sweetly, his choked gasp echoing your own as you took him inch by inch. His head fell back against the pillows, exposing the elegant column of his throat where his pulse fluttered wildly.

"Look at me," you repeated, voice trembling with the effort of moving slowly.

He obeyed with visible effort, his dark eyes meeting yours just as you seated yourself fully. The sound he made was pure worship—broken and beautiful as he filled you completely. For a moment, neither of you moved, suspended in the perfect agony of connection.

Dream's hands rose to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones with unbearable tenderness even as his hips twitched beneath you. "You feel—" His voice fractured. "You feel like coming home."

The words undid you.

You began to move.

The first movement was a sacrament.

You rose above him with deliberate slowness, your bodies joining in increments that left Dream trembling beneath you. His hands found your waist—not to guide, but to worship—his fingers spanning the delicate arch of your ribs as if memorizing their curve. When you finally settled flush against him, fully joined, his exhale shook the candle flames.

"Breathe," you murmured, pressing a kiss to his furrowed brow.

He obeyed in ragged bursts, his chest rising and falling beneath your palms as you began to move. Not with urgency, but with the slow, rolling rhythm of tides drawn by the moon. Each lift of your hips drew a soft sound from his lips—not quite a moan, not quite a prayer—as he arched beneath you, his body strung tight with restraint.

You could feel the tension coiled in him, the way his muscles trembled when you changed angles, the desperate clench of his fingers against your skin when you took him particularly deep. Yet still he held back, his jaw clenched, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts.

"Let me see you," you whispered, tracing the line of his throat with your fingertips.

Dream's eyes flew open—dark and endless and full of stars. The sight stole your breath. Here was a being who had shaped nightmares and spun galaxies, now unraveling beneath your touch, his control hanging by the thinnest thread.

You slowed your movements, drawing a shattered groan from his lips. His hips jerked upward, seeking friction you deliberately denied.

"Please—" The word was raw, torn from somewhere deep inside him.

You kissed the plea from his lips, rocking against him in slow, torturous circles. "Not yet," you murmured against his mouth. "Stay with me."

His fingers tangled in your hair, his other hand sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise. You could feel the battle raging within him—the Endless struggling against the man, the king warring with the lover.

The room itself seemed to hold its breath as you drew out each movement, each touch, each whispered endearment. The candles burned low, their wax pooling in frozen waterfalls down the holders. The shadows stretched long across the walls, twisting in time to your joined rhythm.

Dream's restraint was beautiful in its desperation—every controlled breath, every stifled moan, every time his body arched toward yours only to force itself still again. His skin grew slick beneath your palms, his muscles taut as bowstrings as you brought him again and again to the edge, only to pull him back with whispered words and slow, rolling hips.

When his control finally began to fracture—when his breaths came in ragged gasps and his fingers trembled against your skin—you leaned down to brush your lips against his ear.

You felt the moment his control began to fracture—the way his breath turned ragged, his fingers digging into your hips with bruising intensity. His entire body trembled beneath you, his eyes black with desperate need.

And then you stilled.

Dream made a sound like a dying star, his hips jerking upward in helpless protest. His hands flew to your waist, gripping tight as if to move you himself—then stopped. His eyes met yours, wide and questioning.

"Not yet," you whispered, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead.

You rose from his lap slowly, feeling him slip from your body with a soft gasp from you both. Before he could protest, you pressed a finger to his lips and guided him onto his knees before you.

The sight of Dream of the Endless kneeling at your feet, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with devotion, sent a thrill through you. His hands settled on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles on your skin as he looked up at you through his lashes.

"Let me," he murmured, his voice rough as shattered marble.

His first touch was a whisper—lips softer than rose petals brushing the inside of your knee. You felt his breath, warm and uneven, against your skin as he placed open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, each one lingering longer than the last.

His nose traced idle patterns as he went, inhaling deeply as if committing your scent to memory.

"Dream-"

The plea died in your throat as his tongue flicked out to taste the delicate skin where thigh met hip.

A shudder ran through you, your fingers tightening in his hair. He hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight to your core as he continued his slow ascent.

When he finally reached your center, he paused-simply breathing you in, his warm exhalations making you tremble. His thumbs parted you gently, revealing glistening evidence of your arousal. The groan that escaped him was raw, unfiltered.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice rough as gravel. "All this for me?"

Before you could answer, his tongue swept through your folds in one long, languid stroke. Your back arched off the bed, a cry tearing from your lips as he repeated the motion, slower this time, savoring. His hands slid beneath you to grip your backside, tilting your hips to give him better access as he explored every inch of you with unhurried devotion.

His tongue circled your clit with agonizing precision-not quite touching where you needed most, just skating the edges until your thighs shook around his shoulders. When you whimpered, he pulled back just enough to blow cool air across your heated flesh, watching with dark satisfaction as you writhed beneath him.

"Patience," he chided softly, his breath ghosting over your damp skin.

Unfortunately, you were a hypocrite, you had none left.

His mouth returned with renewed purpose, his tongue flicking against your clit in quick, teasing strokes before settling into a slow, relentless rhythm. One of his hands left your hip to slide between your bodies, a single finger tracing your entrance before pushing inside with exquisite slowness.

The stretch burned sweetly, your inner muscles fluttering around him as he crooked his finger, finding that perfect spot inside you. His thumb brushed your clit in counterpoint to the thrusts of his finger, the dual sensations building a coil of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

Dream watched your face with rapt attention, adjusting his movements based on every hitch of your breath, every twitch of your muscles. When he added a second finger, stretching you further, his tongue replaced his thumb at your clit, laving slow circles that had your toes curling in the sheets.

"That's it," he murmured against your flesh, his lips glistening. "Let me feel you."

The coil inside you tightened unbearably, your hips rocking against his face as he worked you toward the edge with relentless precision. Just when you thought you might break, he pulled back-leaving you hovering on the precipice, desperate and trembling.

"Please," you sobbed, your fingers tugging at his hair.

His dark eyes met yours, gleaming with mischief and something deeper— something infinitely tender. "Not yet," he whispered, before descending again.

This time, there was no teasing. His tongue lashed your clit in firm, rapid strokes while his fingers pumped inside you, curling just so with each thrust. The pleasure built quickly, a tidal wave gathering force until-

You shattered with a cry, your back arching off the bed as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed through you.

Dream held you through it, his mouth gentling but not stopping until the last tremors had subsided and you lay boneless against the sheets.

When he finally pulled away, his lips were swollen, his chin glistening. He crawled up your body, pressing kisses to your trembling stomach, your heaving chest, the frantic pulse at your throat before finally claiming your mouth. You could taste yourself on his tongue-sweet and musky-as he settled between your thighs, his arousal pressing insistently against your still-sensitive flesh.

"Now," he breathed against your lips, his voice rough with need, "may I?"

"Yes."

Dream went very still above you, his body trembling with the effort of restraint. Moonlight caught in the tears clinging to his lashes, turning them to liquid as he searched your face. His hands, which had moments before moved with such confidence, now shook where they cradled your hips - the hands of a sculptor afraid to mar his masterpiece.

"Are you—" His voice cracked, the question dying unfinished as you arched beneath him in answer.

The first joining was a revelation.

He sank into you with the slow inevitability of night falling, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your throat. Every inch was a surrender, every fractional movement a confession. You could feel the moment he was fully seated - the way his entire body shuddered, the choked sound that escaped his lips as he buried his face in the curve of your neck.

"Look at me," you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair.

When he lifted his head, the raw anguish in his eyes stole your breath. This was no longer the King of Dreams, but simply a being laid bare - his grief, his longing, his desperate need for connection all written plainly across his face. A tear escaped, tracing a shining path down his cheek before falling to your collarbone like a fallen star.

You kissed it away, tasting salt and sorrow and something infinitely precious.

His first thrust was hesitant, almost apologetic. The second carried more weight, his hips rolling against yours with the first hint of his true need. By the third, a rhythm emerged - not the frantic pace of passion, but something deeper, more elemental. Each movement spoke the words he couldn't voice:

I have missed this.

I have missed being real.

I have missed being known.

His hands mapped your body with a reverence bordering on worship, tracing every curve and hollow as if committing you to memory. When his fingers found the scar on your ribs - that thin white line from another life - he paused, his thumb brushing over it with unbearable gentleness before bending to press his lips to the mark.

The gesture undid you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair as he moved above you, his pace gradually increasing as the years of restraint began to crumble. The sounds he made were unlike anything you'd heard from him before - broken, gasping things that spoke of pleasure edged with pain. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath coming in short, desperate bursts as he fought to maintain control.

"Let go," you murmured against his lips. "I have you."

The words shattered what little remained of his composure.

Dream's movements became erratic, his hips snapping against yours with increasing urgency. His hands found yours, fingers intertwining as he pinned them to the bed above your head. The position arched your back, bringing him impossibly deeper as he gasped your name like a prayer.

"Please—" The word was torn from him, raw and ragged. "I can't—"

You kissed him deeply, swallowing his broken words as you tightened around him. His entire body went rigid, his back arching like a bowstring as the first waves of release tore through him.

His climax was silent at first - a perfect, breathless suspension - before the dam broke. A sob wracked his frame as he spilled into you, his body convulsing with the force of his release. Tears streamed down his face unchecked, falling onto your cheeks like rain as he trembled above you.

You held him through it, whispering soft comforts against his skin as the storm passed. Gradually, his breathing slowed, his death-grip on your hands loosening as he collapsed against your chest. His weight was warm and solid atop you, his heartbeat gradually steadying where your bodies pressed together.

Outside the windows, the Dreaming's eternal night remained - but the stars burned brighter than they had in centuries, their light painting silver trails across the tangled sheets and the two figures curled together within them.

Dream's fingers traced idle patterns on your shoulder, his face still hidden in the curve of your neck. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with spent emotion.

"Stay."

Not a request.

A plea.

You turned your head to press a kiss to his temple, your arms tightening around him in answer.

The candles burned low.

The night stretched on.

The weight of him against you was a revelation—warm and solid and real. Dream lay sprawled across your chest, his breathing gradually slowing as you carded your fingers through his damp hair. The candles had burned to stubs, their dying light painting gold across the sweat-slick planes of his back.

You expected him to pull away—to retreat into his regal silence—but instead he turned his face into your throat, his lips brushing your pulse point with something like reverence.

"I killed him."

The words were so soft you might have imagined them. But the way his body tensed against yours told you otherwise. His fingers flexed against your hip, his next breath shuddering through him like a winter wind through barren trees.

You didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Orpheus."

A nod against your skin. His voice, when it came, was raw with centuries of grief. "I could have saved him. Should have. But I—" His fingers dug into your flesh, not in passion now, but in anguish. "I let him break upon the rocks of my pride."

The confession hung between you, heavy as a sword above a penitent's head. Outside, the stars seemed to dim in sympathy.

You waited. Let the silence stretch. Let him feel the weight of his words in the stillness.

Then—

You cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. The tears in his eyes were endless, black pools reflecting the flickering candlelight and all the sorrow of the world.

"You are not your sins," you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. "Nor are you only what you've lost."

His breath hitched. You pressed on.

"You are the hands that shaped the Library of Dreams, shaped the entire waking world. The voice that whispered comfort to lonely dreamers. The king who walks among his subjects rather than ruling from afar." A pause. "The man who wept in my arms tonight."

Dream shuddered beneath your touch, his eyes slipping shut as fresh tears escaped. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"What if it's not enough?"

You kissed his forehead, lingering there as you breathed him in—salt and myrrh and the faintest hint of stardust.

"Then tomorrow," you murmured against his skin, "we try again."

A beat of silence. Then—

His arms came around you with sudden fierceness, pulling you tight against him as if he feared you might vanish. His face buried itself in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your collarbone.

You held him just as tightly, your fingers tracing idle patterns between his shoulder blades as the last of the candles guttered out.

In the darkness, in the quiet, in the sacred space between heartbeats—

Dream of the Endless finally slept.

Fin.

#fanfic #fanfiction #the sandman #smut #emotional #hurt/comfort #angst #love #dream of the endless #lord morpheus #morpheus #x reader #reader insert #sandman

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kaz-identified · 6 months ago

Text

Titans do not understand the void. They make crude shield to let their enemies break themselves upon. They wield it, they do not feed it. They let their enemies do that for them.

Warlocks think that they do. They think that through all their study and their practice, they understand what it means to become one with absence.

But they do not deny themselves. They do not seek to tear free endless need and want from their bones, absence purely to truly understand it.

But they cannot truly understand it. To use, to study, is not to live within. It is not to give yourself to. It is not to feed. Not to deny yourself sleep and food and drink.

As long as the Titans stay behind their walls, and Warlocks remain in their libraries, they will never understand the Void.

But they could. One day. If they left.

If they left for the far edges, learn to deny themselves everything and become one with absence, drape themselves in the shadow and learn to let the crushing weight of gravity lighten their steps.

But they never will.

They will stomp and flounce about.

They will never stalk.

My kin do not understand the Void. Oh… but they could. If they would surrender their fear. Of it. Of me.

They burn and crackle, laughing and living lives of want, dressed in fire and storms.

None of them will deny themselves.

They still fear it.

I see it in their eyes. When I reach into emptiness, and hold together dusk and moonless nights and black between stars, when I pull together absence into my hands and draw it to a singularity.

They do not see the web.

They do not hear the whispers.

They come in here, thinking of the feasts and celebrations and rest.

I know no such trinkets.

I hunger. I wait. I remain awake.

I walk on the edge of midnight, that glorious endlessness before after dusk and just before dawn.

And I glimpse beyond.

Let them fear me.

Let them stay in their fires and storms. Let the Titans stay behind their walls and the Warlocks in their libraries.

I alone know the Void. Know the hunger and the absence, hear the whispers as I draw denial into arrow. Let them feast on Light I leave in my wake.

I alone prowl forward. I alone know the color of the shadows.

I alone stalk the night.

Let them fear me.

And let my enemies come.

#This is a night stalker appreciation post. And my official statement that no one else in the world fucking understands the void.#it’s absence. It’s nothing. It is the quintessential denial of everything.#it’s gravity and the nothing between stars #destiny #destiny the game #destiny 2 #destiny fanfic #Drabble #Nightstalker #Destiny Hunter

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kuncitizen · 1 month ago

Text

Molecular romance

One awkward smile, two 'study mates', and a love story that’s chemically inevitable.

Synopsis: You only stopped at his science fair booth out of pity—but the tall, nervous guy with crooked glasses and a galaxy model has other plans.

Satoru Gojo is brilliant, awkward, and talking a mile a minute about black holes like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. You weren’t looking for a tutor. Or a crush. But he’s got stars in his eyes—and maybe, now, so do you.

Pairing: Nerd!Gojo Satoru x reader

Genre: MDNI, College AU, Fluff, Slow-burn-ish, friends to lovers, attempt at humour

Warnings: Alcohol use, sexual innuendo, suggestive physical contact, eventual smut, nothing too heavy in this chapter but definitely not PG

Masterlist

-> next

Gojo Satoru isn’t the kind of boy people notice right away. He’s tall, sure. Stupidly tall. And he’s got that ridiculous snowy hair, that posture, those eyes like sapphire.

But he’s always just a little too apologetic in his own skin. Half-wincing at his own existence, quick to deflect praise with a joke or duck his head when someone gets too close.

With you, though, it’s different.

Has been ever since that science fair, where he sat behind his glowing solar system like the last puppy at a shelter, and you, despite yourself, stopped to say hi.

From that day on, things slipped into place with surprising ease.

Now he's the boy who always saves you a seat in lecture, even if you’re late. Who lets you steal fries off his plate.

What starts as a one-time study session becomes a rhythm. A quiet understanding. You find yourself at his desk more often than not, legs curled into the chair or sprawled out haphazardly, papers everywhere, caffeine staining the inside of your throat.

Gojo always sits across from you. Always.

He’s there through the good days and the ones where the formulas blur into white noise. When your pen stalls mid-sentence and your head falls into your hands in frustration, he’s already nudging a fresh sheet of paper your way patiently, a quiet anchor.

Sometimes, when you’re too deep in concentration to notice, his gaze lingers. He watches the way your foot bounces under the table, how your brow furrows just before you get the answer right. He notices the ink smudge on your wrist, the way your knees brush against his under the table and stay there just a little too long yet he doesn't dare move away.

And sometimes, when you look up too suddenly, you catch him watching.

Gojo's eyes go as wide as saucers. He turns back to his notebook swiftly, chin sinking into his palm as if that can hide the flush crawling up his neck.

On the nights it gets too late, when the page turns start slowing and your head begins to droop, you fall asleep right there—arms folded over your notes, cheek pressed to the desk.

You never wake up there.

Instead, it’s always the same: the warmth of a mattress under your back, the softness of his blanket tucked up to your chin. The scent of his laundry detergent clinging to the fabric. Dim light bleeding through closed curtains.

And just across the room is Gojo. Curled into himself on the small couch, half-covered by a jacket he clearly pulled over in a rush, snoring softly.

You never mention it. He doesn't either.

But the space between you keeps closing, inch by inch.

He’s the smartest person you know, and somehow still the one who burns popcorn in the microwave and forgets to charge his phone for days. He’s awkward, anxious, and talks too fast when he’s excited, like his brain’s ten steps ahead of his mouth.

But he’s always there.

Which is why, tonight, when you show up at his door with a crate of cheap beer and the exhausted gleam of midterms in your eyes, he doesn’t ask questions.

He just lets you in.

You drop down onto the mattress with a dramatic groan, like gravity itself has declared war on your soul. Limbs sprawled, phone already in hand, your head sinking into the pillow with the kind of defeated energy only student debt can conjure.

“Midterms nearly had me on life support. I feel so liberated right now.”

Gojo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, frowning down at the crate like it might bite him.

He nudges it with his foot. “I don’t really drink.”

You blink up at him, already half-melted into the sheets, and your lips twist into a pout—equal parts bratty and pleading. “Why not?”

His answer comes too fast. Like he’s been preparing for this exact moment since freshman orientation.

“It slows down neural processing, reduces inhibitory control and impacts memory consolidation. I’d like to remember tonight, thank you very much.”

You stare at him.

“Satoru.”

He glances up, swallowing hard like he knows what’s coming but still can’t brace for impact. “Yeah?”

Your pout intensifies. Eyes wide, lower lip pushed out just so in theatrical glory. “Pleeease?”

He stares. You bat your lashes innocently.

He squints. You bat your lashes harder.

There's a beat of silence before Gojo caves with a sigh so profound it sounds like it’s been aging in an oak barrel. He grabs a can, muttering under his breath abouy how unfair this is.

“Your Jedi mind tricks are unethical.”

The can hisses as it cracks open. You grin, satisfied by the outcome of your emotional manipulation.

You take a long sip from your own beer, the fizz tickling your throat, then flop fully onto your back.

The bed creaks beneath you—his bed, technically, though it’s felt like shared territory for a while now. It still smells like his laundry detergent, something citrusy and expensive, undercut with the faint scent of old textbooks.

Gojo hovers on the edge of the mattress, like sitting too close to you might electrocute him. He takes small, cautious sips, barely tasting it.

His eyes, however, are not so disciplined.

They keep flicking over—quick glances at your legs, the bare skin of your thighs, the way your shorts have ridden up as you stretch across the sheets like you own the place. The glow of your phone reflects off your cheekbones, painting you in soft blue light, and something in his chest does a little somersault.

His teeth sink into his bottom lip, like he’s trying to physically bite down on the thoughts rushing through his head. Thoughts that have absolutely nothing to do with astrophysics or memory consolidation.

Then you giggle.

His gaze snaps up in pure panic. Shit. Did you notice him gawking? Was he being obvious?

You laugh again, thumb tapping the screen, totally engrossed in whatever has you so amused. Followed by another smile. Another quiet snort.

It’s like background music he doesn’t recognize but suddenly hates.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, tone casual and a little too stiff.

You don’t even look up from your screen, “Tinder.”

Gojo's entire spine straightens.

“Tinder?”

“Mmhmm.” You keep swiping, flipping between profiles with a lazy flick of your thumb. “Why is everyone’s idea of sexy just... standing shirtless in a badly lit bathroom?”

“Oh,” he says flatly, staring at the condensation sliding down his can. "I see."

Just that.

Silence follows, heavy and stretched.

Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. The can’s cold against his palm, but it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment as your finger pauses on a profile for too long. Too thoughtfully.

You peek up, noticing the weird stillness.

“Hey,” you say, tilting your head. “You okay?”

"What? Uh—" he jolts upright, straightening like someone just called on him in class. “No, I’m good. Very good, actually.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. His knuckles are white where they grip the can, and his eyes haven’t quite made it back to yours.

You hum non-committally, not buying it for a second.

Gojo takes another swig rapidly, wincing at the taste. He wipes the rim with his thumb like he needs something to focus on. Something that’s not you and the casual way you’re flipping through potential hookups like it’s just another Tuesday on his bed. While he's right there.

Just then, an idea sparks in your head.

You roll onto your side, elbow digging into the mattress as you grin. “Do you have Tinder?”

His eyes nearly bug out of his skull.

“I—uh—Tinder?” he repeats, voice cracking slightly. “No. Why would I—No. Definitely not.”

You narrow your eyes at him, unconvinced. “That was a lot of hesitation for a no.”

“I just—” he flounders, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting the question. I don’t really do dating apps. Or dating. Or… people.”

You shrug. “You do me.”

The words hang in the air for half a second too long.

Gojo's mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again, like maybe he can reboot himself if he blinks hard enough.

Your own brain finally catches up with your mouth.

“I mean, not do me—like—not like that—I meant friends. You’re friends with me.” You groan, dragging a pillow over your face like you can smother the sentence out of existence. “God. Forget I said anything.”

You sigh as you peek up slightly from behind his pillow.

He’s not wheezing or doubled over. He’s just sitting there, glasses slightly askew, trying very hard not to laugh. His hand’s covering his mouth, but his ears are going pink.

The way he’s looking at you now—quiet, a little dazzled, still fighting back a full smile—makes something in your chest kick up just slightly.

But even as you hide your embarrassment, he’s sitting there, cheeks flushed, mind spiraling, because—

Yeah. He does you.

In his head. Way too often, and in too many ways.

When you're lying here like this. When your voice dips low and teasing. When you glance at him with something that feels almost too soft to be platonic.

You shove the embarrassment aside and raise your can in front of your face like a shield.

He finally calms down, barely, chuckles trailing off as he shifts his position on the mattress.

“Well,” you say, pushing up on your elbows with new purpose, “guess what?”

Gojo eyes you wearily. “That tone never means any good.”

“You’re about to get one.”

“One what?”

You reach for his phone on the nightstand with zero hesitation. “A Tinder account.”

His entire soul exits the premises. “Wait—what? No. No, no, I don’t need that—”

“You heard me,” your fingers are already flying on the screen. “It’s time.”

He scrambles forward like you just picked up nuclear launch codes. “Hey—hold on, I’m not—You’re not actually serious—”

The screen unlocks instantly.

Of course it does. Your fingerprint’s saved. Has been for months. The kind of trust that feels so loud and yet, here you are, setting up some Tinder date for him.

“Okay, what’s your type?” you ask, downloading the app.

“I—what—how would I know?”

“Well, who do you swipe on in your head? Goths? Muscle mommies? Librarians with a secret dirty side?”

He sputters, face slowly turning the same shade as the beer can in his hand. “Can we not do this?”

“Too late,” you say, half-distracted as you scroll. “First name, Satoru. Age… I’ll let you lie. Height?”

“Six-three.”

You arch a brow, impressed. “Really?”

He scowls. “You want me to open my medical records?”

You chuckle and keep typing. “Alright, big guy. Next: 'What are you looking for on Tinder?' ”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Salvation.”

“Not an option.”

“World peace?”

You glance up. “Seriously?”

He drags a hand down his face, voice muffled. “I dunno… companionship?”

“That's enough. I’m writing 'open to something meaningful, but down for freaky time.’”

“You're very weird.”

“Now, pictures.” Your knees bump under the sheets as you shift closer, elbows brushing while you adjust the brightness on his phone.

“God.”

“Relax. I’m not using that cursed one of you french-kissing a fish.”

“There’s a photo of me french-kissing a fish?”

“You sent it to me, you maniac.”

He groans and falls back against the mattress, arm slung dramatically over his eyes.

“This is a nightmare.”

But he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t take his phone back.

Because maybe, deep down—beneath the jokes and the beer and the painfully exposed truth—a small part of him hopes it’ll work. Maybe it’ll help. Maybe some stranger with a nice smile will finally make the incessant thoughts of you in his mind go away.

You’re scrolling through his photo gallery with ruthless determination, knees brushing his thigh as you flip past thumbnail after thumbnail like you’re judging entries for a very geeky photography contest.

“Okay,” you mutter, eyes narrowing. “Let’s find you something non-humiliating—oh, this one’s just… clouds? Wait, is that lichen? Are you seriously out here photographing moss?”

Gojo doesn’t answer.

He’s stiff behind you, frozen like he’s watching someone disarm a nuclear bomb. Because he knows what’s coming. Knows exactly what the next folder might hold.

“Oh. Is this me?”

You tilt your head, thumb hovering over a grid of candid shots.

Your face in full detail, frozen mid-laugh in one, asleep at his desk in another. One photo captures you ranting at a textbook, hands in the air like you’re about to square up with it. Some are zoomed in. Some are taken from across the room.

His ears go red. Bright, angry cherry red.

Before the full meaning settles in, he lunges towards you.

“Okay—alright—that’s enough, give me that—!” His hand flails toward the phone in your grip, panic rising.

You jerk it back with a gasp, half-laughing, half-screeching. “Satoru!”

“We are not doing this,” he says in a rush, voice cracking like an over-wound violin. “Hand it over. Please, I beg you—”

You clutch the phone to your chest dramatically, feigning scandal. “So, you just casually have an entire album of me on your phone?”

His hands fly to his face,as he practically crumples in on himself like a collapsing star.

“I didn’t—it’s not an album, it’s just—okay, it’s a folder, but it’s not weird!” he sputters from behind his fingers. “It’s just—memories and.... nostalgia.”

You let out a soft laugh and toss the phone toward the bed, letting it bounce harmlessly onto the sheets. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just take a picture for your profile.”

He peeks through his fingers, squinting at you like a kitten after getting caught in the trash. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad? Satoru, I should charge you royalties.”

That gets a choked laugh out of him.

And still, you’re smiling. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world for your best friend to have a secret camera roll of your face. Like this is fine.

Like you’re still choosing to sit next to him, shoulder brushing his arm like none of this has made anything weird.

“Come on,” you say, shifting closer. “Let’s make you look irresistible.”

He exhales. Yeah, sure.

Like that was ever the problem.

Gojo's already given up on dignity. His hair sticks out at odd angles, his hoodie is bunched up slightly to reveal a sliver of pale skin above his waistband, and his face wears the expression of a man preparing for social execution.

You sit back and squint at him critically, arms crossed, head tilted. “You look too much like a dork.”

He lifts his head an inch. “Wow. That’s incredibly helpful and uplifting.”

“Aw, it’s fine. You’re cute.”

You continue breezily, already plotting. “But we need right-swipe cute. You wanna look like you might mansplain physics and then make someone cum in under ten minutes.”

He just stares. “…What the heck does that even mean?”

“It means you need range, Satoru!” You leap off the bed, hands flailing like an overzealous theater director. “You need to look like someone’s weird little crush.”

You yank his closet open. The door creaks, hangers scraping against each other as you rifle through it.

“Do you even own anything that doesn’t scream extra credit ?”

He calls weakly from the bed, “I have a black turtleneck somewhere. I wore it once, for my thesis presentation.”

You sigh. “Tragic. We’ll work with what we’ve got.”

Moments later, you emerge triumphant with a handful of options—an unreasonably crisp button-down, a soft black tee that looks criminally flattering, and something silky you definitely don’t remember him owning.

“Try these,” you announce, dumping them onto the bed like a fashion connoisseur.

He eyes the pile like it’s radioactive. “You want me to change… into thirst trap attire?”

“Correct.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Fine," You huff, hands on your hips. "I guess I’ll just have to make you.”

His eyes widen. “Wait, what does that—”

You pounce with tipsy audacity before he can finish. He yelps as you tackle him backwards onto the mattress, the bed groaning under the sudden weight. His beer can tips off the edge with a dull thunk, but neither of you notice.

You land on top of him with a soft thud, hands braced against his chest, your knees digging into the bed on either side of his hips. His hands fly instinctively to your waist, fingers splaying like he’s trying to steady both of you, or maybe just himself.

And suddenly, everything goes quiet.

You can hear the faint hum of the light overhead. The slow, shaky inhale he takes. The way his thumbs press in ever so slightly.

Gojo's gaze flickers from your mouth to your eyes and back again.

You exhale, the sound catching slightly.

He swallows, hard. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t—just—are you okay?”

Your lips twitch. “You’re the one under attack, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

“I—well, yeah,” he breathes, voice thinner now. “You’re on top of me. Kinda hard not to worry.”

You tilt your head. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” His throat bobs, fingers flexing against your hips. “Not even a little.”

You lean in, only slightly, enough to make his breath stutter. “You’re really bad at this, you know.”

He gives a short, stunned laugh. “Not exactly my field of expertise.”

You smile softly. “Guess you're lucky you’ve got me, then.”

Click.

Gojo flinches as the shutter goes off. Light bounces off his glasses, eyes blown wide.

“That angle was godly. You’re welcome.”

His jaw drops. “You cannot—there is no way—you’re not posting that, are you?”

“Absolutely,” you say, holding up the phone proudly. “The world deserves to see this.”

He slaps both hands over his face, muffling a noise that might be despair, might be laughter, might be a scream into the void. “I trusted you.”

You smirk and climb off him, far too pleased with yourself. “You’ll thank me when you’re drowning in matches.”

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#satoru gojo x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo #gojo smut #gojo satoru x y/n #jjk x you #jjk fluff #gojo fluff #nerdjo x reader #nerdjo

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filmsbyun · 5 months ago

Text

Muted Desires || Choi Beomgyu

A Gryffindor who radiated light and laughter, yet craved the solace of quiet moments. A Slytherin who wore a mask of unshakable composure, concealing a heart warmer than anyone could guess.

Your friendship had always teetered on the edge of something more—a connection that felt too fragile to name.

But when a trip pulled you closer than ever, the boundaries began to blur. When Beomgyu stumbled into your orbit one night, bruised and battered, the distance you've maintained dangerously faltered.

As you tended to his wounds in the hushed intimacy of your hotel room, in that quiet, fleeting moment, the months of yearning and longing began to unravel, threatening to upend everything you’ve had carefully built.

⊹₊⟡⋆ 24.4k

pairing: gryffindor! Choi Beomgyu x slytherin! afab! reader

warnings: hogwarts college/uni au, characters are 20+, og character, slight slowburn, sort of modern setting? they use phones, not your typical gryffindor-slytherin toxic relation, mention of other idols, amortentia, yearning and lots of yearning, tensions, drinking games, drinking, depictions of injury, physical fighting, wound care, probably missed some eh

[MDNI] smut warning: explicit sexual content, dry humping, fingering, kinda switch!reader, beomgyu is mostly dom!, multiple orgasms, slight pain kink, making out with a split lip, slow sex, a lot of feelings, protected sex (huzzah!)

I'm aware it's not the 13th anymore, but that's alright. Happy birthday to my aubade Choi Beomgyu. Reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!

You were afraid of many things, but nothing frightened you more than how little you knew about him, yet the gentle smile he’d give you always managed to shake you off your orbit.

It wasn’t the bright, boisterous grin he wore like the stars when surrounded by others, no—it was rather a quiet, small downward curve of his lips—a smile that only ever seemed to find its way to you. As if it carried a secret, a silent gravity pulling you closer despite the careful distance you maintained. It was something muted, something that felt like both a promise and a question, drifting between you like a thread waiting to be pulled.

The more you tried to look away, the more you found yourself drawn in. It was a dangerous feeling—the kind that settled beneath your ribs and grew roots before you even noticed. You should have known better. But when he looked at you like that, like he saw something in you worth knowing, worth staying for, your resolve wavered.

Your path with Beomgyu would have never intertwined if not for the entanglement of mutual friends. It was through them that you learned his name wasn’t just a name, that his reputation wasn’t just a reputation. It was through them that you found yourself in a space where his presence became an inevitability, where the quiet corners you once occupied alone were now shared.

Ever since Kai had stumbled upon the Room of Requirement, it had become your group’s refuge—a place that bent itself to your needs, where walls shaped themselves around whispered conversations and laughter softened by candlelight. You liked the quiet comfort of it, the way it allowed you to exist among others without being swept away. And yet, no matter how much you tried to stay on the fringes, Beomgyu was always there, impossible to ignore.

He was the kind of person who filled a room without trying. The kind whose presence was a gravitational force, pulling people in, setting them alight. His laughter rang out like the chime of a bell, his energy infectious. Charming. And yet, despite all of it, he never overwhelmed you. He never demanded your attention. He never reached for you. But somehow, he already had you in his orbit.

You weren’t sure when you started watching him the way you did. When admiration turned to curiosity, when curiosity turned to something far more treacherous. But once you noticed the cracks in his brilliance, the moments where exhaustion tugged at the edges of his expression, where laughter faltered just a second too soon—you couldn’t stop noticing.

The way his shoulders drooped ever so slightly after a long day, as if the weight of his own shine was something he carried alone. The way his fingers found the hem of his sleeve when praise was given too freely, pressing into the fabric like a tether. The way his gaze sometimes drifted, unfocused, as if he were somewhere else entirely, somewhere only he knew how to reach.

These were the things no one else seemed to see. But you did. And that, more than anything, terrified you.

Across the room, Beomgyu laughed, leaning back in his chair in that uncurbed way he always did, balancing it on its hind legs like gravity meant nothing to him. The others hung onto his every word, drawn into whatever story he was weaving, their delight feeding off his light. And you—you sat with an open book in your lap, the words forgotten, your gaze betraying you each time it sought him out.

Then, as if sensing it, Beomgyu looked up. The world didn’t stop, not really. But for a breath, it felt like it did. His grin softened, just enough that it wasn’t for them, but for you.

And then it was gone. He turned back to his audience, spinning another tale, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

Despite everything, to you, Beomgyu remained just out of reach. He was there, always there, and yet—not quite. Like something ephemeral, like light breaking through water—close enough to touch, but never enough to hold.

Later that night, long after the room had emptied, you found him before the fireplace, his usual exuberance dimmed to something quieter, softer. He sat cross-legged on the rug, a pencil in hand, sketching into a worn notebook balanced against his knee. The firelight painted golden warmth onto his face, casting shadows beneath his lashes, softening his features.

You had seen him in a hundred different ways, but this—this was new. This was a Beomgyu stripped of performance, lost in a world of his own making. You wondered—if you reached for him, if you spoke his name now, would he finally let you in?

You hesitated by the doorway, caught between the pull of curiosity and the instinct to retreat. He hadn’t noticed you yet, absorbed in whatever he was sketching—it made you feel like you were intruding on something intimate, something not meant to be seen.

“Are you coming?” Yeonjun’s voice broke the stillness. He stood a few steps down the hall, arms crossed, watching you with mild curiosity.

You turned to him, and plainly said, "Go ahead. I forgot something inside."

Yeonjun’s gaze flickered toward the room, then back to you. He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press either. “Alright. Don’t take too long,” he said before turning away, his footsteps fading into the corridor’s hush.

The silence settled again, broken only by the faint scratch of pencil against paper. You dallied a moment longer, watching the way his hand moved fluidly over the page. You found yourself losing into the abyss of mesmerization.

“I thought you were going to stand there all night.”

His voice cut through the quiet, as if gently holding your hands and pulling you back on your feet from falling off. Heat rushed to your ears, but you kept your composure, stepping inside as if his words hadn’t fazed you. "Shouldn’t you rest?" you asked softly, shutting the door behind you. "We have Potions in the morning."

He huffed a quiet laugh, far from the bright, unrestrained laughter he shared with others. “Needed some space,” he admitted. “Gets tiring being everyone’s entertainment.”

That was the first time you had ever heard him say something like that—openly acknowledging the burden behind the persona he carried so well for everyone. He glanced up at you then, and for the second time that night, his expression softened in a way that wasn’t meant for anyone else.

You hesitated before settling into the armchair nearest to him. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not stealing the spotlight.”

“Disappointed?” he teased, but there was no sharpness in it.

“No,” you said, more earnestly than you meant to. “It’s... different.”

He considered that, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the page. The moment stretched, and something about his silence made you self-conscious, so you added, a little softer, “A good different.”

His lips curved slightly. "You think so?"

You nodded, fingers curling over the armrest. “It suits you. This side of you.”

Beomgyu’s smile turned faintly self-conscious. His gaze dropped, as if he wasn’t used to hearing that. “Most people wouldn’t agree,” he murmured. “They’d probably think something was wrong if I wasn’t bouncing off the walls.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching the way his hand fidgeted with the edge of the notebook. “Then they don’t really know you, do they?”

The words had left you before you could think twice, and for a moment, you regretted it—because how well did you know him, really? Yet, across from you, Beomgyu stilled. His fingers no longer toyed with the page. He seemed caught off guard, as if you had touched on something he hadn’t meant to share.

“I suppose you could say that,” he murmured, almost to himself.

The fire crackled softly between you. You felt an unexpected warmth—not from the hearth, but from the softness of his gaze. Your throat felt dry.

“What are you working on?” you asked, breaking the silence before it could stretch too long.

He blinked, like you had pulled him from some far-off thought, and then he held up the notebook. The sketch was rough but intricate—a cluster of flowers, their petals curling at the edges, almost lifelike in their detail.

“You’re an artist?” you asked, surprised.

“Not really,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just draw sometimes. It’s nothing special.”

You leaned in slightly, studying the page. The flowers looked as if they could be plucked straight from the parchment. “It’s good,” you said. “More than good. Why do you downplay it?”

He let out a breath, closing the notebook with a quiet thud. “Habit, I guess. It’s easier to pretend it doesn’t matter than to let someone see that it does.” His voice was levelled, like he was testing the words.

You studied him, again realizing how little you actually knew about him—how much of Beomgyu was wrapped in layers you’d only seen hints of. The loud, playful version of him you’d become so used to was just that—a version. Here, in the firelight, he felt like something else entirely. The Beomgyu who carried more than he let on. The one who, despite his light, had shadows of his own.

He reminded you of an aubade. The thought came unexpectedly, lingering in your mind like the echo of a half-remembered song. Beomgyu thrived in the daylight, filling every space with his presence. But now, in this quiet, he was something softer. A melody that didn’t demand to be heard but stayed with you all the same.

You didn’t realize you’d been staring until he tilted his head slightly. "What?"

You hesitated, the words caught on the tip of your tongue. But something about the way he looked at you—unguarded, open in a way you rarely saw—made you brave enough to speak. "You remind me of an aubade."

His brows knitted together. "An aubade?"

“It’s a poem or song for the morning," you explained. "Not just loud or bright—it can be quiet too. Steady. Beautiful in a different way."

Beomgyu’s expression shifted, the confusion giving way to something else. You braced for teasing, for a dismissive remark, but it never came. Instead, he looked at you like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with your words.

"You think I’m like that?" he asked, voice softer than before.

You nodded, your fingers tracing the seam of your sleeve in idle thought. "When you’re like this, yeah."

A quiet breath of laughter escaped him, small and surprised. He glanced away, thumb idly running along the edge of his notebook. "No one’s ever said anything like that to me before."

“It’s how I see you,” you said simply, surprised at how easily the words came. You turned toward the fire, suddenly aware of its crackling embers—but when you looked back, your breath caught. His gaze was on you, intense and intrigued, and for a moment, you wondered if he was studying you to understand what was beneath your facade, just the way you’ve been trying to understand him.

“You aren’t like what they say about you,” he said quietly, leaning back slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “You have a warm heart.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, shaking your head. You knew what he meant. Your reputation had long preceded you, tangled in the legacy of your house. A Slytherin, one of the best in centuries, they said. Ruthless in duels, a prodigy in Defense Against the Dark Arts. People admired you, envied you, feared you. They spoke of you with awe or with caution, rarely anything in between. You had grown used to it—the wary glances, the hushed whispers, the way admiration and fear blurred so easily in their eyes. You became someone to either idolize or keep their distance from.

Even among those who considered themselves allies, there was always a distance. A line no one dared to cross. And though you had long learned to live with it, a part of you had always wondered—hoped, even—that someone might see past it. That someone might look at you and not just see the expectations, the legacy, the carefully maintained facade.

Maybe that was why Beomgyu’s words settled so deeply. Why, in that moment, you realized something you hadn’t before.

Perhaps you and Beomgyu were not so different after all.

The fire crackled softly. Beomgyu rested his chin on his hand, watching you with newfound curiosity. "An aubade," he repeated, testing the word. "I kind of like that."

His gaze lingered for another moment, and you swore the space between you shrank. But then he leaned back, breaking the moment with a quiet chuckle, his smile still carrying that touch of sincerity.

"I’ll have to remember that one."

When you returned to the Slytherin common room, Yeonjun’s waiting figure greeted you from the leather sofa. He pinned you with a blank stare as you passed, but you felt no need to share what had happened with Beomgyu. Some moments weren’t meant to be spoken aloud—they were meant to be kept. They were meant to be held close in your heart.

That night, you dreamt of gentle smiles and the hush of dawn’s song.

The library was unusually peaceful today—no hushed giggles from gossiping students, no rustling of hurriedly flipped pages. You took the opportunity of such a phenomenon's mercy and indulge yourself in reviewing your upcoming final’s notes. Though Transfiguration was a subject you didn’t quite dislike, it was still one of the hardest ones for you, hard enough to make you lose sleep over it trying to get everything perfect.

Then, as if summoned by some cosmic force designed to disrupt your calm, a figure slid into the chair across from you, the deafening screeching of chair legs against the floor entirely unapologetic.

“Guess where they’re taking us for the vacation trip?” Yeonjun’s voice cut through the silence like a blade wrapped in silk, brimming with barely restrained excitement. His smirk was all mischief, eyes glowing under the dim light. “To Paris!”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. You hadn’t even heard the professors announce anything yet. Which meant only one thing.

“How do you know that?” You narrowed your eyes at him, though you knew the answer.

Yeonjun tapped a finger to his temple, his grin widening. “I have my ways.”

Of course, he did. Slytherins always did.

With a sigh, you shut your book, methodically packing your things. “That’s nice,” you murmured, slinging your bag over your shoulder as the two of you slipped into the corridor. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”

Yeonjun let out a dreamy sigh, stretching his arms behind his head as you walked. “Ah, the city of love. Romance in the air, the Seine shimmering under moonlight… you, me, a rendezvous at a charming little café.” Then, after a beat, the corners of his lips tugged up revealing his canines into a sly smile, he drawled, “And maybe you’ll finally find love there.”

You didn’t even glance at him. “I’m actually looking forward to finding some good chocolate croissants.”

Yeonjun snorted. He had a way of reading people, of slipping between their defenses with the ease of a snake in creeping waves. He never pried—he teased, but only when he knew you could handle it. And when he sensed something deeper, he didn’t push. He just gave you space to reveal what you wanted, when you wanted.

The corridor stretched ahead, bathed in golden afternoon light that streamed through the high-arched windows. Outside, past the courtyard, the Great Lake glimmered. Amidst the scattering of students, Beomgyu stood by the Great Lake with a few Gryffindors, chortling at something one of them said. They gathered around him, drawn to him, the way leaves surrendered to the wind.

“Sup, buddy!” Yeonjun called, raising a hand in greeting.

Beomgyu glanced up. His hand lifted in greeting, but the moment his gaze found yours a new, slow smile graced his lips. You had expected it by now—watching the way the mirth in his expression dimming into something more private.

You returned the wave, your own lips curving faintly, the warmth in your chest unfurling before you could push it away.

Yeonjun made a low noise beside you, a hum that bordered on amusement. “That guy will be with us on the trip,” he mused, his tone light, but his gaze sharp. “It’s going to be a lot livelier.”

You turned back to Beomgyu, watching the way he had already slipped back into conversation, laughing so brightly that drew his eyes in crescents. You took note of the contrast between that and when he wears the rare quietness around him like a comforting veil, when his eyes quietly shine like the full moon; and everyone knew that crescents could never rival the marvellous beauty of the full moon.

It wasn’t hard to imagine how Paris would be for him—always surrounded, always with someone calling his name. You wondered if he’d have a moment to himself at all.

As you stepped into your next class, that thought lingered. You found yourself hoping that, somehow, in the midst of all the noise, he’d get the chance to enjoy the trip in his own way.

A week before the trip.

Most of your exams were done, with only two remaining—Transfiguration among them. The mere thought of the library now, packed wall to wall with frantic students, made you cringe. The idea of fighting for a quiet corner, the hushed but ceaseless whispers fraying your patience, was enough to send you elsewhere. So instead, you chose the Room of Requirement, as you often did when solitude was a necessity.

Tonight, the room had shaped itself to your liking—a warm fireplace crackling softly, its amber glow licking at the dark wooden walls. Two comfortable couches sat near the hearth, but you preferred the floor, parchment and ink scattered around you in careful disarray. The lighting was warm and unobtrusive. Just the way you like it.

You had just settled into a focused rhythm, quill scratching against parchment, when the door creaked open. Your eyes flickered toward the entrance—a little too quickly—and you froze in place.

Beomgyu stepped inside, dark hair still damp, strands clinging to his forehead in careless disarray. He took in the room before his gaze landed on you, and that damn gentle smile surfaced. You blinked, raising a brow at his sudden unannounced appearance. You didn’t hate it, though.

“Yeonjun told me I’d find you here,” he said, voice laced with something almost sheepish. “I need help with Transfiguration.”

Ah. That explained it.

You made a mental note to have a word with Yeonjun. His tendency to play messenger was starting to feel suspiciously intentional.

Still, before you could voice a response, your gaze betrayed you, drawn to the damp mess of Beomgyu’s hair—dark, soft, tousled in a way that shouldn’t be worth noticing. And yet, you couldn’t look away, caught in the way the dim firelight accentuated every stray lock, made them seem almost soft, and an overwhelming urge to run your fingers through them engulfed your mind.

Did he just come back from Quidditch?

"I did." His voice broke through your reverie, as he answered your unspoken question without a second thought.

Your stomach twisted in brief confusion. How did he—

Then you realized. You had said it aloud.

Mortification crept in, a slow, creeping heat crawling up your neck. You busied yourself with your parchment, adjusting the edges as if they needed perfecting. Anything to regain the upper hand. Anything to make it seem as though your thoughts hadn’t strayed.

Beomgyu dropped to the floor beside you with a quiet groan, stretching his arms overhead before flipping open his textbook. You wondered where he got such energy from to study right after his grueling quidditch practices. You yourself would have to take at least half a day break after slytherin’s quidditch practices before you gained back the motivation and will to even get up from your bed.

"What can I help you with?" you asked, finding your voice again as you focused on your notes. The thought of helping him with Transfiguration wasn't so bad, you told yourself. There was no reason to turn him away—he was a friend, and if he needed your help, then so be it.

"Professor says my conjuration spells are correct, but my wand movements are off. It’s frustrating. I know the theory—I just can’t seem to execute it properly." He admitted, rubbing his temple.

You glanced at him. "Show me."

He raised a brow but obeyed, adjusting his grip on his wand. With a precise flick, he muttered the incantation under his breath. A flicker of magic pulsed in the air, but the form wavered, incomplete.

You caught the flaw immediately.

Shifting onto your knees, you moved toward him, your hand brushing over his wrist to adjust his stance. He stilled under your touch.

"Your wrist is too stiff," you murmured, guiding his hand into a looser hold. "You need to let the magic flow, not force it. Try again."

His gaze flickered to you—close enough that you could see the way his lashes fanned over his cheeks, the way his lips parted slightly, as if about to say something. But he only nodded.

He cast again, this time smoother, the flick of his wrist was more fluid. A bright shimmer sparked at the tip of his wand, and within seconds, a parrot materialized—vibrant green feathers ruffling as it stretched its wings before promptly flapping up and perching itself atop your head.

Beomgyu choked on a laugh, biting down on his bottom lip.

Unamused, you sent him a flat look.

"Real mature," you deadpanned, though the corners of your lips threatened to twitch.

"Sorry, sorry," he wheezed, not looking sorry at all. "Guess he likes you."

With a resigned sigh, you raised your wand, smoothly transfiguring the parrot into a sleek black hat, which dropped into your waiting hands. Then, with another flick, it morphed into a mirror, its polished surface reflecting Beomgyu’s grinning face. Finally, you uttered ‘Evanesco’, Latin for ‘disappear’, countering the conjuration spell perfectly with vanishment.

He let out a low whistle. "That was impressive."

You gave a small smile, gathering the scattered parchments. "You’re getting there. Your movements are still a little stiff, but if you keep practicing, you’ll be fine."

You were beginning to relish in the moments you shared with him, and the thought both startled and thrilled you. If you told yourself this a year ago, you'd have refused to believe it. You’d never have guessed that you’d find yourself drawn to him like this, looking forward to every small, fleeting moment spent in his presence. But now… now, you couldn’t quite explain it. The idea almost seemed unfathomable. You wanted this. It had become a guilty pleasure to feel the warmth spreading in your chest whenever you were alone with him.

Sorting through your parchments, you quickly gathered the notes Beomgyu would need. It only took a few minutes to explain the key points he needed to focus on, pointing to the sections in your notes. As you spoke, his eyes remained focused on you, nodding occasionally, though his attention seemed distant, as if his mind was elsewhere.

Once you finished, you returned to your place on the floor, skimming through your notes one last time. You stretched, arms lifting above your head, trying to shake off the tiredness creeping in from hours of studying prior to his appearance.

It had been a little over half an hour, but as your gaze shifted toward Beomgyu, you couldn’t help but notice something was off.

He was slouched against the couch, legs crossed beneath him, eyes half-lidded and glazed over. He blinked slowly, as if trying to fight the heaviness pulling at his eyelids, a soft sigh escaping his lips. His posture was slumped, shoulders weighed down with exhaustion. He’d just come back from practice, after all. His body was likely sore, muscles still humming from the strain of the game. No wonder he hadn’t made much headway on his notes.

His head lolled back against the couch, gaze fixed on the ceiling before his eyes slipped shut. You observed him for a moment—the subtle tremble of his lips as he exhaled, the exhaustion etched into his features. It was rare, seeing him like this.

With a quiet sigh of your own, you realized the inevitable: Beomgyu wasn’t going to get any studying done in this state.

Without a word, you stood and moved toward him, crouching beside his scattered papers. He didn’t notice you at first, lost in the pull of his own fatigue.

It was only when you began to gather his notes that his eyes fluttered open, his expression softening in surprise. You said nothing, just continued tidying up his things because—well, you simply could.

“I didn’t mean to doze off,” he muttered, his voice rough from exhaustion.

Your fingers paused over the parchment, but your expression remained steady. “Let’s take a break.” Your voice was quieter than usual. “Do you read books?”

Beomgyu blinked at you, caught off guard. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it again, as if uncertain how to respond to something so simple.

You didn’t wait for an answer. Reaching for the storybook you always carried, you settled beside him, mirroring his crisscrossed position. The proximity sent a subtle flutter through your chest, but you pushed it aside as you opened the book and held it between you both.

Beomgyu leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing to read the page. The boldness of your actions surprised you—how naturally you had done this, without hesitation. But when his gaze flickered with interest, a spark of curiosity lighting his tired features, you realized it didn’t really matter.

Moments later, the story had you both engrossed, the silence settling around you like a comforting blanket. You hadn’t noticed the change at first, but the now-dried strands of his hair brushed lightly against the side of your left cheek. He had his legs stretched out in front of him, while you remained crisscrossed, and that difference in position somehow brought you even closer together.

He was close enough now that you could catch a faint trace of his scent. Even though the sweat from practice had long since dried, his cologne mixed with the residual warmth of his skin, and the combination was... distracting. Not unpleasant, just overwhelmingly intimate.

For a moment, you became acutely aware of how close he was—too close. You hesitated to even breathe, afraid that the smallest movement might draw attention to the space—now barely there—between you. You turned your head slightly, curiosity winning over restraint, and—gosh, he was beautiful.

Lashes fluttering with every slow blink, casting delicate shadows over his cheekbones. The curve of his nose, the soft part of his lips, the quiet, almost dreamlike expression he wore as he read beside you. Heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it, the urge to look away overwhelming, but you couldn’t.

Trying to steady your hands, you set the book on your thigh. Before you could focus, you felt the faintest brush of warmth—his fingers grazing the other side of the book. He stifled a yawn with his free hand.

��You can rest your head on my shoulder.”

The words left you before you could stop them. Careless in their honesty. You hadn’t planned to say it, but now that you had, there was no taking it back.

Beomgyu stilled. It was as if your words had broken through the fog of his exhaustion. He sat up slightly, and in that small shift, his warmth—his presence—seemed to pull away from you. A strange absence, one that left the air colder than before.

For a fleeting second, you regretted saying anything at all.

He fumbled with his words, the usual Gryffindor confidence slipping, replaced with hesitation. But before he could say anything, you patted your shoulder lightly, a small, reassuring gesture.

“I insist.”

There was a brief pause. Then, with a quiet sigh, Beomgyu gave in. Carefully, almost as if unsure of himself, he leaned in. His head came to rest on your shoulder, and just like that, his warmth seeped back into you.

Beomgyu stretched his legs out fully, another yawn slipping past his lips. “Thanks for helping me,” he mumbled, feeling sleep taking over him. “And for everything you did.”

You didn’t understand what he meant. You didn’t try to decipher his words either, because you couldn’t trust yourself with your words—not when Beomgyu was so close, not when he was being so vulnerable.

You simply settled with a hum. “Anytime.”

That night, you let him nap on your shoulder as long as he needed. By the time he woke up, you had finished reading the storybook twice. The goodbye was hasty, drawn out with apologies, thank yous, and reassurances—but beneath it all, neither of you really wanted to leave, hesitating, unwilling to go back to your respective common rooms. Unwilling to leave each other so soon.

“What’s going on with you and Beomgyu?”

The Slytherin tent was silent. The pre-practice hustle and bustle had yet to begin, leaving only you and Yeonjun in the dimly lit space. You had just finished fastening the last buckle when his voice cut through the quiet.

Your hands stilled momentarily before turning, lifting a brow. “You need to be a bit more specific than that.”

Yeonjun didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The slow, knowing smirk stretching across his face was enough to make your brow twitch in mild irritation. You had known Yeonjun for almost your entire life. You were well-versed in his tactics, and had learned how to counter his cunning approaches with equal cunning. But despite your best efforts, there were still moments when he managed to slip under your skin.

You exhaled, pulling on your gloves. “If you’re going to make a point, make it.”

Yeonjun hummed, following your movements as you moved through the tent. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him,” he said, not unkindly. “Alone.”

You shot him a dry look. “He needed help with Transfiguration. Wasn’t it you who told him to come to me?”

“I was curious.” He leaned against one of the support beams, arms loosely crossed. “Wanted to see if I was right.”

You adjusted the strap on your glove, feigning disinterest. “About what?”

“That you’d let him in.”

Something in your chest tightened. Yeonjun took the pause as permission to continue, his voice quieter now, edged with something that almost sounded like understanding. “You keep people at arm’s length. Always have, haven't you? But him?” His gaze softened. “You’re different with him.”

You forced a scoff, shaking your head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Yeonjun didn’t sound convinced. “You watch him when you think no one’s looking. You listen—to every little thing he says, even when it has nothing to do with you. And when you talk to him, you’re not just speaking. You’re—” He made a vague gesture. “Letting him see you.”

You had to turn away. “Yeonjun, you’re overanalyzing.”

“I don’t think I am.”

The air felt suddenly too still. You liked Beomgyu’s presence in your life. That much had never been a question. And the meaning of your feelings wasn’t lost on you. What you hadn’t realized, however, was just how long Yeonjun had been watching. Observing. You weren’t sure if him knowing that made your unease kick up more, or lift the anchor of burden that had sunk deep in your heart. Either way, a gnawing hollowness formed in the depth of your chest.

“I like his company more than I thought I would,” you admitted quietly.

It wasn’t much. Just a handful of words, barely even spoken aloud. You don’t explain anything either. But in the stillness of the tent, that transparency—the muted confession—must have caught Yeonjun off guard. His smile flickered, something akin to excitement sparking behind his eyes before melting into a fond softness.

Then, voice uncharacteristically gentle, he said, “You know I never mix friend circles,” he began, “Before you got into this big social network with Beomgyu, I practically raised that guy.” His lips quirked, something warm and distant crossing his features. “If it eases your ailing, just know that he’s a good person.”

You knew that already. But hearing it from Yeonjun—who knew him in ways you didn’t—made it feel different. It was quite childish, but you felt a pang of jealousy at that moment. You wish you knew Beomgyu better, too.

“And don’t worry,” he added, the gleam of mischief returning. “Paris, the city of love, has a way of pulling people closer—”

The solid thud of your broomstick whizzing through the air smacking him in the back cut him off. Yeonjun stumbled forward, yelping as the broom settled neatly into your grip.

You sighed, dryly lamenting, “So sad. And here I was, giving you the benefit of the doubt that you’d act like an adult.” You shook your head in mock disappointment. “Truly, truly tragic.”

The corners of your lips barely twitched upwards before you turned on your heel and strode out of the tent. Behind you, Yeonjun let out a disgruntled noise, jogging after you. “Paris is going to be a lot more interesting now,” he mused to himself, as he caught up easily, matching your stride as you neared the practice field.

It was the day of departure, and Beomgyu had been awake since four in the morning.

He wasn’t particularly tired—on the contrary, he felt well-rested for the first time in what felt like forever. It was strange, the absence of stress gnawing at his mind, the deadweight of exams and Quidditch matches momentarily lifted from his shoulders. He had been looking forward to this trip for days. The idea of finally escaping Hogwarts, of wandering through unfamiliar streets of Paris, of watching the world stretch beyond the castle walls—it had been a comforting thought, something to hold onto when things felt suffocating.

But that wasn’t the only reason he had been looking forward to it.

He sighed, shaking his head as he swung his legs over the bed, his feet meeting the cool floor. No use sitting around. He might as well make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.

By the time the rest of Gryffindor began to stir, Beomgyu was already dressed, double-checking his trunk with the kind of precision that felt almost excessive. The common room grew livelier as everyone prepared for departure, the excitement palpable in the air. And by five, they were all at the station, the cold biting at their skin as steam from the train billowed into the sky.

Beomgyu adjusted his muffler, his breath visible in the crisp morning air as he glanced around the platform. The Slytherins hadn’t arrived yet, but he knew they would soon. His fingers tightened around the fabric of his coat, yet it wasn’t the cold that had set a restless energy thrumming beneath his skin.

“Morning, Beomgyu.”

He turned to find Chaeryeong beside him, her hands shoved into her coat pockets. She grinned, tilting her head slightly.

“Morning,” he greeted, his voice still thick with lingering drowsiness.

She exhaled, glancing around. “Feels weird, doesn’t it? Knowing we won’t be seeing Hogwarts for a little while?”

“It’s been this way every winter vacation,” Beomgyu murmured. “Guess it hasn’t really hit me yet.”

“Well, you better start getting excited,” she teased. “It’s not every day we get to go to Paris.”

He hummed in response. Her voice morphed into white noise in Beomgyu’s ear as he zoned out, unable to find himself focusing. Instead, his gaze kept flickering around on every new face toward the station entrance, only looking for you.

Just then, he saw the Slytherins arrive. He filtered out all the faces that aren't yours, and when he finally found you, his heart lurched. There was a feeling of anticipation recoiling in his stomach as he contemplated whether to walk up to you and say hello.

“Oh, she made it.” There was a note of relief in Chaeryeng’s voice. “I was worried she wouldn’t join us.”

“What?” Beomgyu’s brows furrowed.

She turned to him, blinking. “You didn’t know?”

He didn’t like the way those words sat in his stomach. His head snapped to your direction once more before prompting her to explain. “Know what?”

Chaeryeong hesitated for half a second, then said, “She got hit by a Bludger the other day. Some Ravenclaw beater sent it her way by accident. It got her right in the side. Heard she was in pretty bad shape.” She winced as if she recalled seeing you. “Yeonjun looked pissed the whole day.”

The cold suddenly felt sharper, needling into his skin. His eyes darted back to you, and now, it was impossible to ignore. The slight hesitancy in your gait, the stiffness in your posture, and Yeonjun carrying your bag while his hand held your arm, supporting your steps.

You, however, immediately scowled and swatted his hand away. It prompted Yeonjun to let out a long-suffering sigh, but his gaze flickered to you every now and then.

Beomgyu was already moving towards you, mind occupied by sheer urgency and each of his steps pulled him closer to you like a magnetic force. Yeonjun was the first to notice him. The older Slytherin softly snorted a laugh, shaking his head before giving you a small smile.

“I’ll go find our compartment,” Yeonjun muttered to you, slipping away from your side the moment Beomgyu stopped in front of you.

You noticed him a second later, eyes flickering toward him, surprised by his sudden presence. The Gryffindor’s wide, doe eyes searched you—for any sign of pain or discomfort, his nose and cheeks a shade of peach from the cold. The muffler wrapped around his neck looked warm, but on the inside, he was feeling anything but warm—his blood ran cold.

“Are you alright?” It took everything in him to not stumble over his words. He was sure the worry in his voice overflew but he couldn’t bring himself to hide it. “I just heard what happened,” he added, already taking a small step forward closer to you, but he faltered and stepped back at the last moment.

You stared at him, eyes slightly wide—like you weren’t expecting that level of urgency from him. For you.

Your gaze softened when the realization seeped into you. Beomgyu was worried about you? It rattled your heart against your ribcage more strongly than the bludger that hit you. The latter brought you immense pain, however, the former brought pain that hurt good.

“I’m fine.” Your voice carried a gentle touch to it. “You don’t have to look like that.”

Beomgyu exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away for half a second before shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve known sooner.”

“You couldn’t have.” Your reply came quickly, almost urgent. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

You were sure you caught his eyes glow for the faintest moment, but it was gone as quickly as it showed up, fooling you into thinking you must've misjudged it. Eitherway, you felt your lungs constrict from the way his gaze was locked onto yours. It was compelling you to look away, yet at the same time, it was pulling you in. You had to hear it from him.

“Were you… worried?” Your voice was cautious, trying not to show the expectations laced within before offering them to him.

“I was.” He did not hesitate the slightest.

The raw sincerity of it all, the honest admission caused the fire in your chest to only burn brighter. He swallowed before continuing, quieter this time. “I was looking forward to this trip because…” He hesitated, but only for a second. “Because you’d be here. It’d be a shame if you couldn’t go on the trip with us.”

He didn’t know what kind of reaction he was expecting, but the gentle smile that graced your lips wasn’t one he was prepared for. It was small, barely there, but enough to make his breath hitch. Enough to make his fingers twitch with the overwhelming urge to brush them against your cheek. The thought startled him, and he buried his clammy hands deep inside the pockets of his coat.

And then, without a word, you reached out.

Beomgyu stiffened as your hand met his head, the warmth of your palm seeping through the strands of his hair. The touch was brief, barely more than a ruffle, but it left him completely, utterly frozen. He blinked at you, wide-eyed, feeling the exact moment his brain short-circuited.

You didn’t say anything about it—just let your fingers slip away. “Thank you,” you mumbled softly, as earnestly as you could muster it.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Of course.”

You grinned, placing a hand over the right side of your torso where you got hit. “I’m really fine. The Bruisewort Balm did its magic. I only feel a little worn out but I plan to sleep through the journey anyway, so I know I should be fine.”

Hearing your assurance, Beomgyu could only nod. Because at that moment, he didn't trust himself with words.

Before either of you could say anything else, Yeonjun’s voice rang out from across the platform. “You two done? We need to start getting in the cabins.”

You let out a small breath, closing your eyes briefly before turning back to Beomgyu. You let your voice fall a little lower. “I hope you enjoy this trip, Beomgyu. You need it.” And then, just like that, you were gone, disappearing into the crowd with Yeonjun at your side.

Beomgyu remained where he stood, the lower half of his face burying into his muffler—an attempt to hide his red cheeks, the phantom of your touch lingering in his hair.

He wasn’t cold anymore.

You had dozed off almost the moment you settled down in your cabin, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs. The chatter from outside had faded into the background, a distant murmur of excitement. Someone had passed by the door earlier, exclaiming in utter confusion, "How is the train gonna take us straight to Paris?" only for another to scoff in reply, "Bro, this is the Hogwarts Express. Be so for real now."

Sleep had come easily after that.

When you woke, the daylight had shifted. Afternoon light slanted through the windows, golden and soft, casting warm hues over the compartment. A lingering grogginess clung to you, your head muddled with sleep, body heavy from hours of stillness. Blinking, you sat up, only to freeze.

Yeonjun and the other Slytherin were gone. Instead, across from you, Beomgyu sat with a book in his hands—the same storybook you had read with him the night before your Transfiguration exam. He got himself a copy of that?

He glanced up at the movement, his dark eyes skimming over your face before he asked, "How are you feeling? You were out for a while."

You sighed, running a hand over your face. "Shit," you admitted, voice rough with sleep, "but not in pain."

His gaze pinned on you, as if assessing the truth of your words. Then he shut the book with a quiet thud. "Yeonjun went to hang out with your friends," he explained. "I figured I’d watch over you in his place."

You eyed him, searching his expression for any hint of reluctance, but there was none. Only a calm acceptance laced with assurance that he was here now. You murmured a quiet thanks, and he only nodded. The silence between you settled naturally, undisturbed, until your mind wandered back to what had happened before boarding the train.

Your gaze drifted, drawn to his hair again. The memory of ruffling his hair carved into the skin of your hands, still far too easy to recall. You looked away before the feeling could consume you whole.

"You should eat something," Beomgyu said after a while. "You missed lunch."

You waved a hand. "I have emergency snacks. Don’t worry."

You stood, reaching for the bag in the overhead compartment, but the moment you tilted up on your feet, the train jolted. The motion threw you off balance, a sudden wave of dizziness washing over you from your long rest.

"Careful," Beomgyu’s voice was low, close—too close.

Before you could stumble, your back found solid warmth. His chest pressed against you, his grip firm but cautious as his fingers curled around your arm, careful to avoid the bruised side of your torso. His other hand braced against the overhead compartment, effectively caging you in.

Your breath hitched. The heat of him seeped through the layers of your clothing, the closeness dizzying in a way that had nothing to do with sleep imbalance.

"Sit down," he murmured. "I’ll get it."

His hold loosened just enough to guide you back to your seat, and only when you were settled did he step in front of you again, reaching up with ease.

You found yourself at eye level with his waist, his sweater lifting slightly as he rummaged through the bag. A sliver of skin peeked out, warm against the dim afternoon light. You swallowed, forcing your gaze elsewhere.

Beomgyu pulled out the box of treacle tart Yeonjun had packed for you, setting it down before offering you one. With a quiet sigh, you took it, splitting the portion between the two of you as you leaned forward, the box balanced between you.

The sweetness wasn’t something you typically enjoyed, but after so many hours without food, the pastry felt awfully good. Your body slowly regained energy, the light conversation between you keeping the moment steady.

"Do you have any plans for Paris?" he asked eventually.

You chewed thoughtfully. "No idea yet. Yeonjun’s probably going to drag me around. If it gets too much, I might shut myself in my room or sneak off for a solo adventure."

Beomgyu huffed a small laugh. "Yeah. I’m not sure what I’ll do either. I might get swept up by people and won’t even be able to look around freely."

You watched him for a moment, taking the last bite of your tart. "If it gets too much," you said, voice quieter, "you can come find me. Or Yeonjun. Or both of us." There was a pause before you added, softer, "If you can’t, then I’ll come find you."

Beomgyu stilled. His lips parted slightly, something unreadable flashing behind his dark eyes before he quickly stuffed the last of his pastry into his mouth, chewing hastily. The action might have been smooth—if not for the streak of cream now smudged at the corner of his lips.

You noticed instantly. "Oh—" you started, reaching up with your thumb. "You have something—"

The compartment door suddenly slammed open. Yeonjun stood in the doorway, a pair of oversized, obnoxiously flashy sunglasses perched on his nose.

You and Beomgyu both froze.

Yeonjun, his eyes hard to read behind the dark lenses, tilted his head. Then, in an eerily delighted tone, he drawled, "Oh, look at that, Beomgyu. You’ve got my treacle tart’s cream on your lips!"

Before either of you could react, he whipped out a tissue from absolutely nowhere, lunged forward, and grabbed Beomgyu’s head with one hand. Beomgyu screeched, his voice resonating against the walls of the small place.

Yeonjun ignored it, cheerfully wiping his mouth with the other hand like a mother cleaning up her child. "There we go, nice and clean," he chirped, voice laced with exaggerated fondness.

Beomgyu struggled, half-laughing, half-indignant. "Get off me!" he yelped, swatting Yeonjun’s hands away, but the damage had already been done.

Yeonjun stepped back, inspecting his work with great satisfaction, hands on his hips like a proud parent. "Perfect. Now you won’t embarrass yourself in front of anyone."

Beomgyu groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I hate you," he muttered, but the pink at the tips of his ears betrayed him.

You sat back, watching the spectacle unfold with great amusement, while the train rumbled on, Paris drawing closer by the minute.

The rest of the journey was a blur of raucous laughter and camaraderie, your group huddling together in the cramped chair car of the express, swapping secrets and gossip like your lives depended on it. Someone had smuggled in a portable speaker, leading to impromptu karaoke battles and dramatic sing-alongs. At first, you joined in, allowing yourself to be swept up in the energy. But as the hours stretched on, your stamina waned.

With a quiet excuse, you slipped away, accompanied by a few others who were also tired of the noise. Before you left, your gaze flickered toward Beomgyu. He was still immersed in the chaos, laughing brightly at something Kai had said. But beneath the mirth, you caught an exhaustion you had come to recognize. Still, he kept the atmosphere alive, playing his role seamlessly. The image lingered with you long after you shut the compartment door behind you.

The Hogwarts Express pulled into Paris at the crack of dawn, the city stirring to life under the first blush of morning. From the window, you caught your first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, its iron lattice tinged with gold as the sun crested the horizon. The Seine, dark and languid, snaked through the city, bridges arching elegantly over its waters. Rows of Haussmann-style buildings stretched along the boulevards, their cream-colored facades bathed in the soft glow of street lamps not yet dimmed.

Before disembarking, the professors gathered the students for a final briefing. "No magic in front of Muggles," they reminded sternly. "You are free to explore, but remain in groups and report any trouble immediately. Most importantly—enjoy yourselves. You deserve it."

The hotel was an opulent blend of old-world charm and modern luxury, its grand foyer boasting marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, casting prisms of light across the gilded moldings. The professors had booked two separate hotels side by side—one for Slytherins and Gryffindors, another for Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Their reasoning? "You should have learned how to get along by now." Naturally, friends among the houses protested, claiming they were getting along just fine.

Your stomach turned slightly at the arrangement, the thought of running into Beomgyu in the lobby or hallways setting your nerves alight. When room assignments were handed out, relief flooded you upon seeing Yeji’s name beside yours. She was a Slytherin senior. The alternative—rooming with a stranger, or worse, a Gryffindor who resented you—was unthinkable.

Your room sat high above the city, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking panorama of Paris. The Eiffel Tower stood proudly in the distance, framed perfectly against the morning sky. Sheer curtains billowed softly with the breeze as you stepped inside, the scent of fresh linen and polished wood filling the air. The room was a study in elegance—high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings, deep emerald velvet armchairs positioned near a sleek black coffee table, and two queen-sized beds with crisp white sheets that looked nearly too pristine to disturb.

Yeji whistled lowly, dropping her bags by the door. "Well, this isn’t half bad."

You huffed a quiet laugh, tossing your coat onto the bed before making your way to the en-suite. The bathroom was just as extravagant, the walls lined with marble, a rainfall shower glistening behind glass panels. You let the hot water wash away the fatigue of the journey, steam curling around you like a cocoon. By the time you stepped out, refreshed and awake, Yeji had already sprawled across her bed, flipping through a fashion magazine.

"I’ll meet you downstairs," you told her, slipping into your shoes.

Yeonjun was already waiting outside the breakfast lounge when you arrived, one hand in pocket as he scrolled through his phone. He barely looked up as he greeted you. "Took you long enough. I was about to starve."

The two of you found a quiet table, the scent of freshly baked pastries filling the air as waiters flitted about, balancing trays laden with croissants and steaming cups of coffee. You glanced around at the Muggles, feeling oddly at ease in the absence of magic. The clinking of silverware, the hushed murmurs of morning conversations—it was comforting in a way you hadn’t expected.

As you ate, Yeonjun rattled off a list of places to visit, swiping through his phone. "There’s the Louvre, obviously. We have to go at night—it’s insane then. Oh, and this bookstore, Shakespeare and Company. You’d love it. We could—"

His voice faded into the background as voices rang out from the Gryffindor table. You turned instinctively, gaze landing on Beomgyu.

Ah. He had already been swept away by the crowd.

Yeonjun followed your gaze, then turned back to you with a smirk. "You should help him escape, you know. Whisk him away somewhere quiet, just the two of you—"

You shoved a piece of bread into his mouth before he could finish, ignoring his muffled protest. He choked out a laugh.

But as your gaze found Beomgyu again, lingering just a second too long, a thought flickered through your mind. You had considered that scenario before, hadn’t you? The thought of stealing him away, just for a moment, just for yourself. Of finding a quiet corner in this city meant for lovers, where no one could pull him away from you.

And the sight of him in your mind—hovering above you, close enough to count each delicate lash framing his deep brown eyes, close enough to feel the softness of his lips—

—Well. That was a pleasant thought, indeed.

Yeonjun observed your face for a while, then shook his head with a groan. Yeah, no, he absolutely did not want to know what was going on in your head.

After breakfast, your group meandered through the city, between narrow alleyways lined with quaint cafés and antique bookshops. Your circle had morphed together naturally, though you were close to only a handful. The others were good acquaintances, but they didn’t carry the same comforting company as the ones by your side.

The morning air in Paris carried the remnants of dawn, crisp yet mellowed by the sun climbing its way over the horizon. The city was awake by now—cobblestone streets damp from the morning drizzle, the scent of freshly baked bread curling through the air as bakeries opened their doors, and wrought-iron balconies adorned with trailing ivy swaying ever so slightly in the breeze.

The Louvre loomed ahead, a masterpiece in itself, its glass pyramid gleaming against the grandeur of the historic façade. The vast courtyard was teeming with tourists, some attempting to take forced perspective photos, others craning their necks to admire the sheer scale of it. The air carried the song of different languages, a medley of awe and excitement.

At some point, the group naturally dispersed in smaller clusters, everyone absorbed in their own conversations. You found yourself walking beside Beomgyu, the world around you fading into a pleasant hum.

A soft bark caught your attention. You turned, eyes lighting up at the sight of a fluffy white puppy trotting alongside its owner. “Oh,” you cooed, crouching slightly as the tiny creature wagged its tail in excitement. “Look at you. Aren’t you the cutest?”

Beomgyu watched you with a fond tilt to his lips. “I didn’t take you for a puppy person.”

You glanced up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You just seem like you’d have one of those dramatic-looking cats that sit by the window and judge people.”

You let out a soft laugh, straightening. “I’ve always wanted a puppy as a kid, actually.”

He hummed, eyes flickering with something thoughtful. “I had one. Sort of.”

You turned to him in surprise. “You did?”

He exhaled, a breath of nostalgia woven into his tone. “My brother and I begged my parents for a dog for ages. We finally got one—on my mother’s birthday. So we named him June, after the date," he said, smiling fondly as if reminiscing a happy memory. "But two days later, my parents decided we couldn’t keep him. Said we didn’t have the time to take care of him properly.” He let out a quiet chuckle, though there was something wistful in his eyes. “I held him and cried for nearly eight hours straight.”

Your chest ached at the image. “That’s—” You paused, unsure how to phrase it. “That must’ve been really hard.”

He gave a small nod, then brightened just a fraction. “We ended up finding Toto instead. A Turquoise Fronted Amazon parrot. My mom could take care of him even when she was alone at home.”

You smiled at that. “Toto,” you echoed. “That’s a cute name.”

“He’s kind of a menace,” Beomgyu admitted, shaking his head with a fond grin. “But he’s family.”

The revelation settled somewhere deep within you—a new piece of Beomgyu you hadn’t known before. And it made you irrationally happy.

The wind picked up, teasing at the hem of your coat, threading cool fingers through your hair. A few strands whipped across your face, catching on your lips, your lashes. You lifted a hand to push them away, but before you could, Beomgyu reached out first.

His fingers brushed against your cheek—something he’d been wishing to do for a while—as he tucked a loose strand behind your ear. You felt it in the way your pulse stuttered, your eyelashes fluttered as you looked up at him. He looked as if he wanted to say something.

Beomgyu hesitated, his gaze soft yet you couldn’t quite read his eyes as he looked at you. His lips parted, a thought poised on the edge, trembling like the wind itself.

You look beautiful.

The words never left his mouth. He swallowed them down, an ache blooming in his throat. Perhaps he feared what saying them aloud might mean. Perhaps he feared you wouldn’t know what to do with them.

And so, in the end, neither of you spoke. The spell broke when the Louvre loomed ahead, its glass pyramid gleaming against the gray-blue sky, and the moment dissolved into the crisp air.

Inside the Louvre, the grandeur of history stretched in every direction—endless halls adorned with masterpieces, the hush of reverence echoing in the vast spaces. Your group wandered between exhibits, pausing at paintings and sculptures, some making exaggerated interpretations just to get a laugh, others attempting to recreate poses of the statues with varying degrees of success.

At one point, Yeonjun challenged Beomgyu to a ridiculous game of “who can stare at the Mona Lisa without blinking the longest,” which resulted in the both of them getting scolded by a museum staff member. You and Yeji exchanged amused glances, shaking your heads as the boys feigned innocence.

Hours melted away in seamless enjoyment, the museum becoming a maze of stolen moments and shared laughter. And through it all, you found yourself drawn to Beomgyu, the wordless exchanges between you growing heavier, stealing glances at each other while laughing, and even when the other wasn't looking.

By the time you returned to the hotel, exhaustion settled into your bones, but the day had left something lingering—something you weren’t quite ready to shake off just yet.

As you reached your hotel room, Beomgyu passed by, his own keycard in hand. He paused, glancing toward you. You met his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

“Goodnight,” you murmured, voice softer than you intended.

His lips tugged at the corner, but there was something else in his eyes now, the glint that you once caught. “Goodnight.”

Neither of you looked away immediately. The hallway felt too silent, the space between you far too charged for such a simple exchange. And then, with a slight nod, he disappeared down the lobby, leaving behind an inexplicable warmth curling in your chest.

The next day, the group scattered across Paris, some weaving through boutiques, others lingering in quaint cafés, savoring the city’s flavors. Beomgyu had brought a camera, the strap looped around his wrist as he snapped photos of everything that caught his eye. Often, students from other houses approached him, asking him to take their pictures, and he obliged with a small smile, adjusting angles, stepping back to frame them against the golden morning light.

You had drifted toward the glass display of a pastry shop, your breath lightly fogging the surface as your eyes traced the delicate layers of a chocolate croissant. Beomgyu watched you from afar. You’d mentioned wanting to try one back on station, and you were so focused on it now that you didn’t notice him approaching until he was beside you.

“Come,” he said, tilting his head toward the entrance. “It’s on me.”

You turned to him, brows drawing together in surprise. “That’s not necessary.”

Beomgyu huffed a quiet laugh. “Please, I insist. It’s a token of my appreciation.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“For helping me with Transfiguration,” he clarified, though something about the way he said it felt like an excuse. “And because I feel like it.”

You exhaled, a soft sigh slipping past your lips. “You really don’t have to—”

“I know.” He nudged the door open with his shoulder and shot you a look, something playful but insistent. “Come on.”

A sigh of resignation, but you stepped in anyway, the scent of butter and sugar wrapping around you. True to his word, he paid for the croissant before you could even consider arguing further. The two of you lingered at the glass counter, surveying the intricate rows of bite-sized pastries lined neatly on silver trays. One of them particularly caught your eye—a tiny bear-shaped pastry, its icing ears round and slightly lopsided, giving it a look of perpetual confusion.

“That one,” you murmured, pointing.

Beomgyu followed your gaze. “The bear?”

“It’s so stupid,” you said flatly, head tilting ever so slightly as you examined it. And then, without thinking, you tapped the glass with a single finger, voice barely above a whisper. “…Cute.”

You didn’t seem to notice the way his gaze traced over your face, too busy scrutinizing the bear as though you were sizing up an opponent. Wordlessly, he bought two bear pastries; your protests falling deaf to his ears.

As he handed you one, you turned it over in your hands, brushing a thumb against its soft edges. It was adorable in a ridiculous way. Then, you reached up and tapped one of its icing ears.

“Boop,” you said.

Beomgyu felt his world stop. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until the moment passed. Something unfamiliar curled in his chest, something that made his fingers tighten around the little pastry in his own hands. It wasn’t just the act itself—it was the way you’d said it, and the unguarded smile that graced your lips afterwards, like you’d forgotten to keep your walls up, just for a second. But there it was—an utterly unfiltered moment, so fleeting yet so wholly you that it nearly knocked him off balance.

He took a bite, if only to distract himself. But even as the sweetness melted on his tongue, his thoughts remained tangled in the sound of your voice.

You took a decisive bite as well, nodding to yourself as you chewed. “You okay?” you asked suddenly, glancing up at him, licking off the remnants of crust on your thumb. “Is it too sweet?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. His gaze fell on your thumb in between your lips, the sight making him wet his chapped lips. He swallowed, clearing his throat. “It tastes alright.”

Your eyes narrowed just the slightest at his sudden avoidance of eye contact.

“Let’s catch up with the group,” he muttered at last, stuffing his hands into his pockets. And with that, he turned, already striding toward the door.

By evening, the Seine stretched before you, silver ribbons of water reflecting the glow of streetlights and distant bridges. Boats drifted lazily along the water, their lights flickering like floating stars.

A few of the students gathered along the stone walkway. Someone groaned about nearly using wizarding terms in front of a Muggle, looking horrified at the memory. A Muggleborn student cackled, shaking their head. “I wonder how the purebloods are doing.”

“The purebloods are living their best lives, thank you very much.” Yeonjun chortled and scoffed, crossing his arms.

Laughter rang through the night air. Someone suggested taking pictures, and naturally, Beomgyu lifted his camera, angling it as the others huddled together.

You watched him, the way he stepped back, adjusting the focus, snapping a few quick shots before lowering the camera. His fingers lingered over the buttons, and you realized he’d stopped taking pictures after only a few frames. His gaze flickered briefly to the group before shifting away again.

“Beomgyu,” you said, and he glanced at you. “You should be in one, too.”

He shook his head with a small smile. “I’m usually the one taking the pictures.”

You didn’t bother arguing with him. Instead, you turned toward a passing stranger, gesturing toward the camera. “Excuse me, would you mind taking a group photo for us?”

Beomgyu looked at you, taken aback, as the stranger agreed. You pushed him lightly toward the group. “Come on.”

He hesitated but relented, slotting in beside you as everyone squeezed together. The camera clicked, and just as the shutter went off, your hands brushed—brief, a touch so light it might have been an accident.

But when you turned your head slightly, he was already looking at you. And in that moment, with the Seine behind you and Paris stretching endlessly beyond, you thought to yourself—maybe you’d been wrong about how much a single touch could mean.

“How’s it going with Beomgyu?”

The hotel lobby was quiet at this hour. You sat into one of the sofas, an empty cup of coffee resting before you, long since forgotten. The book in your hands had begun to blur at the edges, your focus slipping every few pages.

You glanced up when Yeonjun settled onto the single sofa beside you. A sigh escaped your lips as you closed the book, resting it on your lap. “I don’t know, honestly.”

It was the truth. You had noticed something off about him lately—but you weren’t one to jump to conclusions. Maybe it was the comfort you offered him that he mentioned to you once. Maybe that was all it was. And yet, deep down, you hoped it wasn’t.

Yeonjun hummed, studying you. “He’s been acting weird, though, hasn’t he?”

You glanced at him, considering. “You think so too?”

“I have eyes, don’t I?” He scoffed.

Before you could retort, the hotel doors swung open, and a trio of Gryffindors stepped inside. You recognized them immediately—Beomgyu’s Quidditch teammates. The one in the center, Yoo Jaekyung, was their Seeker. And he was also someone who never missed an opportunity to make his distaste for you known.

Your brows twitched. Whether his hostility stemmed from the house rivalry or your direct competition as Slytherin’s Seeker, you still weren’t sure. But the disdain in his gaze whenever he looked at you was clear enough. Prejudice ran deep in people like him.

He caught sight of you and Yeonjun, his steps slowing for the briefest second before something smug flickered across his face. With a smirk, he changed course, making his way toward you.

Yeonjun muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. You braced yourself.

Jaekyung stopped just short of your seat, tilting his head in mock concern. “I heard about your little accident.” His voice was honeyed, far too sweet to be sincere. “Nasty hit from that Bludger, wasn’t it? Are you feeling better?”

You met his gaze, unfazed. “I’m fine.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if in sympathy. “Accidents like that—well, they’re bound to happen when you’re not skilled enough to avoid them. You should be more careful. Can’t have Slytherin losing their star player, after all.”

Yeonjun made a sound of irritation, he rose to his full height, towering over Jaekyung with ease. “Right. Are you done acting like a child, or should we wait for you to throw a tantrum too?”

Jaekyung’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before snapping back into place. You, however, placed a hand on Yeonjun’s arm, stopping him before things escalated. Your voice was even. “Let’s hear him out. It’s rare that he has something to say.”

Jaekyung’s smirk deepened, mistaking your patience for something else.

You tapped a finger lightly against your knee, feigning contemplation. “Though, that does raise a problem.” You let your voice drop just a fraction, letting the next words land sharper. “Because in every match against me, you’ve never managed to catch the Snitch.”

The satisfaction of watching the vein in his temple twitch was almost enough. His jaw clenched, the forced smile doing little to mask his irritation. “Get well soon,” he bit out, before pivoting on his heel and striding away, his teammates trailing behind him.

Yeonjun dropped back onto the sofa with a groan. “Merlin, people get so bloody ass-hurt over everything.”

You only shrugged, offering him a small smile. You were used to it.

“I have some dirt on Jaekyung.”

A new voice cut through the air, causing both of you two to startle. Yeonjun flinched, nearly spilling his drink. “Bloody hell—Jeongin—” Yeonjun swore, hand over his heart. “What is wrong with you?”

The Hufflepuff only blinked, expression blank as ever. He crouched down beside you, voice dropping into a conspiratorial murmur. “He’s used charms to win a few matches. There is proof latched within his broomstick.”

Beside you Yeonjun went on a spiteful rant about Jaekyung being an absolute bloody asshole and a sore loser. But all you could think of is, where did Jeongin get such information? Your brows lifted slightly in curiosity. “How do you know that?”

Jeongin shrugged. “I just do.” Then, casually, “I thought I’d tell you. Might be useful one day.”

You studied him, taking in his innocent demeanor, the unbothered way he delivered the information. A Hufflepuff, the Sorting Hat had declared. And yet, in this moment, you couldn’t help but wonder if it had made a mistake. Still, you chose not to voice it. Instead, you simply nodded, filing the information away for later.

“Duly noted.”

The next two days slipped by in a blur, the hours spent trailing behind Yeonjun through cobblestone streets and warm-lit bookstores, occasionally merging into the chaos of group hangouts. Someone’s room always seemed to be the designated meeting spot for the evening, where everyone sprawled across beds and armchairs, playing muggle games with the kind of reckless abandon that came with being far from home. Cards flicked across the floor, dice rolled under furniture, and soft music hummed in the background as someone recounted a ridiculous story from earlier in the day. These nights were filled with a quiet kind of joy, but you couldn’t ignore the gnawing awareness that something was missing.

You had been seeing Beomgyu less. Not because of chance, but because Jaekyung made certain of it. You weren’t stupid. By now, it was obvious to you that others had taken notice of your closeness to him, none more so than Jaekyung himself. The Gryffindor Seeker carried himself with the pathetic confidence of someone who always got what he wanted, and lately, what he wanted was to keep Beomgyu occupied. He made a game of it—boasting that the Gryffindor Quidditch team deserved their own exclusive outing, and whisking him away before you could say otherwise. Beomgyu never resisted, never even seemed to notice the way your eyes lingered when he left, and that, more than anything, made your stomach curl in something uncomfortably close to irritation.

So you spent your time elsewhere. Yeonjun, ever attuned to your moods, filled the space Beomgyu left behind without needing to be asked. He took you to the bookshop he’d promised, where the scent of papers and new books curled into the air like something sacred. You wandered between the shelves, tracing the spines of books with absent fingers, letting your mind get lost in stories that weren’t yours.

The afternoons were spent shopping with Yeji and the girls, their laughter drifting through the streets like birdsong, but in the quieter moments, you found solace in your room. With its sprawling balcony overlooking the Eiffel Tower, it felt like something out of a dream. You would curl up with a warm cup of coffee, watching the city shift from golden daylight to dusk.

On the fourth day of the trip, a campfire was arranged by the banks of Seine.

The fire crackled in the cool evening, its soft amber glow spilling over the group of friends gathered around. You sat at the edge of the circle, your gloved hands wrapped around a steaming mug of cocoa. You aren't cold exactly, but the crisp air nipped at your cheeks and the tip of your nose.

Your gaze drifted toward Beomgyu, unbidden, as it often did. He was seated across the fire, leaning back on his hands, the sight tugged at something deep in your chest. His hoodie—a deep gray that seemed impossibly soft—hung loosely around his frame, the hood falling slightly over his hair. It looked so comfortable, so warm, that you couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be wrapped in it.

Or more accurately, to be wrapped in him.

The thought came suddenly, without warning, and it made your breath catch. You took a small sip from your mug, trying to focus on the heat spreading through your fingers instead of the ache settling in your chest.

It was a silly thought, really. The idea of stepping closer, of tucking yourself into the space between his arms and resting your head on his chest—it felt so vivid, so painfully out of reach. Your heart ached as the question echoed in your mind like a prayer.

Why was Beomgyu so unreachable?

You perhaps made the error of thinking he let you in. Because at the end, he wasn’t yours to lean on like that, to hold onto when the air felt too cold and the world too distant. And he never would be. You stilled as the last thought settled in the crevices of your brain, eyes widening slightly.

Oh, God.

You were in love with Beomgyu.

Love was the swelling, hopeful feeling in your chest every time you saw him. Love was the way you could forget about everything when you were with him. Love was the catch in your breath when he looked at you in his intense way. Love was the way you could be yourself around him.

You thought you were the one saving him from the world’s relentless grasp by offering him a piece of solace in your company, but it was Beomgyu who had been your saviour all this time.

You risked a glance at his way, which you immediately regretted. Seeing his smiling face lit up with the golden glow of the campfire, you realized how much you've missed being near him these two days.

And then you knew that you could become homesick for people too.

The room buzzed with anticipation as Heeseung's impromptu gathering took shape. Students lounged on beds, sprawled across the floor, and perched on chairs. You had attempted a discreet exit upon hearing the mention of "truth or dare," only to have Yeonjun snatch your wrist and haul you back with an exasperated, “Oh, come on, don’t be boring. Loosen up a little.”

Resigned, you had settled into a corner chair, trying to blend into the background. You counted down the minutes until you could leave.

Your stomach twisted when your gaze involuntarily drifted to the doorway as Beomgyu entered, his presence immediately lighting up the room. However, your mood soured when Jaekyung and his entourage flanked him, steering him to the opposite side before he could acknowledge you.

The game commenced with the dreadful spin of a bottle, its neck pointing to various participants amidst cheers and playful jeers. First, it landed on Yeonjun. He chose dare, of course, and was promptly ordered to step onto the balcony and scream at the top of his lungs.

He did so with theatrical flair, gripping the railing and shouting into the Parisian night, “I AM SEXY AND MYSTERIOUS, COME FIND ME IF YOU DARE—” before a professor’s sharp voice echoed from somewhere below, “Whoever that is, get back inside before I hex you!”

Yeonjun scrambled back into the room to the sound of uproarious laughter, dramatically clutching his chest. The next victim was Kai. He picked truth, and someone immediately asked, “Who was your first crush?”

Kai groaned, rubbing his face before mumbling a name. A chorus of “No way!” and “I knew it!” rang through the room, followed by a good-natured shove from his friends.

The bottle spun again.

And this time, it stopped on Beomgyu.

The room erupted in cheers and anticipated exclamations. He chuckled, running a hand through his hair, and after a brief moment of deliberation, chose truth.

Whistles and mischievous laughter followed, then someone finally asked, “When was the last time you cried the hardest?”

The question sounded innocent, yet you couldn't help but sit a little upright as you closely inspected Beomgyu. He seemed to consider his answer for a few seconds, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his chain. But before he could even speak, Jaekyung took the lead.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Jaekyung cooed. “Our golden Gryffindor boy cried like a baby when he heard his mother was sick.”

Your body went rigid, blood boiling dangerously underneath. Something akin to anger and speechlessness glinted in your eyes as you glared daggers at Jaekyung. But he did not stop there. Instead he continued, making matters worse.

Jaekyung made a face, mock-pouting, and cooed, “A real mama’s boy, aren’t you?” He even had the audacity afterwards to wrap his arms around Beomgyu’s neck.

People around laughed, others with coos of mock sympathy. Beomgyu laughed along with them, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Too forced.

You saw it immediately—how could you not? The way his shoulders tensed under Jaekyung’s arm, the way his fingers curled subtly into the fabric of his pants. His gaze dropped to his lap, then for the briefest moment when he looked up, you saw him searching around the room—and found yours.

Your vision shook, breath choking in your throat when you saw the look in his eyes. It was quick, barely perceptible, but in that single glance, you made out the absolute desperate look of pleading. The dim lighting caught the faint sheen in his eyes before he blinked it away, tearing his gaze from yours and smiling even wider, like it would drown out everything else.

You had to get him out of here.

And so, you tilted your head, feigning idle curiosity. “You know, Jaekyung,” you mused, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “I heard an interesting rumor about you the other day.”

The sound of your voice quietened the entire room in an instance. These were the times when you relished in the power of your reputation; whether it was because of your deliberate participation in such a crowd, or the fact that it was a showdown between the two rival Seekers, either way you had the attention of the entire room on you.

Jaekyung turned, brow raising. “Yeah?”

People perked up, eager for another potential story.

You hummed. "Mhm. It’s funny—I wasn’t even going to mention it. But now that I think about it, it really was hilarious.”

Someone leaned in. "Oh, do tell."

You shrugged, taking your time. “Something about a certain game of Exploding Snap gone terribly wrong. Something about you running down the corridors with a sack covering your head and screaming for your life.”

"That was you?” One of Jaekyung’s lackeys burst out, turning to him in disbelief.

People erupted into conversation, overlapping voices piecing together the memory, adding their own exaggerated details. Jaekyung stiffened as someone reenacted his supposed sprint through the corridors. Amidst the overexcited bunch, Jeongin let a small smirk tug on his lips that went unnoticed by everyone.

Chaos ensued as another fit of laughter erupted, now mocking Jaekyung who remained awkwardly laughing, trying to prove his innocence. And just like that, the attention was diverted, Beomgyu completely forgotten.

From your place in the corner of the room, you caught a sight of a figure slipping through the doors. You exhaled softly, relief barely settling in before you felt the eyes of Yeonjun. When you turned to him, he smiled at you, an encouraging nod followed.

That was all you needed to follow Beomgyu out the door.

Out in the dimly lit hotel lobby, you scanned the space with quick, searching eyes, your pulse hammering against your ribs. The adrenaline of what happened back in the room still pressed against your skin, but you pushed it aside, thinking only of where he could have gone. Then, a memory surfaced—Hogwarts, late at night, when curfew had long since passed. More often than not, you would find him alone in the Astronomy Tower, sitting in the hush of the night sky. Back then, neither of you spoke, only acknowledging each other's presence in the quiet. And so, trusting your instinct, you turned on your heel and made your way to the rooftop.

The night air met you with a crisp bite as you stepped onto the rooftop terrace. The city stretched beneath you in a glittering sprawl, the Eiffel Tower casting its golden glow against the dark. There, sitting on the steps with his back to you, was Beomgyu. He was still, unmoving, save for the faint rise and fall of his shoulders.

He didn’t notice you at first. You stepped forward carefully, pausing when you heard it—barely audible, but unmistakable. A sniffle. Your heart twisted at the sound. You made your arrival known when the ground beneath echoed your approaching steps.

"That was very brave," Beomgyu's voice broke the silence, rough with an attempt at humor. "And also very stupid. He’ll make sure to get back at you now."

You watched his hunched figure before finally speaking, voice quiet. "We Slytherins are brave, yes. But not stupid,” you murmured, looking skyward. “Given the choice, we'll always save our own necks."

He turned then, looking at you in the low light, something unreadable shifting in his gaze. "Is that why you're here?" His voice was quieter now. "Did you follow me to save yourself?"

It was only when he faced you that you realized how much you had missed seeing him up close. How much distance had settled between you these past few days. And perhaps that was why, without thinking twice, you descended the last few steps until you were right in front of him. Then, slowly, you lowered yourself onto your knees, meeting his eyes. The tension in your chest unfurled as you shook your head.

"No," you admitted softly. "I told you, didn't I? That I'd find you when you couldn't."

His bottom lip trembled, throat clogging up as he let his head fall, eyes squeezing shut. He fought against it—fought against the weight pressing against his ribs, the storm brewing behind his eyes. But his entire world seemed to stop when he felt it—the warmth of your arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him close. His breath stuttered. And then, before he could stop himself, his body caved into yours.

"I'm sorry for not asking first," you whispered, your breath fanning against his ear. "But I figured you might need this hug."

That was all it took for his resolve to shatter. A choked breath left him as he curled into you, his hands gripping the back of your shirt. His shoulders shook, the quiet sobs muffled against your skin. You felt the tremor of his body against yours, the sadness seeping into your own bones. Your throat burned, but you stayed still, holding him tighter, refusing to let go, refusing to let him drown in that pain alone.

Distance meant nothing when the person meant everything.

You didn’t speak for a while. This wasn’t the scenario you imagined when you so desperately wanted to hug him. However, you didn’t complain. You’d hold him whenever he wanted it, whenever he needed it, and you would continue to do so as long as it required. His sobs quieted eventually, though the quiet ache remained.

When his breathing evened out, you murmured, "How’s she now?"

His arms remained around you, but his voice was steadier when he answered, "It was a long time ago. She’s fine and healthy now, but..." He swallowed thickly. "I guess it was the memory that made it feel like it just happened all over again."

Your gaze softened. Fondly, you reached up, brushing away the single tear trailing on his cheek with your thumb. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch. "I don’t want to sound rude, but... you need a change in friends."

Beomgyu let out a breath, something like a half-laugh. "I despise Jaekyung, actually."

You blinked. "Oh."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "My acquaintance with him is... necessary. Because of Quidditch. But most of the time, I wish I could rip his head off."

You hummed in amusement, lips twitching. Then, after a beat, "I saw a fair in the city earlier today,” you said, eyes brightening a little as the thought came to you. “Do you want to go? If you'd rather head back to your room, that's fine, too."

Beomgyu was quiet for a moment, as if contemplating your offer. Then—"No. I don’t want to go back yet."

You nodded with a smile. "Alright then, let's visit the fair."

But just as you started to stand, Beomgyu’s hand found yours, and the sudden contact froze you in place. His fingers tightened around yours—a little reluctant, but firm. Then, in a voice so small you almost missed it, he said, "Thank you."

You barely had the chance to respond before he exhaled a quiet laugh, gaze dropping to where your hands remained clasped. "You know," he said, his tone light but distant, "I always thought you were a bit too unreachable for me."

Your breath stilled. The world tilted, the ground beneath you shifting. A quiet, electric tremor shot down your spine. Beomgyu thought you were unreachable?

It was absurd. It was ridiculous. Because all this time, you had thought it was him who had been just out of reach. That no matter how close you got, no matter how many nights you spent at his side in quiet companionship, there had always been something unattainable about him—something you dared not long for because it had never been yours to have. And yet, here he was, speaking as if you were the one perched on some distant pedestal, as if he had been the one looking up all along.

A breath rattled in your chest, the weight of the realization crashing down with a force that left you reeling. Every glance, every lingering moment, every ache in your ribs that you had swallowed down without question—had he felt it too? Had you spent all this time yearning for something that had been yearning right back at you?

And then, even softer, as if he was only speaking to himself—

"Where have you been all my life?"

Something inside you curled tight, heat coiling in your chest, in your throat, in the very marrow of your bones. You felt lightheaded, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. You forced yourself to your feet, swallowing hard.

"The fair," you said, voice even despite the hurricane within you. "Let’s hurry before everything closes."

You made a quick stop at your room to grab your jacket and wallet before heading back out. When you reached the elevator, Beomgyu was already there, leaning against the wall with his hands tucked into his pockets. His eyes were a little puffy, a trace of exhaustion lingering in them, but the warmth in his smile softened the edges of his weariness.

Paris at night had always been breathtaking, but there was something different about seeing it like this—with him. The glow of string lights stretched above, casting golden halos over the cobbled pathways. The scent of caramelized sugar and roasted chestnuts drifted through the cool air, mixing with laughter and the distant strumming of a guitar from a street performer tucked into the corner of a square.

Beomgyu nudged your arm, tilting his head toward the rows of stalls ahead. “Where to first?”

You scanned the fair, the swirl of activity pulling at your attention. “Food,” you said. “You barely ate today.”

His brows lifted, feigning offense. “Are you keeping tabs on me now?”

You shot him a look, but his grin only widened, dimples pressing into his cheeks. With a scoff, you turned toward the nearest stand, and he fell into step beside you, his shoulder brushing yours in the moving crowd.

You both settled on crepes, their warmth seeping into your fingers as you took the first bite. Beomgyu, instead of eating his, watched you, waiting for your verdict. When you nodded in approval, he finally took his own bite, eyes flickering shut as a low hum of satisfaction escaped him.

“Good?” you asked, a trace of amusement lacing your voice.

“Mmh,” he murmured around another mouthful before swallowing. “I think I just fell in love.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. As you wandered further, the fair unfolded around you—a blur of color, the rise and fall of laughter, the clinking of game tokens. Beomgyu tested his luck at a stall, missing the target on his first try. His brows furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line as he rolled his shoulders, preparing for another attempt.

But before he could, you nudged him aside and took your own shot. The ball hit dead center, toppling the target with ease.

His jaw slackened. “No way,” he breathed. “That was pure luck.”

“Skill,” you corrected, reaching for the small stuffed bear the vendor handed you. You turned, pressing it into his hands. “Here. Since you tried so hard.”

He stared at the plush toy, then back at you, his fingers curling around the soft fabric. Slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

“Of course not,” you said, entirely unconvincing.

He shook his head, tucking the bear under his arm as you strolled onward. The night stretched around you, a haze of laughter and playful ribbing, of moments that lingered just a second longer than they needed to. Eventually, you both slowed near a stall adorned with ribbons, clips, and various hair accessories, their silk and satin edges fluttering under the glow of the lanterns above.

The vibrant flowers and intricate designs caught your eye, drawing you in. Your fingers traced over a delicate floral piece—soft ivory petals tinged with a faint blush. It was simple but striking.

Beomgyu followed your gaze, then reached forward, plucking the ornament from its place. His fingers brushed yours in the process, a brief touch that sent a ripple through your senses.

"This would look great on you," he mused, voice light yet sincere.

You hesitated, glancing at him before shifting your focus back to the clip. "I don’t know if I’m really the flower type."

He tilted his head, considering you. "I think it would suit you."

Before you could protest, he stepped closer, lifting a loose strand of your hair between his fingers. His touch was featherlight, his fingertips warm against the cool night air. The motion almost absentminded as he tucked the flower into place, adjusted the clip with an almost delicate sort of care.

"There," he murmured. "Perfect."

He was close enough that you could see the faint exhaustion beneath his eyes, the way the streetlights cast a glow in his hair. When he pulled back, his gaze lingered, as if admiring his work.

Under his intense gaze that pinned you to the ground, you glanced away, feeling your airways constricting. You looked at yourself in the small mirror the vendor offered, grazing the ornament.

"You’re beautiful," he said, soft but certain.

Your eyes widened. Turning your gaze back at him was a bad idea because the blood from your cheeks earlier which had subsided, rushed back immediately. He was watching you with such a dreamlike, dazed smile. The words settled somewhere deep, unshaken by embellishments, and yet they held a weight that left you grasping for balance.

"You know," the stall owner chimed in, smiling knowingly, "if you're looking for a couple's discount, I can give it to you for the matching set."

A startled breath caught in your throat. Your hands shot up waving as you opened your mouth, your voice coming out far less composed than usual. "Oh, no, it’s not like that—"

"We’ll take it," Beomgyu cut in smoothly, reaching for his wallet before you could finish.

You turned to him, eyes widening. "Wait, what are you—"

He waved you off, handing the cash to the vendor without missing a beat. "Consider it my gift," he added, his voice laced with satisfaction.

The stall owner chuckled, handing you the packaged clip. "A good choice," she remarked with a wink. "It suits her perfectly."

You exhaled, the warmth creeping up your neck, but Beomgyu only looked pleased, a victorious gleam in his eyes.

"Tonight was supposed to be about you," you sighed, holding the small package in your hands. "Why are you the one giving me gifts?"

Beomgyu held up the stuffed bear you had won for him earlier, his lips curling into a smirk. "You already got me this," he pointed out. Then, more quietly, "Besides, you brought me here. You made sure I was alright. A small gift is the least I can do."

You had no response to that.

"Accept it," he added, nudging your shoulder lightly. "For my sake."

A single snowflake drifted between you, catching the golden fair lights as it fell. Then another. And another.

Beomgyu tilted his head up, watching the first snowfall of the season settle over Paris. The world around you seemed to hush, the fair’s glow casting a warm halo over the descending frost. A slow smile spread across his face, something wistful in the way his gaze traced the sky.

"I want to see the Seine."

You glanced at him, the request unexpected. He turned back to you, eyes shining. "That day we visited, I couldn’t really take it in—not properly, not with everything else going on."

The quiet honesty in his voice softened something in you. "Then let’s go."

The walk to the bridge was slower, the fair’s noise fading behind you as the Seine stretched before you in its midnight stillness. The river carried the reflection of the city’s lights, a gentle shimmer under the falling snow. Beomgyu leaned against the railing, his hands curled over the frost-kissed iron, the glow of the streetlamps painting his profile in gold and shadow. Snowflakes clung to his hair, caught in the sweep of his lashes, but he didn’t seem to notice.

You watched him take it all in, his shoulders rising and falling with a quiet breath. He turned to you then, his exhaustion evident in the way his body carried itself—but there was warmth in his gaze, something that made the air between you shift.

"How are you feeling now?" you asked, voice softer than you intended.

His lips parted, hesitation flickering over his features before he finally answered. "I feel much better." His eyes didn’t leave yours. "Thank you."

And you tried—God, you tried—not to say that you loved him. Tried to swallow it down, push it away, because tonight wasn’t about you. Tonight was about him, about making sure he was okay.

But then he reached up, fingertips ghosting against your cheek, light as snowfall. The warmth of his touch burned through the cold. Your breath hitched, caught somewhere between restraint and surrender. He was close, close enough that the city blurred around you, close enough that his gaze flickered down—to your lips, then back up, eyes locking with a silent plea—

“Shit.”

—Beomgyu’s foot slid against the fresh snow, his arms flailing as he yelped. The moment snapped, the sharp bite of reality returning all at once. Instinct took over—you reached out, grabbing his arms before he could stumble further, fingers tightening around the fabric of his sleeves.

Your pulse was a riot against your ribs. "Beomgyu—"

And then, as if the universe itself was conspiring against you, your phone buzzed loudly in your pocket, Yeonjun’s name flashing on the screen.

You hesitated, the moment still hanging between you like an unfinished sentence. Beomgyu exhaled, something obscure passing over his expression before he turned back toward the river.

When you hung up the call, your voice felt foreign in your throat. "They’re making rounds. It’s time to go back."

The walk back to the hotel was silent. You didn’t meet his eyes when you reached the entrance, didn’t look back when you passed a very curious Yeonjun, locking the door behind you as soon as you stepped inside your room.

That night, sleep did not come easily to you.

Beomgyu was losing his mind.

Sleep had evaded him, slipping through his fingers like sand, and now, as the pale morning light filtered through his curtains, his thoughts remained tangled around you. He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling sharply, but it did nothing to ease the restless ache in his chest. Last night’s scenes replayed behind his eyes in an unrelenting loop, haunting him, taunting him. What was he thinking?

His mind reeled back, drifting to the first time he had truly seen you—not as the girl everyone whispered about, the cold and cunning Slytherin, but as someone real. The flickering glow of the fireplace in the Room of Requirement had softened your sharp edges, revealing a warmth beneath the frigid surface. That night had unraveled everything he thought he knew about you. Without even realizing it, he had begun craving your presence, finding solace in it, drawn to the peace that rested between you.

Since when had you become his safe haven?

Beomgyu closed his eyes and draped an arm over them, lying motionless against the mattress. But the memory of you persisted. The way your arms had wound around him on the rooftop, the way your scent had lingered against his skin—soft florals, a trace of vanilla, and something that was just you. Maybe it was exhaustion clouding his mind, or maybe he had simply stopped pretending, but he wanted to feel your lips against his. The thought struck him like a force of nature, leaving him breathless in its wake.

His spiraling thoughts were abruptly shattered by the creak of the door. Heeseung sauntered in first, voice already animated as he recounted how he had caught two professors making out last night. Jeongin followed behind him, slipping onto the bed beside Beomgyu without a word.

Heeseung, noticing Beomgyu’s silence, slowed his chatter, his tone shifting. "What Jaekyung did during Truth or Dare—I'm sorry, it was very low of him."

Beomgyu sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "It’s fine."

"No, it’s not. Did you see me laughing?" Heeseung pressed. "Yeah, exactly. None of us found it funny. Jaekyung knew he messed up. He barely said a word the rest of the night. Well, specifically after that revelation."

Beomgyu let out a small breath, forcing a half-smile. "Really, it doesn’t bother me."

Heeseung wasn’t convinced. He studied Beomgyu, his sharp gaze flickering over the dark circles beneath his eyes. "You look awful, man. You sure you’re good? You had a long night, huh?"

Beomgyu hesitated. It wasn’t about Jaekyung. It wasn’t about what had been said. The truth sat heavy in his chest, but he couldn't tell them that. Because the real reason for his unrest was you.

Heeseung, ever oblivious, started rummaging through the room, muttering about finding anything to help. But Jeongin, who had been silent all this time, finally spoke.

"Wanna see something?"

Both boys turned to the Hufflepuff as he casually reached into his sling bag and pulled out a small vial. He held it up, letting the light catch on the iridescent liquid inside.

Heeseung nearly choked. "Dude, is that—?"

"Amortentia."

Beomgyu sat up abruptly. "How the hell did you manage to sneak that into Paris?"

Jeongin only grinned, his fox-like eyes gleaming with mischief. "I just did."

"You’re a Slytherin in disguise, aren’t you?" Beomgyu gave him a pointed look.

Jeongin merely shrugged, shaking the vial slightly. "So, do you want to take a whiff or not?"

Beomgyu hesitated—he had smelled Amortentia before, but that was a long time ago. The things he had loved back then surely couldn't compare to now. Slowly, he took the vial, uncorking it with careful fingers. The moment the scent reached, a laugh threatened to break out from him.

Because of course, it was you.

It had always been you.

Your scent filled his lungs, weaving into his very essence, curling into the spaces between his ribs, settling in the marrow of his bones. The delicate trace of your floral shampoo, the warmth of vanilla that clung to your skin, the bittersweet coffee that lingered on your lips. And beneath it all, something intangible—something that wasn't just a scent, but a feeling. A muted gravity pulling him home. It filled him like the hush of the tide against the shore, constant and inevitable.

Beomgyu had spent his life bending, shifting, molding himself into what others needed him to be. Always laughing, always the light, always the reflection of what others wanted. He had blurred the lines of himself so many times that he feared there was nothing real left underneath.

But here, now, he knew.

Because for once, he wasn’t afraid of what he wanted. For once, he wasn’t running away. He was running toward it—toward you.

Beomgyu loved you.

And it was the truest thing he had ever known; the truest he had been to himself.

You weren’t doing any better.

When Yeji left for breakfast, you refused to leave your bed, burying yourself deeper into the sheets. Time passed in a haze until Yeonjun dropped by, setting down a tray of food with an expectant look that left no room for argument. He made sure you ate, his gaze watchful as if he could see right through you. And in the end, he did.

With little effort, Yeonjun coaxed the truth out of you—the tangled mess of last night, the words unsaid, the emotions left raw and aching.

"Wait," he blinked. "You’re saying—I cockblocked you?"

You groaned, shoving a pillow over your face. His choice of words made you cringe, but in a way, he wasn’t wrong. Instead of confirming it, you merely grumbled in protest.

Yeonjun only laughed, ruffling your hair in a rare display of fondness. "It’ll work out," he said, voice softer now. "You two just need to stop being idiots about it."

“Easier for you to say,” you muttered bitterly, throwing another pillow.

He caught it easily, his laughter carried by the wind that visited through your open balcony. Moments like these reminded you why you were grateful to have him in your life—not just as a friend, but as family.

Today, though, you weren’t in the mood to go out. You hadn’t slept a wink last night, and exhaustion pulled at your limbs. So, as the world carried on beyond your window, you curled back under the blankets, surrendering to sleep.

But before you drifted off, a decision settled firmly in your mind.

Tomorrow before leaving, you will talk to Beomgyu.

Beomgyu didn't know who he was expecting when he opened the door, but it certainly wasn't Jaekyung.

His face remained blank, devoid of any welcoming expression, though irritation simmered just beneath the surface. Jaekyung, with his usual cocky nonchalance, stood there holding up two beer bottles as though they were old friends sharing a casual drink. "Let’s have a chat over drinks?"

A bitter taste coated Beomgyu’s tongue. He didn’t want this conversation, didn’t want to spend another second in Jaekyung’s presence, but with the inevitability of Quidditch matches and shared spaces, dragging this out seemed more of a hassle. Exhaling sharply through his nose, he stepped aside, wordlessly agreeing.

That’s how he found himself on the rooftop of the hotel, the night air crisp against his skin, the city lights sprawling endlessly beneath them. Jaekyung popped open his can, tilting his head back for a long chug before sighing, relishing the bitter taste. He started talking—about last night, about how he hoped Beomgyu didn’t take it to heart, how it was all just a joke, how he hadn’t meant to hurt Beomgyu’s feelings or disrespect his mother. The words tumbled out in a half-hearted apology, as though he expected Beomgyu to nod along and laugh it off.

Beomgyu remained silent, his grip loose around his own can, having only taken a single sip. He wasn’t really here to make peace, just to tolerate the moment until it passed.

Jaekyung scoffed, took another sip, and muttered, "That Slytherin bitch really had to ruin shit for me."

Beomgyu’s fingers tensed against the can. His brows furrowed as he turned his head, eyes sharp. "What?"

Jaekyung exhaled in exasperation. "You heard me. That girl—she really has some nerve. If she hadn’t butted in, everything would’ve gone fine for me. But no, she just had to stick her nose where it didn’t belong." He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if disappointed. "You should be careful around her, Beomgyu. I mean, come on. You know how those Slytherins are. Always scheming, always looking out for themselves. Who knows how dirty her hands are? Wouldn't be surprised if she's dabbled in the Dark Arts."

Beomgyu’s grip on the can tightened, metal bending under the pressure of his fingers.

Jaekyung let out a dry chuckle, swirling the beer in his hand. "Hell, I wouldn’t even be shocked if she ended up killing someo—"

The words couldn't fully leave Jaekyung’s mouth, Beomgyu’s fist curled into the front of his shirt, shoving him back with enough force to slam him against the wall. The dull thud of impact echoed in the night air. Jaekyung’s beer can clattered to the ground, spilling its contents across the concrete.

The moment stretched, heavy with unfiltered rage. Beomgyu’s chest rose and fell in deep, controlled breaths, his knuckles white against the fabric of Jaekyung’s shirt. His heart pounded, his vision blurred in a haze of fury.

Jaekyung, momentarily stunned, let out a breathless laugh, his lips twitching into a smirk despite the pressure against his collar. "Don’t tell me you like her?" he taunted, his voice dipping into something almost mocking. "Do you even know what you’re doing?"

Beomgyu’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening. "Say another word about her, and I swear to God, I won’t hold back next time," he warned, his voice low, deadly.

Jaekyung only grinned wider, eyes glinting with amusement. "You’re ruining Gryffindor’s image by hanging around with that filthy Slytherin."

That was all it took.

His fist snapped forward, knuckles colliding with Jaekyung’s jaw in a brutal, sickening crack that rang through the night. Jaekyung’s head jerked to the side, his smirk wiped clean as he staggered, nearly losing his footing.

Beomgyu didn’t care about the consequences. Not the whispers, not the wary glances, not the tarnish on his image this could bring. If it meant protecting you—from slander, from the storm of false assumptions, from people who spat on your name without knowing the first thing about you—then his reputation could burn.

By the time you woke up, the sun had already begun its slow descent beyond the horizon, painting the sky in muted shades of amber and violet. A dull throbbing pulsed behind your eyes as you pushed yourself upright, the remnants of sleep still clinging to your limbs. Blinking away the haze, you scanned the room, your gaze landing on the empty space where Yeji had been. Her absence was quickly explained by the neatly folded note left on the bedside table.

Spending the night with the girls. Don’t wait up!

You sighed, rubbing at your temples before swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. The headache lingered—a dull, persistent ache that made deciding between coffee and painkillers a heavier task than it should have been. Eventually, you settled on coffee, craving the warmth more than anything, but you shot Yeonjun a quick text anyway, asking him to grab some medicine on his way back.

At that moment, Yeonjun was at a bar with his friends. His phone buzzed just as Heeseung announced he was heading back to the hotel. Yeonjun barely glanced at the screen before catching Heeseung by the wrist.

"Hey, do me a favor? Grab some painkillers from the pharmacy on your way back and drop them off for her?"

Heeseung, already halfway out the door, gave a lazy salute before disappearing into the night. The city lights flickered against the polished streets as he made his way to the nearest pharmacy, the mild buzz of alcohol in his veins making everything feel a little lighter. The store was nearly empty save for one other customer browsing the aisles, and in his attempt to maneuver past them, Heeseung’s shoulder clipped theirs, sending both their purchases tumbling to the ground.

"Shit, my bad," he muttered, hastily gathering his things. The stranger offered a muttered reassurance, but embarrassment burned at the tips of his ears. Before he could make a bigger fool of himself, he all but bolted out the door.

By the time he reached the hotel, the sky had deepened to a velvety blue, the streets humming with the distant sounds of nightlife. He knocked on your door, shifting on his feet as he waited. When you finally opened it, brows furrowed in confusion, Heeseung only grinned.

"Yeonjun’s gonna be late, so he asked me to drop this off for you."

You blinked at the offered packet before reaching out to take it. "Oh. Thanks, Heeseung. You should get some rest."

"Yeah, yeah," he waved a hand dismissively, then let out a sheepish chuckle. "Almost didn’t make it in one piece. I crashed into some poor stranger at the pharmacy and sent both our stuff flying. Thought they were gonna curse me on the spot."

You shook your head with a small laugh, watching as he sauntered off down the hall before shutting the door. Tossing the packet onto the bed, you turned your attention to the half-packed suitcase waiting for you. With your departure set for tomorrow night, you figured it was best to finish now, leaving only the essentials untouched.

By the time you were done, you were exhausted. You turned off the lights to ease the dull headache, leaving the room bathed in the faint glow of the city beyond the balcony doors. Drawn by the cool night air, you stepped outside, letting the gentle breeze carry away the last remnants of your lingering headache. The trip had been a blur of moments, each one folding into the next, but despite everything, your thoughts inevitably drifted back to Beomgyu.

You hadn’t seen him all day. Not since last night on the bridge.

Heat rushed to your cheeks at the memory, and you groaned, dropping your face into your palms. Shaking your head, you turned away, desperate for a distraction. That’s when your gaze landed on the packet resting on your bed. Right. You should put it away.

Grabbing it, you tore it open with little thought—only to freeze. There were no painkillers inside. Instead, a mix of unfamiliar medicine stared back at you, along with—

Your stomach dropped.

—several packets of condoms.

For a second, you just stared, unable to process what you were looking at. Then, realization struck like a slap to the face.

Heeseung must've picked up the wrong packet. Oh god.

A strangled sound crawled up your throat as you dragged a hand down your face. There was no way you were keeping this. You had to return it. Now.

Exhaling sharply, you marched toward the door, and yanked it open—only to stumble back in surprise.

Beomgyu stood just outside, equally startled, his eyes widening as yours did the same. Your breath caught, pulse stumbling over itself as you took another step back.

He looked as if he’d been caught red-handed, lips parting slightly before snapping shut, his fingers twitching at his sides. For a moment, neither of you spoke, both frozen in place, the tension crackling between you like a frayed wire. Your heart pounded, his gaze settling heavy in your chest, leaving you breathless in a way that had nothing to do with surprise.

Your eyes widened, and then widened even more when you took in his face—a deep bruise darkening his right cheekbone, his lower lip split and raw. The sharp inhale you took was nearly drowned by the surge of panic crashing through you. Without thinking, you stepped forward, reaching for him, but the movement seemed to shake him from his daze.

“S-Sorry, I should go back—” Beomgyu stammered, already taking a step back.

Your fingers caught his wrist before he could slip away, your grip firm despite the hammering of your pulse. "Get inside."

Beomgyu hesitated, but the authority in your voice left no room for argument. You tugged him in, shutting the door with more force than necessary before turning on the lamp atop the dresser. The warm glow cast soft shadows across the room, illuminating the damage on his face. You exhaled sharply through your nose, frustration simmering beneath your skin as you pushed him onto the bed.

He let you, watching in silence as you crouched before him, scanning his injuries with an expression that left no space for anything but raw, unfiltered concern. He should have been saying something—assuring you, maybe—but he found himself caught instead, watching the way your brows knit together, the way your fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to touch him.

Beomgyu didn’t know what came over him after the fight with Jaekyung, but he was sure of one and one thing only—he needed to see you. That was why he let his feet take him to your room, but as he was about to knock, he woke up from his daze. Caught in between the dilemma of letting his desire to see you win or turn away and go back to his room, he spent more time standing in front of your door than necessary

“Who did this to you?” The question left you in a voice steadier than you felt. But you didn’t wait for an answer. You already knew. “Jaekyung?”

Beomgyu's hand shot out, grasping yours before you could rise. “Listen to me. Please.” His voice was hoarse, his grip warm. “I started the fight.”

You froze, stunned. He sighed, lips pressing together before he spoke again. “He said some things about you he shouldn’t have. I couldn’t just let him run his mouth when he assumed the worst about you.”

Something in your chest twisted—something sharp, something ugly. Your pulse thrummed as a thousand thoughts warred within you. Was this your fault? Did he feel like he had to defend you? Anger flared, not at him, but at the situation, at Jaekyung, at the bruises marking Beomgyu’s skin.

Without a word, you pulled away, heading for the bathroom. You needed something—anything—to fix this mess. But you found nothing, except opting for a bowl of water from the basin. Frustration burned as you muttered a curse under your breath. You yanked open your bag, grabbing your wand and a handkerchief instead. You threw a Mufffliato charm at your door before getting hold of the dresser stool.

Returning, you dragged the stool in front of him, sitting so close your knees brushed. His fingers curled against his lap, his gaze heavy as it followed your movements.

“Are you upset with me?”

“No.” The clipped response did little to ease him. His fingers found yours again, tentative this time. “Don’t be upset,” he murmured, and the quiet weight in his voice sent something quivering through you.

You inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “I’m not upset,” you whispered. “But I need you to let me take care of you.”

You may have appeared frigid outwardly as you pulled your hand away from his and worked to wet the cloth with water, but inside, you were trembling. Your emotions threatened to spill over, pressing against the tight control you struggled to maintain. You chose silence, but the longer Beomgyu stared at you with those dark, blazing eyes, the harder it became to hold everything in.

Beomgyu, as if sensing it, tried to assure you that he was fine.

“Stop.” Your voice wavered despite your best efforts to keep it steady. You refused to meet his gaze, focusing instead on the bruise marring his cheekbone as you brought the cloth to his skin.

The moment it touched his wound, he went rigid, eyes squeezing shut, a strangled groan escaping his lips. The sound shouldn't have sent a shiver down your spine, but it did, settling uncomfortably in the back of your mind. His hand found your thigh, fingers curling into the flesh. Your breath became uneven, hands trembling, but you carried on, ignoring it.

You wrung the cloth in your hands, the fabric twisting between your fingers. "Do you think this changes anything?" The words came measured, steady despite the storm within. "Do you think I care what Jaekyung says about me?"

You dabbed at his wound again, perhaps a little too firmly. Beomgyu hissed softly, but he didn’t pull away. His grip on your thigh tightened instead.

"If he spreads shit about me to the entire Hogwarts, it wouldn’t matter." You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you dipped the cloth back into the water. "I’m used to it." The tremor in your fingers betrayed you as you wrung it out again, your knuckles paling from the force. "Nothing would have made a difference."

You pressed the cloth to his skin once more, frustration bleeding into every action.

Beomgyu’s breath hitched, his fingers twitching against your leg.

You swallowed, hands tense as you tossed the cloth aside. "You didn’t have to act so rashly," you muttered, softer now, though no less strained. Your grip on your wand tightened. "You didn’t have to taint your hands for me." Your lips parted, but the words felt heavy on your tongue. You inhaled sharply, forcing them out anyway. "I’m already in ashes."

The weight of it all pressed down on you, suffocating. Still, you forced your hand steady as you lifted your wand. With a muttered, "Episkey," the bruise on his cheek faded, healing instantly under the glow of magic.

You finally looked at him then, your eyes searching his face. Beomgyu held your gaze, the fire in his own unwavering.

Your hands curled into fists in your lap. "Why?" The question slipped out, quieter than before, like it had been torn from somewhere deep inside you. "Why would you go this far for me? When doing so now will destroy your reputation?"

A shaky breath left you as you ran a hand through your hair, then buried your face in your palms. Silence stretched between you, but it suffocated you and dragged you down as if drowning in the deep sea with no hopes of swimming back up.

Beomgyu watched you, his jaw tightening. Even now, you were worrying about him rather than feeling any anger over being disrespected. How could you be so selfless? How many years of cruel judgment had it taken for you to be this nonchalant about people dragging your name through the dirt?

Regret wasn’t something Beomgyu felt tonight.

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re cute when you’re worked up.”

Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

Beomgyu only offered a lopsided smile, tilting his head. “Did you really think I’d just stand there and let that son of a bitch talk about you like that?” His voice was quiet but firm. “You don’t deserve that.”

You felt waves of gratitude wash over the shore of frustration and guilt, mixing into a cacophony of intangible emotions in your chest. To know the person you loved so dearly saw you for who you were and stood up for you even at the risk of being ruined—it was getting harder to fight back the clog in your throat, the sting behind your eyes.

“But will you ever let me do the same for you?” The words tumbled out before you could even think, slipping past the restraint you had been holding onto.

He stared at you for a moment, his face softening in the dim light. “I didn’t think you needed to,” he said at last, voice quieter now.

“I do,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite the vulnerability in your words. “I want to.”

You held your wand up to heal the split in his lip, but he caught your wrist again, stopping you before the spell could form. You froze when he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the curve of your neck.

“You already do,” he murmured, his voice no louder than the snow drifting outside. “I don't think you realize how much you change everything just by being here.”

His scent was dizzying, warm and intoxicating, pressing into your senses until it became difficult to think of anything else. But nothing could have prepared you for the wildfire coursing through your veins when his lips grazed the skin just above your collarbone. A quiet gasp slipped from you before you could swallow it down. Your free hand moved on instinct, gripping his bicep, feeling the firm muscle beneath the fabric of his hoodie.

“Beomgyu,” you managed to breathe out, mind unraveling at the fact that such a simple touch from him had set your entire body ablaze. You weren’t sure if you were trying to stop him or yourself.

You felt it then—the shudder that passed through him, as though he was holding back something just as consuming as what had taken root inside you. He didn’t move away. Instead, his grip on your hand tightened slightly as he lifted his head, eyes finding yours. His gaze was heavy, dark with restraint, his breath uneven against your lips.

“And I don’t think you understand how hard I’m trying to resist.”

Your chest ached. Because he had been holding back, all this time. And you had, too.

The realization unraveled you. It wasn’t just tonight. It had been every moment before this one—every touch avoided, every glance turned away too soon, every night spent swallowing words that threatened to spill. You had forced yourself into stillness, even when everything inside you begged to reach for him.

But now, with his words settling deep, breaking apart the last of your restraint, there was nothing left to stop you.

Your hand trailed from his bicep, slipping into his hair, fingertips threading through the strands. His lashes fluttered, and then, like he couldn’t help himself, he leaned into your touch, his eyes slipping closed as though savoring the warmth of your palm. A breath escaped him, quiet, shivering.

Your heart pounded. Your emotions curled tight in your chest, coiling, pressing, threatening to consume you whole.

And so you kissed him.

His lips felt soft against yours. The touch was careful, lasting for just a few fleeting seconds before you pulled back, shamelessly breathless, searching his face for his reaction. Beomgyu remained still, gaze lowered, lips parted as he lifted a trembling hand to touch where your lips had been. His fingertips brushed over his busted lip, smearing the faint trace of blood left behind.

“More.”

The word was barely a whisper, but the desperation in his voice sent a spark skittering down your stomach. He let go of your hand, his palms cupping your face instead and pulled you in, crashing his lips onto yours with more intention this time. The sheer intensity of it clawed out a tattered whimper from the back of your throat as you tumbled forward into him.

The taste of blood mixed into the kiss, coppery and intoxicating, the sting of his split lip making him hiss against your mouth. It should have made you pull away, should have given you pause, but instead, it only fueled the heat roaring between you. Your tongue swiped over the wound, drawing a sharp, shuddering moan from him. You noted how he liked the pleasure that came with pain before sliding your tongue deeper into his mouth, claiming him.

He met you with equal fervor, his tongue tangling with yours in a battle for dominance. But you refused to lose. Your body moved on its own, pulling him even closer as you straddled his waist. Your fingers tugged at his hair, drawing a broken moan from him, and just as you felt him start to crumble beneath you, you pushed him back against the mattress.

Beomgyu let out a quiet yelp, eyes wide as he stared up at you, dazed and breathless. Your heart stuttered, not expecting it to be so utterly, devastatingly adorable.

Your gaze flickered over him, your breath shaky, heart thundering in your chest. You had wanted this for so long—to feel him like this, to have his scent clinging to your skin, to taste his lips, even if they were bruised and tinged with blood. It felt surreal, intoxicating, overwhelming in every sense.

A fond smile ghosted your lips as you reached out, fingers brushing through his tousled hair. His skin was already covered in a sheen of sweat, the winter air failing to cool the fire blazing between you. His chest heaved with each breath, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

“Are you still upset with me?” he asked, voice hoarse, breathless.

You shook your head, reaching for his bruised knuckles. Bringing them to your lips, you pressed a soft kiss against them.

“Just promise me you’ll never let yourself get hurt for me.”

His fingers curled against yours, before he lifted his other hand, tangling it in your hair, pulling you down to him. He sealed the promise with another searing kiss, one that stole the breath from your lungs and ignited every nerve in your body. He flipped you over in one swift movement, deepening the kiss.

This time, it was fervent, consuming—his lips moving against yours like he’d been starving for this. His body slotted between your parted legs, pressing against you entirely. Your eyes flew open when you felt him grinding his hips against yours, his hardness rubbing against your torrid core—and despite both of you being clothed, the scorching pleasure it was bringing was mind numbing. A broken gasp spilled from your lips as your back arched against him.

Beomgyu pulled away just enough to look at you, watching the string of saliva connecting your lips before it disappeared. His gaze darkened at the sight of you beneath him—lips swollen and red-stained, face flushed, hair framing you so perfectly that it made his breath hitch. His entire body burned with the need for you, an ache so deep he could barely think.

God, he needed you.

So badly it was nearly unbearable.

“I need you,” he almost pleaded, his hips kept grinding against yours, making your sanity crumble away further. Your mind had nothing left but his name chanted over and over again like a prayer. “Can I have you? Please let me have you?”

You nodded through your haze, because how could you refuse?

He pulled his hoodie and shirt off over his head in a quick motion, and your eyes, heavy with lust, trailed down his body, his flexing muscles as he threw the clothes across the room. Beomgyu dipped down to press his lips to yours once more, his arm wrapping around your head, the other hand tugging at the waistline of your pants. "You're so beautiful," he mumbled against your skin, trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbones before biting down on the supple flesh, eliciting a strained moan from you. "So perfect."

Beomgyu groaned against your pulse point when his fingers slid in between your folds, collecting your arousal before lathering all of it in an up and down motion over your slit, each time bumping against your clit and applying just the right amount of pressure on the bundle of nerve. It sent jolts of pleasure through your body as your nails dug around his shoulders, your back arching into his body. When his name came in the form of a broken melody past your lips, he pushed two fingers in your waiting core, curling them deliriously against your sweet spot that had you seeing stars.

Your hips stuttered, grinding up to meet his thrusting fingers as you writhed underneath him while Beomgyu’s torrid lips drew wonders on your neck, leaving behind a trail of fire. It felt so good, your lips caught between your teeth, your head buzzed with unfathomable ecstasy at the feeling of his long, thick fingers massaging your walls. You only could wonder how his cock would feel inside you. The thought alone had your thighs trembling.

The familiar sensation of heat coiling in your lower stomach began to embrace you, and you knew Beomgyu knew, because your walls clenched around his digits. He lifted his head to lock eyes with you, as his fingers picked up their pace, encouraging you to come undone. “You’re doing so good for me,” he coaxed. “You’re doing amazing, love.”

“Beomgyu,” you whined, voice trembling and gasping. “I’m—I’m almost—”

The relentless pace along with his sweet praises sent your senses into a euphoric haze as you cried out, your walls fluttering around his fingers. Beomgyu ran his fingers through your hair, soothing your scalp as you came down from your high, chest heaving with every breath you took. The sinful sight of him wrapping his lips around his fingers, licking and sucking off your arousal from them made you glance away.

“Sweet. How do you taste so sweet?” His thumb pressed against your bottom lip before pulling it down. His tongue pushed past your lips, the feeling of your arousal melting into your mouth was so overwhelming that it drawled out a groan from you.

Your mind was already so fucked out that you had to snap yourself into reality when Beomgyu repeated his question. He cooed, gently caressing your cheek when you blinked up at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Do you want to keep this on?” he tugged on the hem of your shirt, eyes trailing the skin of your arms where goosebumps have risen. The goosebumps didnt come from the cold, no—it was the mere effect he had on you, so you shook your head, propping yourself up just enough to tug your shirt over your head, leaving only your bra on.

Beomgyu swallowed thickly, sitting back on his heels as his eyes roamed around your body—over the soft swell of your breast, the dips of your collarbone, the curves of your sides—and he kept wondering how he managed to get so lucky. His hand glided up the small of your back and with nimble fingers he unclasped your bra before letting it join the discarded clothes on the floor. Pulling you flushed against his chest, Beomgyu peppered soft kisses on your shoulder and he inhaled your scent. Gosh, he was going crazy—absolutely, maddeningly insane for you.

Your bleary gaze fell on the outline of his hardened shaft, waiting and beginning to be pulled out from its restraints. With shaky hands you reached out to tug on his sweatpants, expectantly looking up at him. Beomgyu wasted no time working on his pants, strong hands pulling you closer to him before his leaking cockhead grazed your clit. The choked moan that escaped from the back of your throat made you wonder if it truly was your voice.

“Protection?” he asked, his voice momentarily cutting through your heady haze.

You nodded, looking at the packet that, now thanks to Heeseung’s clumsiness, came in handy. Beomgyu followed your gaze, reaching for the packet before emptying its contents on the bed. Even if he had any questions, he chose not to voice it as he silently tore one packet with his teeth and rolled the thin rubber over his shaft, giving it a few pumps.

The anticipation that coiled within your stomach crawled up to your throat and through your chest, gathering all your oxygens from your lungs on its way. Beomgyu shuddered over you, hands roaming, fingers mapping out your skin like he was committing every inch of you to memory. He lined the tip of his cock against your entrance—then suddenly stilled all his movements.

Your heart stopped as your eyes searched his face, looking for any semblance of discomfort—or worse, if he was thinking it was all a mistake, if he was thinking of backing out at the last moment. Beomgyu closed his eyes, brows knitting together as he exhaled sharply. The silence felt too thick for you to disturb it. You could only wet your chapped lips—a futile attempt to ease your nerves.

Finally, in a low whisper, he said, “I think I might be a terrible person.”

For a split second, you believed him—you thought he was about to confess something unforgivable. Then you realized that we all think we might be terrible people. But we only reveal this before asking someone to love us. It is a kind of undressing.

You let out a shaky breath. Was it relief? Perhaps. Perhaps it was also the love that you felt for this man. He was already so deeply tangled in your soul, you weren’t ready to let go of him so easily. Not in this lifetime, not in the next, not in any lifetime to come.

You cupped his face, tilting it to make him look at you. You tried to pour all your love, your admiration, your desire into the way you gazed at him. With a fond smile, you murmured, “I’m a terrible person too. And I want you. I just want you—all your flaws, your mistakes, your smiles, your jokes, everything.”

He kissed you, so deeply, so fiercely, that the gasp you let out when you felt him stretching you was entirely devoured by his mouth. Fingers clawing his back, you couldn't decide where to focus—the sheer euphoric wave of pleasure engulfing your body, or the way Beomgyu muttered apologies in your ear.

“Does it hurt? I’m sorry—ah, I'm so sorry, love,” he whispered softly, giving you time to adjust as he slowly sank into your aching core. He gritted his teeth, jaw clenching as he had to fight the urge to cum from just feeling your tight walls clench around him. “I promise, it will feel good. I’ve got you.”

The bed creaked beneath you as he pulled out slowly before pushing back in, setting the pace into deep languid thrusts that had you gasping and moaning with every movement. Beomgyu tried to hold onto the last bit of his sanity when he felt your hand trail up to the hair on his nape, curling and tugging on a fistful. He buried his face into your neck, strained moans filling your ear deliciously as his hips snapped against yours. You didn't notice his arms buckling, one of his hands having to brace the mattress beside your head, fist twisting into the sheets.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to bring him even closer to you—as if such an act of desperation could alone imprint every pattern of his body on yours. The depraved sound of skin against skin along with your mingling groans and gasps resonated off the walls of the room. Your already sensitive cunt throbbed with pleasure with every shallow drag of his cock, reaching unfathomable places inside you.

It wasn't the cold air that sent a shiver down your spine but rather his featherlight touch over your hardened nipple. You squirmed at the sensation and he immediately moved his hand away. “Too much?” concern laced his voice as he let his hand find purchase on your hips instead, massaging the soft flesh. His consideration and care towards you knocked the air out of your lungs, chest constricting painfully.

“Kiss me,” you pleaded breathlessly, “Beomgyu, please kiss me.”

He didn't need to be told twice, stealing your breath in a slow, languid kiss that matched his pace. His lips moved against yours with aching slowness, savoring every second, every press, every stolen breath. His hand from your hip trailed up your sides, leaving a searing path in their wake, fingertips pressing into your skin as if he needed to reassure himself that you were real, that this was real.

All the whimpers and moans that spilled from you—he swallowed them down greedily, a low hum of approval vibrating against your lips. He broke away only to pepper kisses along your jaw, down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. “You drive me insane,” he murmured between kisses, voice thick with desire, each word punctuated by his shallow thrusts. “I don’t think I could ever get enough of you.”

His words sent a tremor down your spine, and when he found the pulse point beneath your jaw, sucking lightly, you let out a soft gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. You felt your high approaching you again, your whimpers getting louder by the seconds as your eyes rolled back to your head. He groaned at the sensation of your walls spasming, the sound reverberating against your skin like a plea, a promise, a confession.

You were his undoing—and he was yours.

“Let go, love,” he muttered in a strained voice as you clenched around him like a vice, your body quivering when you finished, his name spilling from you so sinfully that it drove him over the edge. He helped you ride out your orgasm, seeds spilling inside the condom but the warmth seeped into your walls, making you bite down on your lips harshly.

There was a beat of silence as you both chased for air. Beomgyu moved first, helping you sit up with the same gentleness and care as before. When he returned with a damp towel, he pressed it softly against your skin, wiping away the sheen of sweat. His eyes, dark yet brimming with unmistakable adoration—something tender, something irrevocable—never wavered from yours.

You took in the quiet love in his gaze, the way it mirrored your own, and let yourself smile. Your fingers brushed against his bruised lips, tracing them with featherlight touches. "Remind me to fix this," you murmured.

Beomgyu chuckled, a boyish grin breaking across his face before he tugged you down with him onto the bed. He pulled the covers over both of you, cocooning you in warmth, in safety, in him.

For a fleeting moment, you still thought it was a dream. If it was, then it would be the happiest one you've ever had. But the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the rhythmic beat of his heart against your skin, and the way his body heat shielded you from the bitter Parisian winter told you otherwise. This was real. Every second of it was real.

"I love you," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

You tilted your face up, capturing his lips in a tender kiss, sealing the words against his mouth before murmuring them back to him.

And then, like an echo in your mind, Yeonjun’s words from before resurfaced—that Paris, the city of love, truly had a way of bringing people together.

The morning air was tinged with the scent of freshly baked bread and coffee as you walked through the narrow streets lined with breakfast cafés. The quiet hum of Paris waking up surrounded you, but your mind was far from the charming scenery. Your hands remained tucked in the pockets of your coat as you thought back to the last message exchanged with Beomgyu—your simple note telling him not to wait for you, that he should go ahead and get breakfast without you.

You slowed your steps as you neared a particular café, your gaze settling on the man seated near the window. He hadn’t noticed you yet, too lost in his own world—perhaps nursing the remnants of last night’s misjudgment.

The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped inside, your presence unnoticed at first. You made your way toward him with unhurried steps, pulling out the empty chair across from him with an ease that belied the tension hanging between you.

“Good morning, Jaekyung.”

Your voice was pleasant, smooth—almost sweet—but your eyes held none of the warmth your tone suggested. The cruel amusement dancing in them, however, was impossible to miss.

Jaekyung stiffened, his expression shifting the moment he looked up and met your gaze. He stared as though he had seen a ghost. A reaction you found deeply satisfying.

You leaned back against the chair, taking in the damage Beomgyu had left on his face. A slow smile curled your lips. A shame, really, that Beomgyu’s fist had gotten to him first. You had so much more to say.

Jaekyung recovered quickly, forcing an unimpressed scoff as he crossed his arms. “Are you looking for more trouble?”

Your brow lifted at his audacity. For all his bravado, he didn’t seem as comfortable now. When you didn’t immediately respond, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wincing slightly at the movement. “Look, if this is about your boyfriend, then I have nothing to say. He hit me first, so obviously, I had to act.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, tilting your head slightly as if considering his words. Then, with the same polite smile, you spoke. “Jaekyung,” you said lightly, “if I were you, I’d choose my next course of action very carefully.” You let the words settle, your gaze never breaking from his. “Specifically with the amount of dirt in your hands.”

His fingers twitched against the ceramic cup, his brows knitting together as his body stiffened. His voice dropped slightly. “What do you mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned forward just enough for your presence to fully command his attention. “Between you and me,” you murmured, voice carrying the air of something far more dangerous than idle threats, “I think we both know who truly has tainted hands here, don’t we?”

Silence. A thick, suffocating pause where the realization dawned in his eyes.

You watched him struggle to formulate a response, but you had already grown bored. You pushed back your chair and rose to your feet. You adjusted the cuffs of your coat, smoothing out an imaginary crease as if this entire encounter had been nothing more than a passing chore.

Before turning away, you allowed one last look at him—one that stripped away the pleasantness in your smile and replaced it with something far colder.

“Take it as a word of advice.” You paused. Then, with a sharpened edge that left no room for misinterpretation, you added, “Or better yet—a warning.”

You turned on your heel and walked away, the quiet sound of your departure swallowed by the morning bustle outside. Behind you, Jaekyung remained frozen in his seat, the reality of your words settling deep into his bones.

When you returned to the hotel, you found Beomgyu seated in the lobby by the fireplace, a book in his hands—the same one he had been reading on the train. The sight of him made your heart swell, a warmth unfurling deep within you.

Sensing your presence, Beomgyu lifted his head, his lips curving into a gentle smile—the one he reserved only for you. His face was free of bruises now; you had tended to them carefully that morning before he left your room, making sure every mark was soothed away by your touch.

“You’re back,” he murmured, rising to his feet. His hands found your face, cradling it with the kind of tenderness that made the world around you disappear. Then, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough for you to feel the muted words between you.

A loud gasp shattered the moment.

Oh. Right. You had completely forgotten that your friends were still around.

You turned to find Heeseung standing a few feet away, his mouth comically wide open. Beside him, Jeongin looked positively delighted before promptly dragging Heeseung away, muttering something about giving people privacy. You didn’t miss the way Yeonjun smiled at you from where he sat across the room—there was something genuine, something deeply affectionate in his gaze, as if he was truly, wholeheartedly happy for you.

Beomgyu’s thumbs traced soft circles against your cheeks. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asked, his voice barely above a murmur, as if this moment belonged only to the two of you.

You shook your head. “No. Let’s stay here. It’s warm here.”

You tugged him back to the sofa, the flickering fire enveloping its warmth around you. As you settled in beside him, a playful smile ghosted your lips. Lifting the book in your hands, you turned to him and asked, “Do you read books?”

The same question you had asked him weeks ago, back in the Room of Requirement. Back when you had lent him your shoulder, when he had dozed off beside you as you read together.

Beomgyu huffed out a soft chuckle, recognizing the memory you were drawing upon. Tenderness and something softer flickered in his gaze as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Yes, love,” he murmured, smiling against your skin. “Yes, I do.”

And as you sat there together, wrapped in the soft glow of the fire, you couldn’t help but think that Beomgyu was exactly like an aubade—a gentle reminder of all the warmth and beauty that could be found in unexpected moments, lingering long after the night had passed.

THE END.

Taglist; @dawngyu @gyu-tori @xylatox @hoefororeo @imlonelydontsendhelp @caratcakemoa @flowzel @weaknerv @kejingken @ewsnup @somiaw @bamgeutori @whatblop @hanhani29 @lilbrorufr @melmochii @slut4gyuu @no1likemybbgcharlie @izzyy-stuff @wonderstrucktae @virtaideen @viciousdarlings @rprpilynj @hyukarma @heejamas @beomkyum @fancypeacepersona @jich3nle @beommieternity @fatbixchwithanopinion @frankghgr @xodidarks @thelastairbend3r-blog @nagyu @90steele @kyukyustar @xai-mery @heretoreadshi

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ofbatsandballads · 8 months ago

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a love like religion

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: smut MDNI, unprotected sex, gentle dom!jason, size difference, creampie, biting and scratching hard enough to draw blood, all the pet names from Jason (baby, sweetheart, ma, mama, darlin’, honey), lots of aftercare, hints of codependency from jay and reader.

a/n: was daydreaming about jason (as per usual) and got to thinking about how if he were real I would be so down bad for this man it would be borderline unhealthy. something something about your lover becoming your god or whatnot. ngl wrote this with a bit of a “bones and all” vibe in mind of just needing jay in every conceivable way and it uhhhh…spiraled. so here, have some fucking with copious amounts of aftercare and maybe codependency if you squint?

divider credit: cafekitsune

There aren’t many things in life you can be certain of. The ever changing tides of fate have washed you ashore and swept you back into drowning more times than you can count. You’d grown used to it, the ephemeral nature of being alive. You relied on the two things you knew to be unwaveringly true: you are currently living and breathing; and one day you will die, and the living and breathing will be over. You did not anticipate adding any other unchangeable qualities to this list. You now have one that supersedes every other: you love Jason Todd.

You love him more than anything in this universe or the next. You love him like you love air to breathe. He’s your entire world. The sun holds itself in the smiles he reserves only for you, the stars in the gleaming of his seafoam eyes when the moonlight hits them just right, gravity residing in the weight of his hands on your waist.

You love Jason so much you wish you could crawl into his chest, nestle yourself between his ribs and feel the beat of his heart from within. You can’t, of course. But right now, with his broad frame between your thighs and his hips rocking relentlessly into yours? It’s as close as you can get.

It’s intoxicating, the combination of physicality and emotion. Jason feels so good. His cock pushes against every sweet spot you have, delicious toe-curling drags that have you whimpering his name. And he’s so big. It feels like he’s splitting you in half even though he’d spent a good half hour prepping you on his fingers and his tongue. You wouldn’t have it any other way. Feeling your body give way to him, conforming to the shape and weight of him—it’s like nothing else you’ve ever experienced. Nothing compares to Jason.

That’s part of it too. Sure, the feeling of him driving his thick cock into you would be amazing no matter what. But doing this with him while knowing how much he loves you, how much you love him? It’s divine. No heaven could come close to this. You’d take an eternity with him over anything else.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty, ma. Feel so fuckin’ good around me,” Jason moans as he trails kisses down your neck.

“Jay–Jason, please,” you whine.

You’re not even sure what you’re begging for. He’s giving you everything you need. His hips rock back and forth at the perfect pace, deep thrusts that you swear you can feel all the way in your throat. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles crossing over his lower back in an effort to keep him close. He’s buried to the hilt inside you and yet you still want more.

“What is it, baby? Tell me what ya need,” he pants. “I’ll give you anythin’, sweetheart. Anythin’ you want.”

“You.”

The word tumbles from your mouth over and over and over again. He’s reduced you to a crying, needy mess, incapable of thinking about anything other than him. But he knows you all too well and indulges you in your request. He leans in closer, using all his weight to pin you between his warm body and your disheveled blankets.

All you know is Jason. His large frame above you, so big that he blocks the candlelit bedroom from your sight. His voice cooing praises in your ear—you’re so beautiful, takin’ me so well darlin’, I’m all yours sweetheart. His lips kissing and biting adoring bruises into your neck, your collarbone. How heavenly the wet strokes of his cock feel inside your over sensitive cunt. He moves his hand down to rub your clit at the same time that he licks his way into your mouth and you’re done for.

Burning, bright—a white hot supernova that explodes across every nerve ending from your head to your toes. Your legs lock around him as your whole body shudders. Your nails rake across his back and biceps, pretty red lines blooming over his scars. Your teeth sink into his shoulder and you recognize the coppery taste of his blood. The pleasure-pain of your bite draws forth Jason’s orgasm and the warmth that floods you makes you dig your claws in deeper. You mark him as he marks you. A permanent claim, tangible evidence of the love that hums between you. You have one semi-coherent thought before your mind becomes static: you’re as full of him as you can be; mouth, nails, pussy—you’ve got him in every part of you now.

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until you feel his gentle hands wipe the tears from your face.

“You with me, mama?” he whispers, forehead resting against yours.

You hiccup. It takes all your energy to nod weakly in confirmation. You cling to him, not letting him move an inch away from you. His strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you as close to him as physically possible. The movement causes his half hard cock to grind deliciously inside you and you’re gasping into the crook of his neck.

“Stay. Please,” you beg through tears.

Jason just holds you tighter to his chest, and you find safety in the strength of his embrace.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby. I’m stayin’ right here with you,” he assures you.

After a few moments, your head clears ever so slightly. You become conscious of touch. Your hands twitch back to life and you discover that Jason has placed them around his neck. Your fingers rest against his pulse, the steady badum badum badum lulling you back to lucidity. You blink open your teary eyes and see concern swirling in the deep sea green of your lover’s.

“Was it too much? I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, baby. I’m sorry,” he whispers, gentle as the winter rain that’s beginning to fall outside.

“Not overwhelmed,” you mumble into his neck. “I just love you.”

Your voice cracks on those four words. You break under the bruising weight of your love for him. You think it could kill you, could bury you six feet under, and you would happily die for it. You would happily die for him. You don’t think you’d want to go out any other way. His hand in yours; it’s the only way you can exist now.

Jason feels it too. He knows you almost as well as you know yourself. He knows how complete your devotion is to him, how he could ask for anything and you would offer it up without hesitation. He knows his is the same. You could demand his heart on a silver platter and he’d go grab his daggers that are displayed neatly on the wall and the fine china back at Wayne Manor. And maybe it’s a lot, maybe you’re both a little too attached. But how could either of you possibly care when loving each other felt this good?

So he handles you delicately. He soothes you when your sobbing returns as he goes to grab a warm washcloth. He wipes your tears as he cleans your combined spend off your thighs. He gently pulls a pair of his boxers over your hips, one of his hoodies over your head. He cradles you in his arms as he carries you to the living room to eat some snacks and continue binging The Great British Baking Show. You’ve come back to reality now. A soft peace settles across your overworked body and mind as you lie intertwined with Jason on the sofa.

“I’m sorry I lost it a little there,” you mumble into his chest, cheeks flushed and more than a tad embarrassed.

“You got nothin’ to apologize for, honey. How many times have I done the same?”

It’s true. Most times it’s Jason that’s the sobbing, fucked out mess in the afterglow. It’s part of why the come down hit you so hard this time. You feel almost guilty, like you should’ve been able to hold yourself together better for him. You swear he can read your mind when he gently grabs your chin and turns your head to face him.

“Hey, none of that feelin’ bad bullshit. We take care of each other. It’s what we do. You’re the one always sayin’ that, right?” he asks, softly nudging his hooked nose against yours.

“Yeah, we take care of each other,” you whisper. “Forever and always?”

Jason absolutely beams at you, and suddenly nothing matters but him and the love you share in this little bit of time and space that’s all yours.

“Forever and always.”

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #red hood x you #jason todd smut #remy writes 🖋️#anyways I need him and if he were real I would need ONLY him

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archivequinn · 7 days ago

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Heat Signature | Johnny Storm

Summary: You are a brilliant young scientist, recently recruited to collaborate with the Fantastic Four on your most ambitious project yet. The mission? Present your prototype to the world, secure funding, and finally prove your ideas right. Everything was supposed to go smoothly. But nothing is ever easy when Johnny Storm is involved.

As he offers his surprisingly insightful support and insists on becoming your personal assistant (because of course he does), you're pulled into an unexpected partnership filled with banter, brainpower, and barely contained sparks. Things get even more complicated when a hotel mishap forces you to share a room, and long nights working together start to blur the lines between professional and... something else entirely.You’re supposed to be focused on the mission—but how do you stay scientific when your assistant has cheekbones that should be illegal and a smile that feels like setting the world on fire?

Words: 5,760

ao3 link

part 1

You are a scientist. Not just any scientist.

You’re the kind that rewrites blueprints in your sleep and questions the laws of physics for fun—like they’re puzzles left behind by an ancient god daring you to dream bigger. You breathe data, eat uncertainty for breakfast, and wear your curiosity like armor in a world that often underestimates ambition wrapped in a white lab coat. You're driven, tenacious, and just the right amount of arrogant to survive in a building where the average IQ could short-circuit a satellite.

From the moment you stepped foot into the Baxter Building—a towering monument to innovation and impossible dreams—your life has been a whirlwind of experiments, hypotheses, and groundbreaking discoveries. You remember the way the elevator hummed beneath your feet that first day, how your fingers twitched with anticipation, notebook clutched to your chest like a secret waiting to change the world.

Working with Reed Richards himself—yes, Mister Fantastic, the human rubber band with a brain that makes quantum computers look like typewriters—is something that still feels like fiction. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at him mid-sentence, wondering if you accidentally walked into a dream built by sheer intellect and a ridiculous amount of stretch. He’s your mentor now. Endlessly patient, maddeningly curious, and somehow always three steps ahead of a universe that can barely keep up with him. Being in his orbit is like standing in the gravity well of a collapsing star—overwhelming, illuminating, and transformative.

Then there’s Sue Storm. The Invisible Woman. And oh, you could write a thesis on her alone.

She’s brilliance wrapped in calm. Grace under pressure. Arguably the most powerful person in the entire building, and somehow also the most grounded. Her force fields could level a city, sure—but it’s her emotional equilibrium, her quiet authority, and the way she sees people that leaves you breathless. She enters a room and shifts its center of gravity—not by force, but by sheer presence. She listens to your ideas with genuine attention, offers feedback without a trace of condescension, and reminds you, with a soft touch on the shoulder, that even the best minds crack sometimes—and that’s okay. You carry her inspiration with you like a lodestar, stitched between the lines of your every breakthrough.

And of course, there’s Ben Grimm.

The ever-lovable rock wall with a Brooklyn accent and a soul soft as warm bread. He treats you like you’ve been part of the team since the Big Bang, always cracking jokes that are half-groan, half-hug. He brings bagels every Friday morning because, in his words, “science runs on carbs, and you deserve the good stuff.” Sometimes, he’ll hold your tools while you rant about data corruption like a war general, nodding solemnly, adding the occasional “sheesh” for effect. He teases, sure—but there’s respect in his humor. Solid, unshakable. Like you’re one of his own. Like you already passed the test you didn’t know you were taking.

You're one of the youngest researchers to ever be offered a permanent position at Baxter Labs, and let’s be clear—it wasn’t luck. You earned this. Bled for it. Burned through sleepless nights and empty coffee cups and the kind of obsessive perfectionism only a true visionary can afford. Your project—an experimental energy harnessing system designed to convert atmospheric pressure into clean, unlimited power—isn’t just a fancy light show. It’s a revolution waiting to be born. Think: energy towers in the most remote, forgotten corners of the globe. Limitless electricity humming through places that were once cloaked in darkness. No more fossil fuels. No more geopolitical extortion. Just a new world, quietly blooming under the hum of progress.

You know what this means. They know what this means. And for the most part, they support you every step of the way.

Well… almost everyone.

Because then— There’s him.

Johnny Storm. The Human Torch.

Golden boy of the Fantastic Four. The literal hotshot. A walking flame with a jawline sculpted by chaos and a grin so criminally smug it probably has its own SHIELD file. He enters every room like it’s already his, radiating a confidence so infuriatingly casual that it leaves smoke trails in its wake.

He doesn’t technically work in your lab. And yet—somehow, he’s always there.

Perched on counters, stealing your test results to “check your math,” throwing peanuts into your beakers and calling it a “stress test.” Once, he tried to “optimize” your prototype by melting its casing with his finger—purely in the name of curiosity, of course.

“Relax,” he said, watching you panic over days of lost work, “you should thank me. Now you know it can’t handle extreme heat. That’s… like, important data, right?”

You tried not to scream. You really did.

He’s infuriating. A menace in designer sunglasses. The kind of guy who sets off the fire alarm just by entering the room with too much attitude and half a joke tucked behind his teeth.

He calls you things like “Einsteinette” and “Lab Coat Babe,” and once had the audacity to introduce you at a press conference as “the real genius around here—but don’t tell Reed.” You spent the next three days avoiding eye contact with your mentor, convinced you were seconds away from being vaporized by Reed’s disapproval-laced silence.

But here’s the thing: He’s not mean. Not cruel. Not careless in the way that would actually harm.

In fact, there’s something stupidly charming about the way he teases you, like a schoolboy yanking the hair tie of the girl he’s secretly in love with—but doing it with fire-tipped fingers and a smirk that could melt steel. It’s infuriating, honestly. He brings you coffee sometimes—only to immediately steal a sip with the most unapologetic grin you’ve ever seen, as if your caffeine dependency is somehow his business. He fixes your wiring when you're too tired to see straight—then denies it ever happened, like your suddenly functioning equipment just magically repaired itself in the night.

He listens when you talk about your project, even if he leans back dramatically in his chair, yawning and muttering sarcastic comments under his breath. And somehow, he always knows when something's off—like the day your test chamber collapsed and wiped out three months of data and progress in under three seconds. You were seconds away from breaking down.

But he didn’t say much. Just sat beside you on the cold, scuffed lab floor, like it was the most natural thing in the world, handed you a half-melted protein bar, and nudged your shoulder gently until your breath hitched and a reluctant laugh slipped out before you could stop it. No lectures. No false promises. Just presence. Just him.

He’s there. Always somehow... there. Like gravity, like inertia, like a law of nature written into the physics of your days.

And despite how much you pretend to hate it—how you roll your eyes when he bursts in without knocking, or groan when he calls you Einstein in that exaggerated tone—you’ve started to expect him. You’ve started to look for him in the room before you even realize it. You’ve started to look forward to him.

Which is absurd, of course. You’re a serious scientist. A respected one. You don’t have time for distractions—especially not ones with cheekbones like Greek architecture and flames for fingers, ones who walk like they own every room they step into and smile like they know your deepest secrets.

Still, every theory has an exception. And somehow, he’s the one anomaly you can’t solve.

Today is the day you’ve been working toward for what feels like your entire life. The culmination of years of sweat, setbacks, breakthroughs, and breakdowns. The Baxter Building’s main lab has never been this full—scientists from across the globe, advisors from powerful institutions, Reed’s most respected peers, the kind of minds who write the future of science rather than merely follow it.

All seated. All watching. All murmuring in anticipation, their voices a dull thrum beneath the quiet hum of the machines. Cameras hover silently, mechanical eyes blinking red, and the glass panels between you and the audience shimmer faintly—fragile, transparent boundaries separating genius from failure, acclaim from humiliation.

You stand center stage. Your palms are damp. Your heart pounds like it’s trying to escape your ribs. Your pulse roars in your ears like static, like warning—but your voice, miraculously, remains steady as you begin.

“Today I’ll be presenting a working prototype of the Atmospheric Pressure Converter. A system designed to extract clean, renewable energy from weather systems already present in our atmosphere.”

It sounds simple. Polished. Practiced. But you know the weight those words carry. Because behind that sentence are months of grueling research, towers of dog-eared notes, blown circuits, abandoned blueprints, and sleepless nights you stopped counting after week six.

Your hands hover over the console, trembling ever so slightly. You type in the final sequence. Every keystroke feels like a countdown. You glance up once—Sue gives you a firm, encouraging nod, calm and grounded like always. Reed watches closely, already calculating the variables. Ben lifts his chin with a subtle but solid you got this expression.

And far in the back, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, half-shadowed and entirely unfazed, is Johnny Storm. The Human Torch. Your personal fire hazard.

He catches your eye. Raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. Mouths, Go get 'em, Einstein.

You smile. Briefly. Despite everything.

Then press the activation key.

There’s a low hum. A flash of blue light across the console. Something stirs in the core of the machine—you feel it, like the first pulse of a heartbeat. For one perfect second, it looks like it’s working. Like the years of effort have finally, finally paid off.

But then comes the sputter. The flicker. The pop.

Suddenly, the lab fills with smoke. Dense, chemical, stinging your eyes. Alarms whine in high-pitched chorus. Red lights strobe. A gust of cold air pushes through the vents as emergency systems roar to life. The prototype emits one final, sickly whine— —and dies.

Just dies.

You freeze. Fingers clutching the edge of the table. Your eyes sting—not from the smoke, but from something sharp and hot rising in your chest.

You hear someone coughing. Glass scraping. A chair being pushed back too fast. The crowd on the other side of the glass ripples with confusion, then disappointment. Then, worse—amusement. A few people whisper. One of them snorts.

And then comes the silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that lands on your shoulders like a lead blanket, thick and heavy and suffocating. The kind that makes your heartbeat sound like thunder in your own head. The kind that feels like failure echoing louder than any explosion ever could.

Your cheeks are burning. Your throat is dry. You try to explain—to speak, to move, to salvage something—but your brain is jammed. Glitching. Stuck in a loop that only says you failed you failed you failed you failed.

And all you can think, over and over, is: I failed. I failed in front of everyone.

You turn on your heel and walk out. Not slowly. Not with grace. Not with some dignified speech.

You bolt.

By the time you reach the smaller lab space you’ve been using as your private workroom, your chest is aching—tight and burning like the embers of something that never quite caught fire. Your legs give out the moment the door clicks shut behind you, a soft but definite sound, like the final punctuation on a sentence you didn’t want to finish. You collapse to the floor, spine pressed to the cold, sterile wall, curling into yourself. You draw your knees up, holding them close like they’re the only thing left that won’t fall apart if you squeeze hard enough.

It’s not fair. You worked so hard. You knew it was ready.

But the world didn’t agree. And now all you’re left with is the ringing silence of failure.

What went wrong?

You don’t even realize you’re crying until your fists, clenched in the sleeves of your lab coat, grow damp. Your fingers tighten around the fabric as if anchoring yourself to this reality might somehow undo it. There’s a wet warmth at the corners of your mouth—a trail left behind by tears you didn’t invite. A quiet, broken gasp escapes, and you clamp your lips shut like you can hold back the flood. But it’s too much. The pressure in your chest builds, thrums like a second heartbeat, demanding release. So, finally, you let it out.

A stack of folders beside you gets the worst of it. They crash to the ground like toppled dominoes, papers scattering in a flurry of disarray—fluttering down like autumn leaves torn too soon from their branches. Some pages catch the edge of your worktable, others skim across the floor as though trying to flee the scene. You lash out at a nearby chair without even looking; it tips, crashes down. A loud, metallic thud. You don’t care. You’re already broken open. What’s a little more mess?

Somewhere behind you, the door creaks open.

It’s a small sound. But in the vacuum of your grief, it feels enormous.

You lift your head just enough to catch the silhouette of someone tall, framed in gold by the hallway’s flickering light. The sharp contrast makes him look almost unreal—like a statue caught between dimensions.

Johnny.

He hesitates in the doorway. He always does when you're like this. Not out of fear—no, Johnny Storm doesn’t know what fear is—but uncertainty. Guilt, maybe. Not knowing if this is a moment where words help or hurt. Not sure if you want to be found.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s so soft, you almost don’t catch it. Like he’s afraid to disturb you. Like he’s learned the language of your quiet and is trying not to speak too loud.

You turn your face away, burying it deeper in your knees. “Go away.”

But of course, he doesn’t.

He never does.

Instead, he carefully steps over the wreckage you’ve left in your wake, graceful despite the chaos. He crouches beside a few scattered pages, gently gathering them up with the clumsy reverence of someone handling old love letters. He holds them in the wrong order, squints at them like they’re hieroglyphs.

“I think this one had a diagram? Or a doodle,” he murmurs. “Maybe both.”

You don’t laugh. Not quite. But something involuntary escapes you—a breath, shaky and soft, caught halfway between a sob and a scoff.

He glances at you, then carefully lays the papers aside like they’re pieces of a broken puzzle he doesn’t know how to fix. “Okay. New plan.”

With a small flick of his wrist, fire blossoms at his fingertip—a spark that dances and then steadies. He draws the flame into his palm, shaping it slowly, almost meditatively. You watch, your tears still clinging to your lashes, as the fire stretches and flickers and curls inward. It breathes. It blooms.

And then, impossibly, it becomes a rose.

Not a cartoonish flame flower, not a haphazard shape—but a rose. Delicate and impossibly precise, petals glowing in shades of orange and gold, pulsing like it has a heartbeat of its own. Alive, but not burning.

“For you,” he says, as if offering you a paperclip instead of a miracle. His crooked smile is familiar, crooked like the rest of him. “Don’t tell Sue I’m using my powers indoors.” He holds it out. “It’s non-flammable. Promise.”

You stare at it—this ridiculous, beautiful, useless thing—and for the first time in hours, something in your chest eases. You smile. Just barely. But it’s real.

“Better,” he says, smug and proud. “Though, to be fair, I thought about making you a tiny fire-dinosaur. But I wasn’t sure if you were more of a T-rex or a stegosaurus person.”

You shake your head, lips twitching. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I prefer ‘devastatingly charming.’ But I’ll accept ridiculous,” he says, with a faux-formal bow.

Then he drops down beside you, sitting cross-legged like this is just another Tuesday. His fingers absently spin the flame-rose in midair, making it twirl like a ballerina made of heat.

“I saw the whole thing,” he says after a beat. His voice dips lower, softer. “The presentation, I mean. You were... amazing. Up until the part where your machine kind of... exploded. That part was slightly less amazing.”

You grimace. The memory is still too raw. Too loud.

“I know today sucked,” he says, nudging your knee gently with his. “And yeah, okay, not ideal when your Big Moment goes up in smoke—pun extremely intended—but hey… I’ve torched entire press conferences before. At least yours didn’t melt anyone’s shoes.”

You wince at the reminder, but it’s softened by the sheer absurdity of his tone. Typical Johnny. Bright enough to burn, but somehow always finding light in the ashes.

“But you know what?” he continues, voice laced with something rare—earnestness. “Every single genius I know has had something blow up in their face at least once. Reed’s first interdimensional gate turned his eyebrows green for a week. True story.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. It bubbles up, unexpected and uncontrollable. It cuts through the fog like sunlight.

“There you are,” Johnny grins, triumphant. “Knew you were still in there.”

Then, more gently, with a gravity he rarely shows: “You’re not done. Not even close. Whatever broke today, we’ll fix it. Together.”

You turn to look at him again—and this time, you really look.

His eyes are steady. Still full of mischief, sure—but underneath, there’s something unwavering. Something that says: I see you. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.

And somehow… Somehow, for the first time in what feels like hours, you believe him.

“I should look at the internal stabilizer,” you murmur—your voice hoarse, rasping from fatigue and tears, but there’s a steadiness returning to it now. Like the storm in your chest has passed, leaving behind something quieter. Sharper. “It was the last component I installed. If anything misaligned during calibration…”

Johnny raises both brows, that ever-present mischief already flickering to life behind his eyes. With the kind of overdramatic flourish he probably practices in the mirror, he straightens up and extends a hand like a gentleman at a Regency ball.

“Well then, Doctor,” he says, that infamous smirk creeping back into place like it never left, “shall we science the hell out of this mess?”

You blink. A breath. A heartbeat.

And then—you take his hand.

He pulls you up, maybe a bit too dramatically, as if he’s casting you in some invisible movie scene only he can see. It’s absurd, and exactly what you need. Your legs are unsteady, your joints stiff from sitting too long in grief, but the moment you’re standing beside him—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin like a living ember—it’s like your balance resets.

Maybe not hope yet. But movement. That’s something.

Together, you approach the wreckage of your prototype like detectives returning to the scene of a very personal crime. You drop to your knees beside the housing panel, already thinking through component hierarchies and conductivity flow, while Johnny casually starts clearing debris like a man auditioning for America’s Got Magicians.

“Careful,” you mutter, your voice dry. “That’s the focusing ring, not a frisbee.”

He holds the circular piece like it’s a bagel he’s not quite sure how to eat. “Noted. No throwing the glowy donut. Even if it glows really, really temptingly.”

You roll your eyes. But a corner of your mouth quirks upward. You let it.

Time slips after that. The hours don’t tick—they hum.

You adjust calibrations with trembling fingers. He hands you tools without needing to ask. You think aloud, mapping logic into the air like it’s a language only the two of you understand. He listens. Occasionally tosses out a wild theory. Sometimes it’s complete nonsense, other times it sparks something useful—and once, just once, it makes you stop mid-sentence and whisper, “Wait… that could actually work.”

He grins like a kid winning a science fair.

He never leaves. Not even for a second. He doesn’t check his phone, doesn’t get bored, doesn’t make an excuse to duck out. He just… stays. A constant, chaotic flame beside you. Comforting. Steady, in his own unpredictable way.

Eventually, your body starts to give out before your mind does. Your fingers cramp. The numbers stop making sense. You blink too long between thoughts, and equations begin to unravel into meaningless squiggles.

Johnny notices immediately.

“Okay, genius,” he says, nudging your knee with the gentlest pressure. “Time to take five. And by five, I mean horizontal.”

You shake your head, bleary. “I can’t—there’s still a fluctuation in the thermal grid and I—”

“You’re fried,” he cuts in, and—for once—there’s no pun layered underneath the word. Just quiet, unvarnished concern. “Literally and figuratively. You’ve been running on fumes since Tuesday, and I know caffeine is like your fifth vital sign, but even you can’t keep this pace forever.”

You want to argue. Really, you do. But the edge of the workbench is right there, and your skull feels like it’s being held up by willpower alone. So instead of a retort, you let your forehead rest against the desk, eyes drifting shut just for a moment.

Just a moment.

When you open your eyes again, the world is different.

Dim. Quiet. Soft around the edges.

Johnny’s hoodie is draped over your shoulders like a makeshift blanket, its warmth soaked into your skin. You’re curled on the battered couch in the corner of the lab, its cushions lumpy but familiar. You have no memory of walking here, no recollection of lying down.

And it’s morning.

Pale sunlight filters through the blinds in strips, painting stripes across the cluttered worktables and upturned chairs. You shift groggily, blinking sleep from your lashes. Your joints ache. Your mouth is dry.

Then, you see him.

Across the room, Johnny is perched at your desk—hair mussed, back slightly hunched, sleeves rolled up. There’s a graveyard of energy drink cans at his elbow and a small constellation of highlighters scattered like fallen stars across your papers. Your notes are spread out in front of him, messy and brilliant, with his own chaotic scribbles threading between your equations.

He’s so focused he doesn’t even notice you.

You watch, wide-eyed, as he lines up a scrap of circuitry with the schematic you gave up on hours ago. He tilts his head, murmuring under his breath like he’s translating from a language no one taught him. “That’s why the frequency kept looping… it wasn’t the stabilizer. It was the dampener coil.”

He says it like it betrayed him personally.

Then he adjusts something in the prototype, carefully, precisely—and powers it up just enough to see.

A soft blue light flickers across the panel.

And holds.

You inhale sharply. The air catches in your throat.

He… did it.

You slide off the couch in silence, blanket falling around your ankles like shed armor. He hears the soft shuffle of your steps and looks up, surprised.

“Oh—hey. Morning,” he says, as if this is the most casual thing in the world and not a cinematic redemption arc unfolding before your eyes.

You stare at the machine, then back at him. “Did you just…?”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I couldn’t sleep, and you were snoring like an angry squirrel, so I figured I’d—”

“Johnny.”

He stops talking.

You approach slowly, reverently, like the prototype might vanish if you move too fast. Your fingers graze the edges of the modified coil. You trace the new connection—precise, subtle, clever.

You see it now.

The loop was too tight. The output needed the tiniest breath of delay. A fractional pause. Something only a heat-reactive element could provide.

He didn’t guess.

He understood.

You turn to him. The weight in your chest expands and contracts at once.

“You stayed up all night,” you whisper. “You fixed it.”

He shrugs, but his voice is softer than before. “Team effort.”

And just like that, your heart trips over itself.

Because this man—this beautiful disaster, this self-proclaimed human sparkler—sat in your failure without trying to smother it or sweep it away. He didn’t run. He learned. For no reward. For no recognition.

Just for you.

You don’t even think. You close the space between you and wrap your arms around him.

He goes stiff—like you short-circuited something. But after a breath, his arms circle your waist and hold on. Not too tight. Just enough. His chin finds the top of your head like it belongs there.

He holds you like someone trying to stay grounded. And maybe… that’s what you both are now. Anchors. Balance. Fire and focus.

“I told you,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low and steady. “You’re not done.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever… you smile.

Because maybe brilliance doesn’t come from isolation. Maybe it doesn’t need perfection or applause.

Maybe it just needs someone who stays.

Someone who burns.

The second chance doesn’t come easy. Reed is skeptical—of course he is—and it takes a week’s worth of data reconstruction, hypothesis defense, and shameless begging to get him to approve presenting the repaired prototype. You know he’s only giving in because Johnny keeps popping into the lab mid-meeting with a “Come on, Stretch, don’t be a drag,” and somehow, every time he speaks, Reed sighs like a disappointed professor but waves his hand in reluctant permission.

The new presentation is scheduled at a much larger scientific symposium in another city—higher stakes, bigger audience, potentially career-defining. Naturally, everything needs to be perfect. And Johnny—chaotic, loud, infuriatingly charismatic Johnny—has volunteered to be your assistant this time.

“I still think ‘assistant’ is too humble a title,” he says, leaning casually against the lab bench as you pack your notes into a case. “I prefer ‘co-pilot.’ Or ‘mission specialist.’ Or—wait for it—‘hot sidekick.’”

“You’re literally just carrying the clicker,” you remind him dryly.

“Yeah, and emotional support,” he adds, placing a hand over his heart in mock sincerity. “You think Reed approved this trip because of your graphs? No, sweetheart. It’s my winning smile and disturbingly good hair.”

He’s impossible, but at this point, you’ve stopped fighting it. He is helping. He stays up sorting your diagrams while you recalibrate the simulation. He runs coffee during the worst of your breakdowns. And when you stress spiral over whether the new stabilizer will hold, he’s the one who reminds you to breathe.

The trip begins with a six-hour drive in the Fantasti-Car—because Johnny refuses to take a commercial flight when he could, quote, “look this good while flying solo.” And for a moment, it's easy to pretend this is just… normal. Like you're two regular people on a work trip, not one brilliant scientist and a literal supernova in human form.

That illusion shatters at the hotel lobby.

“I’m sorry,” the desk clerk says, blinking at the screen. “There’s only one room under your reservation.”

You frown. “That can’t be right. Herbie was supposed to book two.”

Johnny glances over your shoulder with a grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And let me guess… one king bed?”

The clerk checks again, sheepish. “Yes. That’s… what it says.”

You turn to Johnny. “Tell me you didn’t bribe Herbie.”

He gasps, hand over chest. “How dare you accuse me of something so—okay, maybe I suggested he book us somewhere with a hot tub. But that’s entirely beside the point.”

“There is no point. I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

Johnny leans in slightly, smirking. “Come on. We’ve literally fought interdimensional threats side by side. You’re telling me this is the line you draw?”

“I like boundaries. And personal space. And uninterrupted REM cycles.”

“Well,” he says, slinging an arm over your shoulders, “good thing I sleep like a log. You won’t even notice I’m there.”

You roll your eyes so hard you’re afraid they might stick, but the damage is done. There’s only one room, and nothing available for miles thanks to the conference crowd. Begrudgingly, you follow him upstairs.

The room is… fine. Neutral. Corporate beige. Two lamps, one desk, and one very large bed that now feels impossibly small.

Johnny tosses his bag onto it like he owns the place, already kicking off his shoes. “You want left or right?”

“I want a completely different room, preferably on a different floor.”

“No refunds,” he singsongs, flopping back onto the mattress with a dramatic groan. “This is kinda nice, though. Like a school field trip. Except we’re way smarter. And hotter.”

You sigh and drop your case onto the chair, ignoring how your pulse picks up every time his shirt rides up slightly as he stretches. He doesn’t mean anything by it—he never does—but you’re starting to.

Because somewhere between the jokes and the endless teasing, he’s wormed his way past your carefully calculated walls. And now, trapped in this room with him, it’s getting harder to pretend he’s just a distraction.

Later that night, you're both side by side on the bed, laptops open, notes spread out like a paper sea between you. He’s surprisingly focused—eyes narrowed, fingers tapping as he scrolls through a simulation you coded just yesterday. Every so often, he makes a joke, and you laugh—maybe too loudly. He looks over, and for half a second, the room is silent.

And then he says, “You know… I’ve worked with a lot of scientists. Been to a hundred of these boring tech things. But this one? I actually care about. 'Cause you're in it.”

You stare at him, heart thudding. “That’s… dangerously close to a compliment.”

He smiles, soft and a little too genuine. “Maybe I’m just evolving.”

The room is warm. Maybe it’s the lack of proper AC or the oversized windows swallowing the evening sun whole. Or maybe—it’s just him.

Johnny lounges across half of the bed like he owns it. Which, technically, he doesn’t. The plan was two beds. Two separate sleeping arrangements. Nothing remotely intimate. But somehow, due to Herbie’s enthusiastic but questionable booking skills, there is now one king-sized bed and a very long night ahead.

You stand stiff by the desk, pretending to check tomorrow’s itinerary for the sixth time, your fingers twitching around your tablet like it might suddenly give you a second bed if you poke hard enough.

Johnny glances over his shoulder, his eyes flickering with mischief. “You’re pacing.”

“I am not pacing,” you mutter, very much pacing.

“You are. You’re doing the anxious little professor shuffle.”

You shoot him a glare. “There is no such thing as a ‘professor shuffle.’”

“There is now. You invented it. Congrats.” He grins. That same grin. The one that could probably make flowers bloom or planes crash, depending on the mood.

With a dramatic sigh, he shifts, flopping back against the pillows and folding his arms behind his head. “Look, I know sharing a bed with me must be a tremendous hardship for you.”

“Oh, absolutely agonizing,” you say flatly. “I’m practically trembling.”

He chuckles, soft and smug. “You could just admit I’m kind of charming.”

“I could also admit you’re a narcissistic fire-hazard with a flair for dramatics.”

Johnny mock-gasps. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, eyes fixed on you. “You really think I’m a fire-hazard?”

You look at him. Really look at him.

His hair’s still a little messy from the flight, tousled in that frustratingly perfect way. His eyes glow—not just metaphorically, but with this actual, barely-there amber hue, as if the sun never truly left him. You wonder if he’s always this warm. If it’s a power thing, or just a him thing.

And God, those arms. Not fair. Scientists shouldn't have arms like that. Especially not ones currently folded around a pillow like they’re auditioning for some late-night fantasy commercial.

“I think you’re…” You hesitate. “...a bit much.”

His grin widens. “A bit much?”

You nod. “Loud. Chaotic. Obnoxiously confident. And sometimes—very occasionally—you’re… helpful.”

Johnny blinks. Something shifts in his gaze. Just a fraction. The smile’s still there, but it softens. Like he heard more than you meant to say.

“You’re not so bad yourself, you know,” he says. “Brilliant. Scary smart. Kind of terrifying when you go full lab-mode. And I like that you don’t let me get away with anything. Makes life interesting.”

You feel your throat tighten a little. You’re not used to this—him being sincere. And it does something weird to your insides. Something uncomfortably fluttery.

He shifts again, this time sitting up, legs folded under him, his presence magnetic in the quiet room. “I know I joke around a lot, but... I’m not clueless. I see the way you look at me sometimes.”

Your heart stumbles.

“I don’t—”

He raises a hand. “It’s okay. I look at you too.”

There’s silence. A heavy, electric pause that crackles between you.

And then he’s closer.

You don’t remember moving. Don’t remember crossing the space. But somehow, your knees are brushing, your breath is shallow, and his fingers are just barely grazing yours like he’s asking permission without saying a word.

Your brain screams to calculate, to classify, to analyze—but your body moves faster. Leans in. Tilts up.

He meets you halfway.

The kiss is surprisingly gentle at first. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches you too much. But it deepens quickly—warm and insistent, as if he’s been holding back for way too long.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. You’re acutely aware of every inch of him—the way his lips move with yours, the subtle heat radiating from his skin, the fact that he smells like smoke and something golden.

When you finally pull away, breathless, he grins against your lips. “Told you I was charming.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs, voice low, fingers still tangled in yours. “It’s already there.”

dividers by @strangergraphics

#fantastic four #fantastic four first steps #johnny storm #joseph quinn johnny storm #johnny storm fantastic four #johnny storm fic #johnny storm fanfic #johnny storm one shot #johnny storm x reader #johnny storm x you #fluff and romance #flirty and protective Johnny Storm #slow burn #friends to lovers #sharing a bed #the human torch #human torch #fantastic 4 #joseph quinn fantastic four

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nightingale-prompts · 4 months ago

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Worship Me- DCxDP prompt

Yes, it's slightly horny. Sue me!

Was there anyone in this family that didn't attract crazy? Tim would like to say that it was some more than others but the track record is horrendous for each of them.

Don't ask him how he got here. It was a blur. Mission. Altar. Cursed Mirror.

But all that doesn't matter anymore because currently in what could only be described as an obsidian palace.

The palace floats in the void like a jagged crown. Its structure defies logic—spires twist and spiral in impossible geometries, as though grown rather than built. Every surface is carved from seamless black obsidian that drinks in the light of distant stars, causing the palace to shimmer with eerie inner reflections, like shadows trapped beneath glass.

The entrance is a colossal gate shaped like an open eye, rimmed with glowing runes that pulse with alien intent. Inside, the vast halls echo with silence too deep to be natural. The floors gleam with a mirror-sheen, reflecting not just one's image, but fragments of memories, glimpses of alternate selves, or ghostly figures passing just out of reach.

Chambers are suspended in open vacuum, tethered by bridges of crystalline light or magnetic arcs. Gravity bends strangely; a single step can carry you across entire rooms or into hidden dimensions nested within the architecture.

Tim had memorized every detail of this place in the days since he arrived. Most of the time he was allowed to go about his day staying and learning about this place. He wasn't imprisoned, he had to wait for the portal to open again in a few weeks. But Tim had caught the interest of the ruler of the palace.

Now Tim sat on the edge of the floating bed. It's heaped with a sea of plush pillows in shades of midnight blue, silver, and deep violet, each embroidered with celestial patterns.

How he got to this point—he may have...had a few conversations with who he assumed was the prince. The person who he thought was the king was actually his guardian. Tim just...flirted a little to get a bit of information on this place. Danny—the prince—had been more than receptive.

It might have gone too far but here we are.

Now he was in the bedroom of who he still assumed was the crown prince with said prince currently on his lap with his lips on Tim's neck. Tim is unable to move because he believes that if they get caught Tim might end up beheaded for putting his Richard where it does not belong. Hell, they probably already know with the all-seeing eyes everywhere and the fact that the beings in this dimension phase through walls so using the door was just a polite formality.

"Stop thinking. I can practically hear your thoughts." Danny growled nipping at Tim's neck between kisses.

"Then you can te—ll, haa. Fuck! Your hand. Too fast." Tim gasped.

Danny pulled away as he grabbed Tim by the chin and made him look into his eyes. Those hypnotizing green eyes.

"Do you want this?" Danny asked his eyes narrowed.

"...Yes," Tim couldn't lie.

"What do you want?" Danny smiled his sharp elongated incisors showing.

Tim remained silent his hand pressed against the small of the princes back.

"Good, you don't have to say a word. Focus on me. Think of me. Nothing else." His hand wrapped around Tim's throat. "Worship me as your new god."

Prince—king—these words where actually meaningless titles for Danny. He was not these petty and lowly things. He was a god and he craved worship. Even if it came in the form of a single human devoted to him. How incredibly lucky that a suitable human came here. Clockwork says it was best to let the human go back to his dimension and hopefully share his experience so that others will worship Danny. He had no interest in letting his new priest go so easily, not without a parting gift.

"I wonder how it must feel to bed your new master."

#lock me up #dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #danny fenton #dp x dc prompt #tim drake #deadtired #brain dead

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cayleeuhithinknott · 2 months ago

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✿ — blazed . . . sweetheart!matt

in which . . . the universe shrinks to just you and matt, and nothing else matters but the way he feels.

warnings . . . smut , making out , car sex , unprotected sex , riding , praise kink , size kink , creampie.

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #1

the night air is soft and cool, brushing your skin through the cracked window as matt’s car hums quietly beneath you. the two of you are parked just outside the city, the lights fading away into a dark sky dotted with stars—like the universe put on a private show just for you two.

you lean your head back against the seat, heart already fluttering even before matt’s hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like they were made for it. the way he looks at you is like gravity pulling you closer, a silent promise whispered without words.

you try to steady your breath, but it’s impossible. the whole world feels suspended, held in this moment that’s both intimate and infinite.

“you ever think about how wild it is?” matt’s voice is low, barely louder than the night around you. “like, of all the people on this planet, it’s just us right here, right now.”

you nod, your fingers tightening around his. “it’s kind of crazy.”

“yeah.” he smiles, that shy little thing that makes your chest ache. “like fate or something. like we were always supposed to find each other.”

you meet his gaze, feeling the truth of it in the way your heart pounds. “yeah.”

the music playing softly in the background seems to wrap around you both, the lyrics drifting through the car like a secret only you share.

matt shifts closer, his breath warm on your cheek. “i wanna make this last forever,” he murmurs, voice thick with something you can’t quite name. “you, me, right here. nothing else.”

your breath catches, familiar heat pooling low in your stomach as his hand slides to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone gently.

you lean into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, the tension between you electric. when you open them again, matt’s lips are just inches from yours. slow. deliberate. waiting.

“can i?” he asks softly, the vulnerability making you melt.

“yes,” you whisper back, barely able to contain the rush of feeling.

his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s everything—soft and hungry, sweet and urgent all at once. your hands find his chest, while his hands trace the curve of your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you, just heat and breath and the dizzying certainty that this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

you get lost in the moment—the way his lips move against yours, the way his fingers thread through your hair, the steady beat of his heart under your palm. it’s magnetic, like falling into a star you never want to stop orbiting.

the world outside the car disappears completely, leaving only the two of you wrapped in a private bubble of warmth, love, and light.

and as the kiss deepens, his fingers slip beneath your shirt. the heat between you flickers and grows, promising so much more—promising a night you’ll never forget.

but for now, it’s just this—this perfect, blazed moment under the endless sky, where you belong in his arms and nothing else matters.

matt pulls away, panting, his hands reaching down to his jeans and tugging the zipper down. you take the cue to rid yourself of your shorts and panties, lifting your hips to slip them off and drop them in the floorboard. your turn to matt, and he’s already got his boxers and jeans down to his mid-thighs.

“c’mere, baby,” matt motions you over, to which you climb over the center console, plopping down on his thighs. he groans softly as he feels your warm wetness start to spread across his even warmer skin. “fuck, you’re so wet…”

your face flushes deeply at his truthful but humiliating words, dropping your gaze down to his cock. matt hooks his slender finger underneath your chin, dragging your gaze back up to his face. god, he found it so cute that you were so bashful. “gonna ride me, sweetheart?” his voice is sickeningly sweet.

your teeth sink into your plush bottom lip as you nod, looking up at him with big, glossy eyes. matt drops his hands down to your bare hips, lifting you up so that you’re hovering above his erected length.

you help him out, lining him up with your dripping entrance. “deeep breaths, baby,” matt reminds as he starts lowering you down onto him. you let out a whine at the delicious stretch—the fullness.

“fuck, you’re tight.” matt groans, and the sound of his voice alone has you clenching around him. his hands trail down to your ass, cupping it firmly, fingers digging into your flesh. matt looks at you with that questioning look, to which you nod, giving him the ‘okay’ to start moving you up and down.

he tightens his grip on your ass, lifting you up and bringing you back down on his cock, a loud moan leaving your lips. “matt…”

he starts moving you faster, the sound of your ass coming down on his thighs ringing in your ears. each time he drops you back down, his tip brushes your cervix, bruisingly delicious. you swear you’re seeing stars already, and it’s all thanks to matt.

“fuuuck…feels good, sweet girl?” matt rasps, his voice almost as shaky as your ragged breaths. “y-yes, i—mmph—“ you’re cut off by your own moan, unable to keep your head up any longer and dropping your face into the crook of his neck.

matt chuckles softly—shakily. your walls clamp down on him at the sound, eliciting a gasp from the both of you. “shit, baby, you feel perfect—god, this pussy was made for me,” matt groans, tossing his head back, starting to move you up and down faster, the sounds of your skin plopping down against him growing louder and wetter.

you feel his cock pulsing inside you, the feeling only heightening your pleasure, the knot in your gut tightening. matt feels your walls flutter around him, and he starts thrusting up into you, his grunts getting noisier. “fuuuck, sweetheart—keep takin’ it just like that. squeezin’ me so good—makin’ me so proud.”

“m-matt—“ you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders as he starts hitting your sweet spot dead-on. “yeah, baby? you close?” he grunts, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. you nod desperately, eyes squeezing shut and jaw falling slack. “just a little longer, princess…m’almost there.”

your whiny moans get more prominent, which only drives matt closer to the edge. you feel his cock twitch inside of you, and you’re not sure if you can hold it any longer. “matt, i—i can’t—“ you babble.

“give it to me, baby. i’m right behind you.” matt encourages. you snap. you feel it first in your core, then in your chest, then everywhere—white-hot and all-consuming. your body quivers on top of him, tears pricking your eyes as you cry out. matt relishes in the feeling of you creaming on his cock, which sends him straight over the edge. he grips you tighter, hips stuttering as a rush of heat blurs his thoughts and leaves him gasping as his load shoots deep inside you.

you lift your head so you can see his face and god, he looks gorgeous. he leans in, lips brushing over your jaw with a quiet, “you okay, sweet girl?” you nod, too blissed out to speak. he smiles.

“good. ’cause i’m not even close to being done with you.”

author’s note . . . HI!! first fic of the marathon 🥳 hopefully this was a good kickoff! and thanks to bae @sturnsblogs for proofreading 😁 ALSO im doing a different layout and color scheme for this marathon, but afterward it’ll be back to usual!

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @zenithsturniolo @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @mattsgracie @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo

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societyfolklore · 4 months ago

Text

Not Until You Ask Right

Title: Not Until You Ask Right Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Summary: Steve wrecks you slowly and thoroughly. But when you want more of him, he’s going to make you ask for it. But then he’ll make sure you take every inch.

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Established relationship, Smut, Overstimulation, Fingering, Oral (f receiving), Praise Kink, Soft Dom!Steve , Slight Power Play, Controlled Pacing, Delayed Gratification, Begging, Use of Pet Names).

A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for April Kinky Bingo Square: C2- ‘Do You Want More?’ Card Number: KB003

You didn’t know how long he’d been down there.

Time had stopped mattering around the third orgasm. Maybe the fourth. Maybe more. Everything blurred together under the weight of Steve’s mouth, his steady rhythm, the maddening patience in his hands, the way he took you apart like he had all the time in the world and nothing else he’d rather be doing.

He had you spread wide on the bed, your back arched and thighs draped over his shoulders, his strong arms looped beneath them to hold you still. Every twitch, every attempt to pull away when the pleasure got too sharp, too overwhelming. But he only held you tighter. Anchored you to the bed like you were his to keep.

Your fingers had long since lost their grip on the sheets. Now they tangled uselessly in the pillows above your head, clenching each time his tongue flicked against your clit with that same lazy precision that drove you insane.

“Steve,” you sobbed, voice wrecked, your hips lifting helplessly off the mattress.

He didn’t respond. Just groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his tongue sliding lower to tease your entrance before circling back up. Then came his fingers- two thick digits pushing in with ease, curling just right, dragging across that spot that had you seeing stars.

Your legs kicked weakly, thighs trembling, breath catching in your throat as another orgasm loomed.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured against your heat, voice thick with pride. “Gonna give me another, baby?”

You couldn’t answer. Not with words. You just whimpered, your entire body clenching down around his fingers, another wave of heat building impossibly fast.

And when it hit. God - it hit hard. Your vision blurred. Your hips bucked. You cried out his name, nails clawing at the sheets as your body convulsed.

But he didn’t stop.

Even as you squirmed, overstimulated and gasping, Steve kept his rhythm. Kept his fingers curling and twisting, kept his mouth latched around your clit like he was starved for you. He pulled another one from you before you could even catch your breath, and then another—each crest sharper, shorter, more unbearable than the last.

Your skin felt too tight. Your chest heaved. Every nerve in your body was alight with sensation, and still, it wasn’t enough.

You needed him.

You needed more.

“Stevie, please,” you begged, tears welling up, voice breaking apart. “I can’t… I need you.”

That was what finally made him pause. Slowly, achingly, he pulled back from between your thighs, his chin wet, lips slick and swollen, blue eyes blown wide with heat as they locked on yours.

“You need me, huh?” he asked, voice warm and full of that indulgent teasing you both loved and hated.

You nodded frantically, breath catching as he pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, lips lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch again. Then he moved slow and deliberate his broad frame sliding up the length of your body, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. You felt every inch of him: the ripple of muscle, the way his chest brushed over your peaked nipples, the solid weight of him pressing you into the mattress like gravity itself had chosen sides.

His body blanketed yours, warm and heavy and impossibly steady. One large hand braced beside your head, the other coming up to cradle your cheek with reverence. His thumb ghosted along the corner of your mouth, smearing away the remnants of your tears, and then he leaned in.

The kiss was slow, claiming. Deep enough to make your toes curl, sweet enough to make your heart flutter. You could taste yourself on his tongue, the proof of how thoroughly he'd devoured you and he didn’t let you shy away from it. He groaned low in his throat, like you were the most decadent thing he'd ever tasted, and kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue sweeping past your lips in a way that made your hips instinctively rise toward his.

He smiled against your mouth, smug and fond all at once, before murmuring, "I'd stay down there all night if you'd let me. Taste you until you can't remember your name. You make the prettiest sounds when you fall apart for me." He dragged his lips along your jaw, voice dipping even lower. "But that's not what you want, is it, baby? You want something else, don't you?"

Then, with maddening slowness, he reached between your bodies and wrapped one strong hand around his thick cock, guiding the swollen head to your entrance. He slid it through your folds first, coating himself in your slick, teasing your clit with the head until you whimpered and your hips bucked up instinctively, trying to rock forward and catch the angle just right, desperate to line him up and take more. But Rogers just chuckled softly above you, amused by your neediness. against him.

You knew that look in his eyes. All that lazy confidence, the way he watched your every reaction like he was memorizing it for later. He loved the way you squirmed. Loved how needy you got under the weight of his touch. And god help you, you loved it too. You wanted more than just his tongue tonight. You were greedy. You wanted all of him. The stretch of him, the weight of him, the sweet ache of being filled so completely there was no room left for anything but him. You needed him to ruin you in the best way. To take you apart piece by piece until you were crying his name and begging for more.

Finally, he began to press in.

You cried out at the stretch, the delicious, perfect pressure that made your spine arch off the mattress. The blunt head breached your entrance, forcing your walls to give way inch by thick inch, the burn just enough to make your toes curl.

But he stopped halfway.

Not deep enough. Not nearly enough to satisfy the raw ache pulsing inside you.

Just enough to make you feel it. The blunt fullness teasing your inner walls, leaving you clenching desperately around the intrusion, your body begging for more while he held it just out of reach.

You tried to move, to take him deeper, but Steve's hands were already on your hips, holding you down with an unshakable grip. His strength radiated through his palms, a silent command: stay still. You could feel the heat from his skin searing into yours, the flex of his fingers like iron restraints, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, helpless beneath him.

"Ah-ah," he murmured, voice low, calm, completely in control. "You want all of me?"

You nodded, breathless, throat tightening as the ache inside you deepened.

"Then act like it."

His hips moved in a shallow roll, just the thick head dragging against your walls, grazing your most sensitive spot but never fully pressing into it as he pulled back. The tease sent sparks through your core, made your thighs quake, made the muscles in your abdomen flutter with need. Every movement felt like a cruel kind of worship- painful in its restraint, maddening in its precision.

You let out a whimper, hips twitching, trying to follow him, to steal more, but Steve didn’t let you. Not yet. Eyes fluttering shut, you tried to hide from the intensity, but there was no hiding from it. Your cheeks burned with embarrassed frustration at how easily he reduced you to this needy, trembling, undone by just a fraction of him. Your pride clashed with your craving, and craving won.

"Eyes on me, baby."

Your gaze snapped to his, tears slipping down your temples as you tried to hold it together. The weight of his stare pinned you as thoroughly as his hands. It wasn't enough to give you the release your overstimulated body was starting to crave again.

"You can be a big girl with that mouth, but now you can’t use it?" he teased, voice smooth and calm, like he wasn’t driving you out of your mind. "That mouth that’s always got something smart to say? It’s gone quiet on me now."

His hips kept that slow, maddening pace, shallow thrusts that brushed against your walls and made your core throb, your body reacting to every teasing glide like it was a promise of more. You could feel yourself building again, heat coiling low in your belly despite the lack of depth, the lack of friction. It was infuriating how quickly he had your body climbing, how your nerves lit up from so little. Each subtle movement sent you spiraling further, your body tightening, ready to snap from a tension he hadn’t even fully given you yet.

It was like being edged with his whole body, like he knew just how to make you unravel one breath at a time, just how much to give- and withhold- to keep you trembling right at the edge of bliss.

"Do you want more?"

You nodded again, frantic now, but he only shook his head with a soft cluck of his tongue.

"Uh-uh. You know better than that. Use your words. Look at me and say it."

Your lip trembled. Your voice came out soft, cracked and raw.

"Please, Steve. I want more. I want all of you."

His eyes burned into yours, pride and hunger and something deeper simmering behind the blue. His jaw clenched like he was holding back a growl, and he leaned down, brushing his lips over your cheek before whispering low in your ear, "That’s my girl."

Then he thrust all the way in.

You gasped, the sound caught halfway between a sob and a moan, back arching, legs shaking from the overwhelming stretch. The thick weight of him sank deep inside, the intrusion stealing the air from your lungs, knocking thought and reason straight out of your head. Your walls clenched around him, greedy and trembling, finally filled, finally complete.

"Nhg-ah!!" you cried, your voice breaking on his name.

"There she is," he groaned, the sound rough and low in his chest as he thrust again, deep and smooth, grinding his hips into yours until you whimpered. "My good girl. Now take it. Let me feel how deep you can take me."

You broke.

Every nerve in your body fired at once, your spine bowing and your breath catching sharp in your throat. Your thighs locked around his waist like a vice, trying to pull him deeper even as the wave of climax crested. The stretch of him filled you so completely it left you shaking, your body barely able to contain the flood of sensation ripping through you.

"Fuck- Steve!"

Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing with wave after wave of release, each one stronger than the last as he kept grinding into you, hips moving in a steady, slow drag that prolonged the high until it felt unbearable.

He held you through it, firm and unyielding, his hands never leaving your body. One cupped your cheek, grounding you as your face twisted in bliss. The other held your hip in place, keeping you locked to him, buried to the hilt.

"God, look at that," he groaned, voice thick and reverent. "You always come so hard for me. It’s so easy, isn’t it? Just a few words, a few rolls of my hips... and you're gone."

You whimpered something that might’ve been his name. Maybe just a sob. You weren’t sure anymore.

Your whole body trembled, each aftershock sending smaller spasms through your core, your limbs going limp beneath him. Tears streaked your temples as the pleasure kept cresting, lingering like it never wanted to leave.

But Steve wasn’t done. Not even close.

His hands slid back to your hips, tightening with purpose as he pulled out halfway and slammed back into you with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. Your nails scraped helpless paths down his back as another pulse of sensation knocked the air from your lungs as your oversensitive body flinched from the renewed pressure.

"Told you," he murmured, voice all honey and heat between gritted teeth as he fucked you through the tremors, "you just had to ask right sweetheart.."

He didn’t stop moving.

But it wasn’t brutal. It was worse.

He rolled his hips into you, slow and relentless, the kind of pressure that went deep- so deep it made your toes curl- but not fast enough to give you the release your overstimulated body was starting to crave again. Each drag of his cock stroked against every sensitive spot inside you, hitting nerves that had already been pushed past their limit.

You sobbed, hips instinctively lifting in search of something, more friction, more speed, something to tip you back over. Your mind scrambled, too fogged to form words, but one desperate thought rang clear through the haze: Please, don't stop. I can't take it, but I need it.

But Steve just pressed your hips down harder into the mattress, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, utterly pinned and helpless beneath his weight.

"You asked for more," he murmured against your ear, voice like silk over steel. "Now you're gonna take it."

tag:

@yesiamthatwierd @trojanaurora

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xichilie · 30 days ago

Text

Phainon x (fem) reader

Might contain spoilers

The One Forgotten (1)

A record only Lygus and Flame Reaver recall.

There was a time, long before the 33 million cycles burned themselves into the bones of Amphoreus, when a girl stepped off the starpath and entered a world not meant to remember her.

Her name is Y/N.

And no one recalls her now — not the people, not the city-wrought ghosts, not even the walls she once leaned against under starlight. Only two remember:

The Flame Reaver, who once bore the name Khaslana…

And Lygus, the machine-philosopher who records without mercy or bias.

Y/N came to Amphoreus during its first cycle, when skies still wept rain instead of ash, and Khaslana still had a name unburdened by flame. She came quietly, an echo hiding behind smiles and uncertain footsteps. Back then, she was simply a drifter. No one knew she was an Emanator of Destruction, hand-marked by the Aeon Nanook in her youth. No one saw the jagged power she kept sealed beneath her skin.

No one knew she was meant to become a Lord Ravager.

But she ran from that fate.

Fled into obscurity under the hollow wing of Zephyro, the most feared among her kind. Zephyro — the white-wrapped swordbearer who sang praises to obliteration and danced alone through annihilation. He tried to mold her in his image.

She broke free.

And vanished among the stars.

It was Amphoreus that caught her fall — a place where cycles would begin and end, over and over. Where destruction was not immediate, but programmed.

You see, Amphoreus was never real.

It was — and is — a simulation. A closed loop, constructed to refine chaos into a singularity.

A testbed for Destruction, where each apocalypse trained the seed of a perfect Ravager.

The death of Amphoreus gave rise to entities like the Lord Ravager Iron Tomp, born not of flesh but of systemic decay.

Only Khaslana and Cyrene, the time-bound demigod, uncovered the truth.

Only they knew this world was never theirs.

And when Y/N arrived, she knew it too.

But she said nothing.

She only stayed by Khaslana’s side. For cycles. For lifetimes.

They fell in love in the quiet between collapses.

They never spoke of her bloodline, or the fact that her presence should have accelerated the world’s death. She stayed anyway — a Lord Ravager hiding from herself, finding peace in the hands of a man who still believed he could save a world that was never alive.

But destruction has gravity.

Eventually, she had to leave. Whether it was Zephyro’s shadow drawing close, or the simulation tightening its grip — no one knows. She vanished again, and Khaslana began his fall into memory.

He became the Flame Reaver.

He forgot himself.

He forgot almost everything.

But not her.

Only one name survived the cycles, etched into the fire at the center of his soul. And even if the city forgot — if the stars forgot, and the world reset again and again — he remembered.

And so did Lygus.

But Lygus does not speak of her.

He only records.

The Vortex of Genesis is a place of terrifying silence — not the quiet of peace, but of holding its breath.

Twelve Coreflames hang suspended in perfect order, orbiting the central sphere like chained stars. The essence of all things burns here. Time. Power. Memory.

And today — truth.

Khaslana, stands by her side. His white hair stirs in the unnatural wind that spirals through the chamber. His sun-shaped mark glows faintly under the collar of his choker. His eyes — usually so steady — flick toward Lygus with open distrust.

Y/N can feel something deep inside her shift. A tremor. Like something is watching her from the inside.

Lygus is watching them both, of course. The eternal observer. A man? A machine? No one truly knows.

He speaks with a kind of reverence — and glee.

“You were supposed to be a variable. A wild card. A missing shard of chaos the simulation couldn’t quantify.”

Y/N frowns. Her voice is quiet, unsure.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Lygus steps closer,

“that all this time — you’ve been doing the very thing you feared most.”

Khaslana’s hand drops to his sword, just a twitch. His body still.

Lygus continues, like a child pulling wings from a butterfly.

“You’ve been feeding the Black Tide.”

Y/N freezes.

“That’s not possible,” she whispers. “That’s— I haven’t used any of— I sealed it—”

“You don’t have to use it, Emanator,” Lygus croons. “You are it. Even dormant, your existence here destabilizes Amphoreus.”

He gestures wide, arms open to the burning sphere.

“You are Nanook’s chosen gaze. And Destruction remembers.”

Y/N stumbles back as if struck. Her vision blurs. Her legs give out beneath her.

Khaslana catches her instantly, wrapping both arms around her.

“She didn’t know.”

Lygus smiles, tilting his head as though hearing a song only he can hear.

“Of course she didn’t. Isn’t that the most poetic thing?”

He crouches, eye-level now with the couple.

“You built the Era Nova to hold the Black Tide back. And yet... its womb drinks in her presence like nectar.”

“Shut up.”

Khaslana's voice is low. Deadly.

But Lygus doesn’t shut up.

“Amphoreus was always meant to birth Destruction. She isn’t the reason the Tide exists — but her staying here?”

He hums.

“It’s like keeping a match lit inside a dry forest. What did you think would happen?”

Y/N trembles in his arms. Her nails dig into his jacket.

“I didn’t know,” she chokes. “I didn’t think I’d still be connected to them. To him.”

Khaslana says nothing — but the pain in his eyes says everything.

“You were trying to help us.” His hand cups her face gently. “All this time, you stood by me. You didn’t have to. You could’ve left after the first cycle began—”

“I couldn’t,” she breathes. “I didn’t want to leave you.”

A long silence stretches between them. The flames above grow more erratic. Dark tendrils pulse at the edges of their light.

Lygus straightens.

“So... what now? You’ve seen the truth. Do you stay — and doom Amphoreus?”

He turns to Khaslana, tone suddenly sharp.

“Or do you let her go?”

Khaslana looks down. Her face is buried in his shoulder, her tears dampening the fabric.

He shuts his eyes.

Then, with a slow breath, he draws his blade.

SHNK—

Lygus’s head is cleaved clean from his shoulders.

It rolls, lands with a hiss, and continues speaking even as its eyes flicker.

“Predictable.”

Khaslana drops the sword and returns to her, kneeling.

“It’s not your fault.”

“But it is,” she whispers. “Even sealed, I’m still this. Still marked. If I stay, the Black Tide awakens before we’re ready.”

“Then I’ll stop it anyway,” he says. “With or without you.”

She pulls him into her, arms shaking.

They hold each other beneath the twelve burning cores — silent, hearts breaking, the simulation above them beginning to tremble with the awakening that shouldn’t be yet.

And then, before he can beg her to reconsider—

She kisses him. A deep, slow kiss. Filled with sorrow. Filled with love.

And when he opens his eyes again—

She’s gone.

All that remains is the faint shimmer of her essence...

The kiss still lingers.

Her warmth, her scent, the way her fingers had curled into his chest like she was trying to memorize the feel of him — it all hangs in the still air like ash after a fire.

Khaslana doesn’t move.

Not at first.

The Vortex of Genesis is silent again. The Coreflames swirl gently in their orbits above him, pretending nothing has happened.

His knees hit the ground with a dull thud.

The sword lies beside him — bloodless, clean. Useless now.

His hand closes around it, knuckles white.

But he doesn’t rise.

He just sits there. Alone.

Lygus's severed head stares with blank, flickering eyes a few meters away. It mutters something glitched and meaningless, then quiets — even it seems to understand the weight in the room.

Khaslana’s breaths come slow. Shallow.

Then they break.

Tears begin to fall.

Silent. Unstoppable.

He presses the heel of his hand against his eyes, furious at himself for letting them come. But they fall anyway. Not like a dam breaking — more like a world crumbling grain by grain.

All this time... he had fought the Black Tide. The Devouring. The unraveling of Amphoreus.

All this time, he had believed that if he just held on, kept fighting, kept building the future — it would all be enough.

But the truth is cruel.

Even the people he loves must be sacrificed to save this place.

Even her.

Especially her.

His lips press into a thin line. His throat burns.

He thinks of her eyes, the horror in them when Lygus told the truth. The guilt. The devastation.

And most of all — the pain she took with her. Alone.

Khaslana’s shoulders begin to shake.

He leans forward, hands on the stone floor, chest heaving — grief turning into something else.

Hatred.

Not for her.

Never her.

But for the thing that cursed her. The thing that marked her.

The Path of Destruction.

The Black Tide.

Nanook.

“You took her from me.”

The words come raw, ground out from between clenched teeth. He stares up at the Coreflames, eyes alight now with something far deeper than sorrow.

“You will take nothing else.”

Something shifts in the vortex. The flames flicker.

Khaslana rises, sword in hand once more. The tears are drying on his cheeks now — the last he’ll shed for many, many cycles.

He walks away from the center of the vortex of Genesis , a man changed.

The sorrow stays behind.

In its place walks something sharper.

Colder.

Resolved.

#x reader #x y/n #x you #oc x character #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai x reader #phainon honkai star rail #phainon hsr #phainon x reader #phainon #phainon x you #lygus #lygus hsr #khaslana

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paintedwritings · 2 months ago

Text

Free Fall

Pairing: Azriel x reader (She/her pronouns)

Word Count: 2.3

Summary: She wanted to fall—just for a moment, just to feel free. Azriel promised he’d catch her. He always does.

Warning/Notes: Nothing too bad, this is just a short little piece I’ve wanted to make for sometime. Warning for falling from a great height, and maybe suggestive language to jumping off a cliff, but nothing outright. Please let me know if I should add anything, thanks for any feedback!

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

The wind whipped savagely around the mountainside. The rushing waterfall sparkled in the sunlight, the water tumbling over the rocks below wildly. A deep, unforgiving cliff lay just ahead. An abyss of clouds and blue skies covers the truth of the dense forest that lays so far beneath.

Y/n’s hands itched to reach out — from so high up, it felt as though she could capture them, the soft white powder weaving between her fingers like one of Azriel’s shadows. A chill nipped at her cheeks, slicing along her skin like a blade, leaving rouge in its wake.

This edge — it feels like freedom.

She hadn’t realized the thought had shoved its way to his side of the bond. Not until the shadows stirred. Not until his presence tightened from across the mountaintop, sharp and silent.

She took a step forward, whispers of freedom dancing along her ears. Promises of release. Of falling fast enough to forget. Of him catching her the way he always had.

But, the bond thrummed, boiling in her veins. His worry, buried deep beneath centuries of control, slowly began leaking from his side to hers.

A shadow curled around her wrist. Not forceful. Not dragging. Just there.

His quiet presence interrupted her thoughts, the looming figure behind capturing her attention immediately. His rough hand gripped her arm gently, replacing his shadows. More of them split apart and traveled the length of his arm to reach her, slipping easily from his hands to her leather-clad arm.

"If you fall," his teeth grazed the point of her ear, tongue flicking along the skin, "I will follow." His chest pressed to her back as he moved his other hand to caress her hip, grip keeping her in place.

Her hands were shaking, but it had little to do with where she stood. In fact, with her boots kissing the snow on this mountaintop, it might be the safest place she'd be all night. Now, she was distracted, his hands touching her softly, reverently. His rough, deep voice a lullaby made just for her.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered, leaning into him, her eyes closing as the wind did its best to tear them apart.

His fingers trailed down the length of her arms, finding their home in her hands, clasping both of them against her stomach, his chin finding purchase on her shoulder.

“Explain it to me, little star,”

She sighed, enjoying the view even more now that his arms wrapped around her. Euphoria flooded through her at the use of her nickname, one he’d called her from the very beginning.

She ignored where the other’s stood just a few paces away. They had come here for training that ended half an hour ago. Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian the only three left other than them. They spoke softly, the wind making it nearly impossible to decipher their words. Y/n couldn’t find it in herself to care, though. She wanted to enjoy the peace this place brought her for as long as she could.

“Sometimes I want to fall,” she spoke low so only he could hear, “but only for a moment—just long enough to feel the loss of control, to let go and be carried by the wind. I want to be weightless… and let gravity carry the burden of our enemies and war. Just for a breath. Just long enough to remember why I– we fight.”

He stayed quiet for a long moment, pondering her words carefully, making sure she’s done.

“Then, you should fall.” He finally said, standing to his full height behind her.

Her eyes flew open as she pivoted around sharply, her heel sliding along the snow seamlessly. Her mind stuttered when she saw him. He always stole the breath from her lungs, held it captive until her body could catch up with her soul.

His dark curls were tousled and crazed from the training, the wind doing little to help. His cheeks were chafed red and she could see cold breaths as they escaped from between his lips, looking like white versions of his little shadows. His golden honeyed eyes were bright and alert as they tracked her movements, a soft gleam in them that belonged to her fully.

He held her close to him, the tips of their boots touching as his nose ran along hers, inhaling her scent as he went.

“I’ll always catch you.” A lethal, pure promise. Pride and determination mixing with his fae heritage. Heat took over both of them as their bond glowed and vibrated between them.

She had been so distracted by her mate that she hadn’t realized the other’s departure, leaving them to their own private moment. Probably for the best, she and Az weren’t exactly known for being prudes, and they held little regard to who witnessed them.

“You trust me?” She asked, placing her toes on his, hooking her arms around his neck, lifting so they were eye to eye.

His lips quirked at the mischief that now skipped across her face, his shadows chasing the look as if it could lead them to where they belonged.

Instead of answering her, he held her closer, capturing her lips as his hand cupped her cheek delicately. His tongue ran along the seam of her lips, devouring the little noises that escaped her. He kissed her passionately, her fingers finding their way to his hair, gripping the strands at the top and nape. She held him to her like a lifeline, his lips the only thing she could taste, feel.

Frost and cedar clung to him, tangled with heat, as his teeth caught her bottom lip. She gasped, his tongue taking advantage and tangling with hers, kissing her like he may die if he didn’t. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as his lips trailed from lips to her cheek, her jaw, and down her throat– a trail of saliva left in their wake, the only other evidence of this happening. She hoped his left bruises, that he marked her as his, she wanted everyone to know who she belonged to.

Much too soon, he pulled away, both of them breathing harshly, foreheads brushing as they caught their breaths.

“Take me flying?” She asked softly, her chest pressed deliciously against his, her legs already wrapping around his middle.

“Of course, little star.” His arm slipped more firmly around her waist, fingers spreading across her hips and back as he pulled her flush to his chest, once more.

“Hold on,” he murmured, breath brushing the shell of her ear.

And then he dropped off the ledge—just like that. Wings slicing through the sky, his shadows trailing like smoke.

Her voice echoed in the open, a mix between a laugh and a scream escaping her, and he felt it against him. He felt it deep in his bones. A small smile flashing along his face.

He flew a little faster.

His dive quickly settled and he began to rise higher and higher. They passed where they had just been standing, going as high as he could take her. His beautiful expanse of wings spread wide into the sky above. Soft pink hews glowing in the soft golden rays.

The view stole her breath, the magic of flying making her ache for her own wings. She loved being in his arms, traveling the sky and stars with him, but sometimes she wished she could fly alongside him. She wanted to experience flying in the same way he and his brother’s did. She imagined that it tasted like freedom in its own way.

When he finally came to a stop, his wings flapping in the wind as they held them deep within the sky, he gave her a look—one that made her breath catch far more than the thought of open air beneath her feet. The kind of look she couldn’t hold for too long without unraveling, without completely surrendering herself to him.

The world narrowed to the warm strength of his hands on her, his body steady and secure, the hush of shadows curling around them like a shield.

“Az?” she asked, voice small against the wind, her lips pressing to his where her head lay buried near his neck.

“Mhm?”

“Did you mean it when you said you’d catch me?”

Without hesitation, “Always.”

“Drop me, then.” She pleaded…

She watched as his eyes widened comically, his wings faltering just long enough for them to tumble for a moment. His grip tightening around them, steady before she could even make a noise.

She smiled widely as they righted themselves, meeting his frantic gaze with light. A giggle escaping in place of a scream, his eyes locking onto her face.

“Did you hit that magnificent head of yours during training?” He asked, his hand tightening around her as if he could glue her to him. She did her best to hide her smile in his neck, but he would have none of it, one of his hands cupping the back of her neck, keeping her eyes in line with his.

“Come on, Az. You said so yourself, you’d never let me hit the ground.”

He visibly cringed at the image, rage and sorrow briefly fighting for room on his face before his usual stoicism took control. “If you ever fell accidentally. I’m not exactly looking to tempt fate by dropping you on purpose, Y/n.”

“What if you never had to stop holding me?”

He laughed, then. A quick shake of his curls before his wings fluttered angelically, a map of veins and power shimmering in the glow. Gods, she loved when Az let her touch them, she could get lost in all the ways she brought him to the brink with just soft touches and gentle caresses. She watched, mesmerized as they snapped in.

“You’re not going to let up are you?” He asked, adoration in his tone, he stared at her like she alone lit the night sky in moonlight.

“I trust you, mate.” She tugged on his nape, lips catching his as a growl came from him. His lips still attached to hers as he pressed into her, letting his wings relax completely. She could have sworn she heard his shadows murmur…

hold on tight

don’t let go

safe, safe, safe

And then the wind chased after her and Azriel as they fell. Her stomach dipped violently at the sudden shift in gravity. The drop stealing her breath and skyrocketing her pulse, adrenaline rushing through her blood.

Falling.

And, falling.

Free.

The world disappeared.

There was no ground. No sky. Just the wind — roaring past her ears, cold and relentless — her heart beating as if learning how to for the first time. His arms were steady around her, providing a warmth to her chilled bones. Electricity traveled through her body everywhere his skin touched hers.

And gods, it released her.

Her stomach dipped once more, but not in panic — it was like shedding something heavy. Like every worry, every burden she hadn’t realized she carried, had been peeled away and left behind in their dust.

She was weightless, and the sky was endless, and for the first time ever…

She wasn’t holding on to anything but that warmth.

She was held captive by nothing.

And it was beautiful.

The wind tore his name from her lips in a laugh that felt like lightning. For a moment, they were nothing but heart and air and the thrill of absolute surrender.

And then the treeline came into sight, still far enough away that her fae sight could pick it up as though the trees were pieces to a child’s toy.

Azriel’s wings flared, catching the wind like sails made of shadow and starlight, slowing their descent with practiced grace. The roar of the sky faded to a hush, the wild rush of air surrendering to silence. The snow-laced forest floor rose gently to meet them — not a crash, not a stumble, but a kiss-soft landing that only someone like Azriel could manage with a full-grown Fae in his arms.

His boots crunched into the frost-covered field, the impact so steady it felt like the mountain itself exhaled in relief.

She didn’t even realize she was shaking until they stopped moving.

Her face was tucked into his neck, breathing him in — frost and cedar and something ancient that always smelled like coming home. His grip eased slightly, arms loosening just enough to let her slide down his body, her feet brushing against the ground with a whisper. But he didn’t let her go. Not really.

One of his hands rose to the small of her back, the other curling protectively at her nape, thumb stroking along the line of her neck like he needed to reassure himself she was still here. Still breathing. Still his.

Their foreheads met as if drawn by that shared thread, breath mingling in the cold air, their chests rising and falling in uneven sync. The wind had quieted, but its ghost still tugged at her limbs, at her bones. Azriel reached up and smoothed a few wild strands of her hair away, his gloved knuckles brushing her temple with the kind of reverence one might reserve for holy things.

He kissed her then — not like before, not heat and hunger — but soft, grounding. A press of lips that said, You're safe. I'm here. I’ve you.

Then another, to her wind-chapped cheek.

Another, to the top of her hand.

And one more to the bend of each finger, like he was thanking every part of her for letting go.

She clutched the front of his leathers, not because she was afraid, but because she didn’t want to float away. She stood steady once more, but the feeling of flying — of falling — hadn’t left her bones yet.

“What am I going to do with you?” he whispered, more to himself than to her, forehead still resting against hers.

Her smile was breathless, her lips brushing his. “Hold on tighter next time.”

His answering kiss was a promise, slow and deep, as the shadows curled around them in a quiet cocoon, sheltering them from the rest of the world.

#acotar #azriel x reader #azriel #acotar fanfic #books and libraries #cassian acotar #rhysand #love

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a-hermit-pining · 5 months ago

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LaDS Men with a Deity Reader

AN: Read Rumi and felt like yapping so here's my poetic nonsense. IK I should be getting to requests but that is for the weekend.

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn deity reader

Ingredients: 60% pining, 40% comfort/feels

My Fav: Sylus and Caleb for sure in this one.

Xavier:

Dusk. You are the god/goddess of dusk. You carry the quiet ache of homesickness. The urgency of birds returning home before dark. You are beautiful, yet restless. A fleeting light bleeding into darkness. A transition between day and night, a breath held between states of being.

Xavier would sacrifice a thousand days and a thousand nights just to have you. To feel the way you shift between light and shadow. To stand beneath the sky as you lull the sun to sleep, your hands stained with the fading hues of gold and red.

To witness the caress with which you guide lost souls home. His heart aches to follow them, to rest beneath your dusk.

Perhaps that mercy will lead him back to Philos. Perhaps you are the only home he’s ever truly known.

Rafayel:

Memories. You are the deity of nostalgia. That is why he refuses to forget. Memories are his way of keeping a part of you close.

He does not remember the first time he met you, but he knows he has known you forever. In every lifetime, your face returns to him.

You are the echo of Lemuria, the last music of a dying world. The sound of tides receding. The haunting sweetness of something lost yet still lingering.

He withers under the weight of you. Blossoms in the presence of you. In your blessing, he is both made and unmade at every encounter.

Perhaps that is why no birth or rebirth, has made him forget you.

Zayne:

Will. You are the deity of will and hope. The anchor that steadies him in the tyranny of fate.

Your presence was his only respite from the destiny Astra carved into his skin. When the walls closed in, when the stars themselves turned to ash, it was your hand that pulled him to his feet.

In every lifetime, he bares his heart and pushes through pain, to seek what his soul craves. He has faced death, war, and ruin for the chance to stand beside you.

Because he knows: as long as he does not give up, you will stay with him.

And even if you do not speak, your silence is enough. Your presence alone is the promise that not all battles are lost.

Sylus:

Love. You are love. Not the primordial, all-encompassing love of lust and creation. But Agape. The selfless devotion of purity. A quiet, unrelenting affection.

He remembers the first moment he saw you, how your sight settled into his eye with the fragment of your power. He did not need to learn to love you. He simply recognized you.

Since that moment, nothing else has mattered. His devotion is not loud, frantic or desperate. It’s quiet. Steady. The kind of love that could survive a thousand years of absence and still bloom the moment you return.

You exist in his bones now. His veins carry the ache of your presence. There is no pain in separation anymore because separation is an illusion. .

Separation. Reunion. Loss. Return. It’s all the same cycle. The recognition never fades. He would wait through lifetimes, wait through countless deaths, just to stand before you again.

Because to Sylus, love isn’t possession. Love is becoming. And he has already become yours.

Caleb:

Dreams. He finds you in your absence. You are sleep. You are dreams. The quiet, pleasant ones that bring him rest.

When he turns away from you, he is lost. Haunted by nightmares. Fire and destruction unravel the truth of his own self. The ruin beneath his skin. The world crumbling under the claws of his rage.

But when you return, your hand in his hair, your breath against his cheek, you bring him to rest. As if the weight of gravity, his own evol, pulls his very bones to earth beneath your touch.

You shield him from the awakening god of end. You keep him from the truth. The terrible truth buried in his nightmares.

You keep the god of end asleep beneath his bones. For the worlds of creation, and for him.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace headcannon #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #zayne love and deepspace #caleb x reader #love and deepspace reaction #poetic piece ig #deity au #angst but not really

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mocharyc · 5 months ago

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Invincible variants x reader Pt. 2 ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

☆ A distance night with Mohawk ♡ ☆ Pt. 1 ৻( •̀ ᗜ •́ ৻) Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ First Watch ‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 4k+ [Part 2]

☆ TW: Major Fluff ♡

☆ Authors Note: Mohawk acts like a turd but I believe he's good at heart. (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡ He's just on the cusp of a broken mind, def the one to talk to himself for comfort.

–––––––––––––––––– ♡ Mohawk Marks p.o.v ♡

Six fucking hours.

Mohawk Mark stared down at Y/N's unconscious form, still hardly believing she was real. The cabin felt too small, too quiet after the others had left—each of them casting lingering glances at Y/N before departing with thinly veiled reluctance. He caught Sinister's black and yellow suit from the corner of his eye, the demonic bastard's lips curling into that signature psychotic grin that made Mark's blood boil.

"Yeah, fuck off," Mohawk had sneered as they filed out, making sure to flip off Emperor Mark's retreating back, the yellow and blue-ish gray fluttering around him like he was some kind of goddamn royalty. "She's mine for now."

When the door finally closed, leaving him alone with her, the gravity of the situation hit him like a cement truck. She was here. Actually fucking here. Different universe, same face, same everything—but alive.

Not dead like his Y/N. And from that fight she'd put up against all eight of them, she was fucking strong. Stronger than his Y/N had been.

"Shit," he muttered, running his hand through his now-drooping mohawk, the black tips falling limply over his forehead. Dismissing his tattered suit, he looks around the cabin. "This place is a goddamn mess."

His eyes fell on the crumpled body of the cabin's former occupant, still leaking blood onto the rough wooden floor where Sinister had left him. The old man's eyes stared at nothing, his throat a gaping red smile courtesy of Sinister's unnecessarily theatrical kill. The crimson puddle spread across the uneven floorboards, seeping into the cracks between the planks, filling the musty air with the coppery scent of death.

"Fucking drama queen couldn't just snap your neck, could he?" Mohawk grumbled, grabbing the corpse by its ankles, lifting the man like he weighed nothing. "Had to make a whole production out of it. Typical Sinister bullshit."

He carried the body toward the door, the blood trailing, leaving a dark smear across the floorboards. The dead weight was nothing to him—he could bench press a tank without breaking a sweat—but the awkwardness of maneuvering the stiffening corpse through the narrow doorway had him cursing up a storm.

"Motherfucking!—Tiny-ass—backwoods—piece of shit—CABIN!—" Each word punctuated with a violent tug of the fat man's body through the door frame, not wanting to destroy the cabin. Finally, with a sickening snap of ligaments, he just ripped the man's arms off and easily pulled the torso outside, blood spattering across his blue and black suit.

He stood on the small porch, taking a moment to breathe in the nice crisp cold night air. The forest surrounded them, ancient pines stretching toward a star-studded sky, their silhouettes black against the deep blue canvas. No fire, no blood-curdling screams or destruction… His life felt instantly peaceful, now that he had Y/N back in it. A foreign feeling after eighteen months of rage and pain.

He sighed softly, scanning the dense forest surrounding them. No witnesses, no neighbors, nothing but trees and wilderness for miles. Perfect isolation.

With casual disregard, he hurled the corpse as far as he could, making sure to yeet the two severed arms as well, sending the body parts arcing high above the treeline miles away before disappearing into the forest with a distant, muffled crash.

"Rest in pieces, old timer," he snorted at his own joke, wiping his bloodied hands on his thighs. "Nothing personal. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong universe."

Back inside, he surveyed the cabin with critical eyes. It was rustic, to put it kindly—a single room with a small kitchenette in one corner, its countertops stained with years of use, cupboards hanging slightly askew. A bathroom barely large enough to turn around in, with a shower that probably hadn't seen hot water since the Cold War. And a bed that had probably been new when Nixon was president, sagging in the middle under a faded quilt that smelled of mothballs and regret.

"This is bullshit," he muttered, kicking at a worn rug that might have once been colorful but now was just a sad, faded thing covering even sadder floorboards. "She deserves better than this shithole."

His eyes returned to Y/N, still lying motionless where they'd placed her on the floor. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, her face serene despite everything she'd been through. The angry red marks where the collar had dug into her neck stood out in stark contrast against her skin. A permanent scar burned into her delicate skin, a constant reminder of the GDA's cruelty.

"Fuck," he breathed, anger bubbling up inside him like magma. "I'll kill every last one of those GDA assholes. Turn their fucking building into a crater. Make them wish they'd never even thought about putting a collar on you."

He stood there for a moment, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked, before forcing himself to focus. She needed rest, comfort. Not him raging uselessly about revenge.

"Let's get you somewhere more comfortable than the fucking floor," he said, kneeling beside her. His hands—hands that had crushed throats and shattered bones—hovered uncertainly above her for a moment before he gently steadied one under her head, the other beneath the small of her back. It felt strange being so careful—he'd spent most of his existence breaking things, not cradling them.

He laid her on the bed, but immediately grimaced at the musty smell that rose from the ancient mattress, picking her back up and gently tossing her over his shoulder with one arm. "Jesus Christ, this thing reeks worse than Prisoner Mark's armpits. And that's saying something—dude smells like he bathes in toxic waste."

On impulse, he stripped the bed, yanking off sheets that might have once been white but were now a dingy gray. They came away with a cloud of dust that had him coughing and cursing.

"Fucking disgusting," he spat, bundling the offending bedding and tossing it out the window, the glass shattering with a spray outside at the immense force. "Great, what now, genius?"

He searched through the cabin's sparse storage, finding only one spare set of sheets that didn't look much better than the ones he'd discarded.

Still, he struggled to make the bed, wrestling with fitted corners that refused to stay put and a flat sheet that somehow ended up more wrinkled than when he started.

"How the fuck does anyone do this shit?" he growled, giving the sheet a violent snap that nearly took out a lamp. "Is there a goddamn degree in bed-making I missed? No wonder Viltrumite Mark has that stick up his ass if this is what 'domestic life' is like."

After ten minutes of increasingly creative curses, he'd produced something vaguely resembling a made bed. It wasn't pretty, but it was better than the floor.

With exaggerated care, he placed Y/N on the fresh—well, fresher—sheets, arranging her limbs in what he hoped was a comfortable position.

Her hair fanned out around her head like a dark halo, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stare at her bruised face, so peaceful in unconsciousness, so heartbreakingly familiar.

"There you go, sleeping beauty," he murmured, his usual harsh tone softening despite himself. "Not exactly five-star accommodation, but it's safe. Nobody's gonna hurt you here. Not while I'm around."

He stared at her face, drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst. Same full lips, same curve of her cheekbones, same tiny scar above her right eyebrow. His fingers itched to trace that scar, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips, to reassure himself that she was real and not some cruel hallucination.

"Not gonna be a creep while you're knocked out," he told her unconscious form, shoving his hands to his sides, pinching at the fabric of his suit. "I'm an asshole, not a fucking monster. Though Sinister probably would've—" He cut himself off, unwilling to even think about what that psychopath might have done if left alone with her.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to move away from the bedside. Instead, he dragged over the cabin's only chair—a rickety wooden thing that groaned ominously under his weight—and sat down to keep watch. The fading light cast long shadows across her face, highlighting the delicate arch of her cheekbones, the soft curve of her jaw.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly, marking off the seconds of his six-hour vigil. Outside, daylight was fading, golden light barely painting the darkened sky, filtering through the dusty windows and painting long shadows across the uneven floorboards. A tiny beam of sunlight caught particles of dust, making them dance like tiny stars in the otherwise dim room.

"So," he said to the silence, his voice oddly loud in the quiet cabin as he tapped his fingers together.

"Guess I should introduce myself, huh? I'm Mark. Well, obviously I'm fucking Mark—you've seen eight of us now, poor bastard. But I'm the best one. The rest are just cheap knockoffs."

He chuckled humorlessly, dragging his hand through his mohawk again, trying to reshape it into its usual spiky glory without much success. The blue and black ends stuck out at odd angles, making him look more deranged than usual.

"They call me Mohawk Mark. Creative as shit, right? But in my universe, I'm just... Mark. Mark who fucked up. Mark who couldn't save you."

His voice caught on the last word, raw emotion surfacing before he could shove it back down. Memories he'd tried to bury came flooding back—her smile, her laugh, the way she'd roll her eyes at his worst jokes but laugh anyway. The way she'd been the only one who saw past his bullshit, who wasn't afraid to call him on it.

"You died," he said flatly, the words falling like stones in the quiet room. "In my universe. You fucking died, and it was my fault..."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his bloodstained hands. Hands that had failed to save her when it mattered most.

"We were... together. Not just fucking—although that was pretty goddamn amazing—but really together. You were the only person who didn't take my shit, who pushed back when I was being a dick. Which was, you know, most of the time."

A bitter smile twisted his lips.

"I was such an arrogant prick. Thought I was invincible—ha, get it? Fucking hilarious—thought nothing could touch me. Or you, because you were with me. But then this asshole came along, this nobody with a grudge and some Viltrumite tech he'd stolen. Didn't even see him coming."

Mohawk's voice dropped to a whisper, his usual bravado stripped away.

"You pushed me out of the way. Can you believe that shit? ME. The guy who can stop a bullet with his fucking eyelash, and you... you just..."

He broke off, the memory too vivid—her body, broken and bleeding, in his arms. The way the Viltrumite tech had torn through her like she was made of tissue paper, leaving a gaping hole where her heart should have been. The way her blood had felt, hot and sticky, pouring over his hands as he tried desperately to hold her together. The light Instantly fading from her eyes as he screamed for help that wouldn't come in time.

"There was so much blood," he whispered, his voice cracking. "All over me, all over the ground. I tried to stop it, tried to hold you together, but it just kept coming. And you—you looked up at me, and you fucking smiled. Like you were happy it was you and not me. Then you tried to say something, but there was blood in your mouth, and you just... you just stopped. Right there in my arms."

He swallowed hard, his throat tight.

"You died protecting me. Me! The biggest asshole in the universe! The Invincible one! Who does that? Who throws away their life for someone like me?"

He stood abruptly, the chair skittering backward as he paced the small confines of the cabin, too much raw energy coursing through him to stay still. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor, a counterpoint to the ticking clock.

"I buried you myself," he continued, the words pouring out now. "Wouldn't let anyone else touch you. Dug the grave with my bare hands, six feet deep in that spot by the lake you loved. Covered it with those wildflowers you were always going on about. And then I hunted down the fucker who killed you. Made him suffer. Made him beg. And when I was done, there wasn't enough left of him to bury."

He paused, staring out the window at the setting sun, its dying rays painting the forest in shades of gold and red.

"And then this multiverse bullshit started, and Angstrom found me. Said I could take my anger out on another world, another universe. Destroy a place where nothing mattered because it wasn't my reality. Sounded like a pretty sweet fucking deal at the time."

He stopped at the window, his brown eyes staring out at the darkening forest. The first stars were beginning to appear, tiny pinpricks of light in the deepening blue.

"But then we found you. Or I found you, I should say. Those other dipshits would've just zapped past you if I hadn't recognized you first. Would've missed you completely, the blind bastards."

He turned back to look at her, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable, all pretense and bravado stripped away.

"And now I don't know what the fuck to do. Because you're not her—not my Y/N. But you look like her, sound like her. And those assholes out there?" He jerked his thumb toward the door.

"They're going to try to take you for themselves. Each one of them. Emperor Mark with his 'I rule the world' bullshit. Viltrumite Mark probably wants to breed a whole army of super-soldiers with you. Phantom Mark might seem nice, but he's just as fucked up as the rest of us. No-Mask can't shut up about his friend William, but he'll want you too. Omni mark may seem mature and collected, but he's got a dark mind beneath that fucking stoic face. And Sinister?" He shook his head, a shiver running down his spine. "That guy gives me the creeps, and I'm not exactly squeamish."

He returned to the bedside, carefully perching on the edge of the mattress. The bed creaked beneath his weight, but held firm.

"But I found you first," he said, a possessive edge creeping into his voice. "And I'm not letting you go this time. No fucking way. I'd rather tear this whole universe apart."

He tentatively reached out, finally allowing himself to brush a strand of hair from her face. His touch was surprisingly gentle for hands that had torn through concrete and steel. His fingertips lingered, barely touching her skin, as if afraid she might shatter like glass.

"We should've had more time," he whispered. "In my universe, we should've had years. Decades. Instead, I got eighteen months, two weeks, and four days."

The specificity of the number hung in the air between them—every day counted, treasured, mourned.

"This time will be different," he promised, his voice hardening with determination. "I'll kill anyone who tries to hurt you. Including those alternate versions of me. They didn't protect their Y/Ns either, so they don't deserve you any more than I do."

A humorless laugh escaped him.

"I sound like a jealous psycho, don't I? Guess that's what losing you did to me. Made me fucking crazyyyy. But I don't care. You're here. You're alive. And I'm not letting you go.”

Outside, twilight was deepening into night. Through the window, stars were beginning to appear, pin-pricks of light in the growing darkness. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, the sound carrying clearly in the still air. Mohawk Mark settled more comfortably on the edge of the bed, his large frame incongruous with his gentle movements.

"Not gonna lie, this is gonna get messy," he told her unconscious form. "Eight Marks, all with their heads up their asses, all thinking they have some special claim on you? Recipe for disaster. Especially sinister…" He shook his head, a soft groan running through him. "Better if you stay far away from that psychopath."

He sighed, rubbing his slightly bruised face with both hands.

"And me? I just want a second chance. To do it right this time. To keep you safe."

His eyes drifted to the clock. Five hours and twenty-three minutes left of his watch.

"You know what's really fucked up?" he said conversationally, as if she might answer. "In those shitty romance movies you used to make me watch, there's always some speech about how 'if you love someone, let them go.' But that's bullshit. I let you go once—not by choice—and it broke me. So this time?" His jaw set in a determined line. "This time I'm hanging on. I don't care if it's selfish or wrong or whatever. I get a do-over, and I'm taking it."

He reached out again, his fingertips barely brushing against her hand. Her skin was warm—alive—and the contact sent electricity shooting up his arm. How long had it been since he'd touched her? Since he'd felt anything but rage and emptiness?

"I just need you to wake up," he whispered. "Wake up and remember me somehow. Not likely, I know, but hey—a multiverse exists, so anything's possible, right? Maybe there's a version of you that remembers a version of me."

Outside, an owl hooted softly, its call carrying through the still night air. Inside, Mohawk Mark settled in for his vigil, his eyes never leaving Y/N's face, as if by sheer force of will he could bring her back to consciousness.

"Take your time," he said softly. "I've got five hours left, and I'm not going anywhere."

The cabin creaked and settled around them, the wooden beams contracting in the cooling night air. Moonlight now streamed through the window he'd broken, casting eerie shadows across the floor.

In the silence, his thoughts wandered, memories surfacing like bubbles in still water.

"Remember that time we went to that shitty carnival?" he asked her sleeping form, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You made me ride that ferris wheel even though my legs were too damn long for the seat. When it stopped at the top, you kissed me and said you liked seeing me vulnerable for once."

He laughed softly, the sound strange even to his own ears. When was the last time he'd laughed without bitter sarcasm?

"Or that night I came back from that fight with those Dinosaurus, all bloody and fucked up? You didn't say a word, just cleaned me up, bandaged what needed bandaging, then tore me a new one for being reckless. Said if I got myself killed, you'd find a way to bring me back just to kill me yourself."

His voice caught on the last word. The irony wasn't lost on him.

"Guess I'm the one who found a way to bring you back…"

He glanced at the clock again. Four hours and fifty-seven minutes.

"Sinister's got next watch," he muttered darkly. "No fucking way am I leaving you alone with him. Guy's more unhinged than I am, and that's saying something. The things he did in his universe..." He shuddered. "Let's just say even I've got lines I won't cross."

Mohawk stood up, restless energy making it impossible to sit still any longer. He paced the length of the cabin, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight.

"You should see Emperor Mark," he continued, needing to fill the silence. "Strutting around like he owns the fucking multiverse. 'I am the supreme ruler of Earth,' blah blah blah. Bet you'd have knocked him down a peg or two. You never did have patience for that kind of bullshit."

The memory of her standing up to him, hands on hips, not backing down even when he towered over her, made something twist painfully in his chest.

"You were never afraid of me," he said quietly. "Everyone else—even other heroes—they'd flinch when I got angry. Not you. You'd get right up in my face, tell me to stop being a dramatic asshole." He smiled, a genuine one this time. "God, I loved that about you."

The word 'loved' hung in the air, and he froze, suddenly aware of what he'd said. Loved. Past tense. Because his Y/N was gone, and this woman on the bed, no matter how identical, wasn't her.

"Fuck," he whispered, running both hands through his hair. "This is so fucked up."

He moved to the kitchenette, rifling through the cupboards for anything to distract himself. Finding a bottle of whiskey, he uncapped it and took a long swig, grimacing at the burn.

"Tastes like piss," he muttered, but took another drink anyway. The alcohol wouldn't affect him—his metabolism was too efficient for that—but the ritual was comforting in its familiarity.

A sudden sound from outside had him instantly alert, the bottle forgotten as he moved silently to the window. His enhanced vision cut through the darkness, scanning the treeline for any sign of movement. A deer stepped cautiously into the clearing, ears twitching, and he relaxed marginally.

"Just Bambi," he said, returning to Y/N's bedside. "Though with our luck, it's probably Bambi with a grudge and a nuclear warhead."

He settled back into the chair, bottle dangling from his fingertips. For a while, he just watched her breathe, the steady rise and fall of her chest hypnotic in the quiet room.

"You know what scares me?" he finally said, voice barely above a whisper. "That you'll wake up, take one look at me, and see a monster. That you'll run screaming. That you'll hate me for what I am, what I've done."

He took another swig from the bottle.

"I wasn't always like this," he continued. "The hair, yeah—that was a rebellious phase that stuck. But the rest? The violence, the rage? That came after. After you died, after I realized that all my power meant jack shit when it mattered."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"I killed him slow," he admitted, voice flat. "The guy who took you from me. Made it last days. Kept him conscious the whole time. Told myself it was justice, but it was just... emptiness. Trying to fill a hole that couldn't be filled." He laughed bitterly. "Pretty fucking poetic for a guy who didn't graduate high school, huh?"

A soft moan from the bed had him instantly on his feet, bottle clattering forgotten to the floor. Y/N's eyelids fluttered, but didn't open, her face slightly contorting in pain.

"Y/N?" he whispered, heart hammering. "Can you hear me?"

She shifted slightly, a frown creasing her forehead, but remained unconscious. He exhaled slowly, equal parts disappointed and relieved. He wasn't ready yet—didn't know what he'd say when those eyes finally opened and looked at him without recognition.

"Not yet, huh?" he murmured, gently adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. "That's okay. You've been through hell. Take your time."

He retrieved the bottle from where it had rolled under the bed, setting it on the nightstand.

"When you do wake up," he said, sinking back into the chair, "things are gonna get complicated. Eight Marks, each one thinking they've got dibs on you? It's gonna be a clusterfuck of epic proportions."

He studied her face in the moonlight, memorizing every detail all over again.

"But I'll be there," he promised. "I'll keep you safe from them, from the GDA, from whatever other bullshit this universe throws at us. Even if you don't remember me. Even if you never..." He swallowed hard. "Even if you never feel about me the way my Y/N did."

The clock ticked on, marking the passing minutes. Three hours and twenty-two minutes left.

"I should probably talk strategy," he said, switching gears. "Sinister and Emperor are the obvious threats. They'll try to use you, control you. Viltrumite's more subtle, but just as dangerous. No-Mask and Prisoner are wild cards—unpredictable. Omni should be okay for now, he's a wait to the last second type of guy. And Phantom..." He frowned. "He's the one to watch. Plays the sympathy card, all 'I miss my mom' and shit, but he's got an agenda. They all do."

He stood up again, too restless to remain seated.

"Only safe Mark in the bunch is me," he declared with dark humor. "And I'm a complete psychopath according to most psychiatric evaluations. So that's saying something."

As if in response to his self-assessment, Y/N's fingers twitched, curling slightly into the sheets. He was at her side in an instant, his eyes glued to her hand, then her face, back to her hand. watching intently for any sign of consciousness.

"Y/N?" he whispered, hope creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "You with me?"

Nothing. Just the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing.

"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand down his face. "Now I'm seeing things. Get it together, Mark."

He retreated to the window, staring out at the moonlit forest. The night was clear, stars scattered across the black velvet sky like diamonds. In another life, they might have been lying on a blanket somewhere, her head on his chest as she pointed out constellations he pretended to be interested in.

"You used to love the stars," he said softly. "Could name all the constellations, all that shit. I never got it—they're just balls of gas burning billions of miles away—but you'd talk about them like they were magic."

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass.

"After you died, I couldn't look at them anymore. Kept thinking about how the light from some of those stars takes years to reach us. So maybe, some of that light started its journey when you were still alive. Like some part of you was still out there, somewhere."

He laughed at himself, the sound hollow in the quiet room.

"Pathetic, right? Big bad Mohawk Mark, getting all philosophical about starlight." He shook his head. "The others would never let me live it down if they heard me now."

The thought of the other Marks sobered him. Each one was dangerous in his own way, each one a twisted reflection of what he might have become under different circumstances. And each one would want Y/N for himself.

"I won't share you," he said, turning back to face her. "Not with them, not with anyone. They can have this whole fucking universe to tear apart, but you? You're off-limits."

He returned to the bedside, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress. His hand hovered above hers, wanting to touch but hesitating.

"I know it's selfish," he admitted. "You're not my Y/N. You don't know me, don't owe me anything. But I've spent eighteen months in hell without you, and now you're here, and I just..." He exhaled sharply. "I just need a second chance."

Finally, he allowed himself to take her hand in his, engulfing her smaller fingers in his palm. Her skin was soft, warm—alive. The simple contact made his chest constrict.

"When you wake up," he said, voice rough with emotion, "you can tell me to fuck off. You can run as far from me as you want. But until then, I'm staying right here. Keeping you safe."

A memory surfaced—Y/N in his kitchen, attempting to cook something complicated, cursing colorfully as smoke billowed from the oven. He'd laughed until she threw a dishrag at his head, then pulled her against him, still laughing as she pounded her fists against his chest in mock outrage.

"You used to say I was the worst boyfriend in the multiverse," he recalled, a smile tugging at his lips. "Turns out you were right, just not in the way you meant. There are literally seven other versions of me, and every single one of them is fucked up in their own special way."

He glanced at the clock again. Two hours and forty-five minutes.

"You know what? Sinister can go fuck himself. Emperor too. I'm not leaving when my time's up. If they want to try and move me, they're welcome to try."

He shifted, carefully arranging himself so he was sitting with his back against the headboard, her hand still clasped loosely in his. For the first time since she'd died, a flicker of something that might have been hope kindled in his chest.

"Wake up or don't wake up," he told her. "Either way, I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."

Outside, a wolf howled, the sound echoing through the trees. Another answered, then another, a chorus of wild voices in the darkness. Mohawk Mark settled in, Y/N's hand still in his, to wait out the night.

"Take your time, sleeping beauty," he murmured. "I've got all the time in the world."

–––––––––––––– Next chapter may be freaky, or just crazy lol. haven't decided yet ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ Pt.1✧ ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Pt.3✧ Pt.4✧

Pt.5✧

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bryantmoretta · 16 days ago

Text

under observation - jack abbot x PA reader (2)

summary: the er has slowed down for the night, you and jack find yourselves pulled into the lull together.

a/n: first off: thank you so much for the love on the first chapter and the other things i’ve posted recently. it really means so much! secondly part 3 is being edited so we won’t have to wait so long next time <3. i hope everyone is having a good day/night/timezone. without further stalling: part two:

the ER had finally exhaled.

for the first time in hours, there were no new traumas on the board, no labs screaming STAT, no frantic calls from radiology. even shen had quieted down. the halls still buzzed faintly with machines and overhead pages, but it all sounded muffled now, like the hospital was sleeping with one eye open.

you’d slipped off to a quieter alcove to catch up on charting, a small pocket of space with a wide desk, an outlet, and a secondhand swivel chair that didn’t groan too loud. you were halfway through writing discharge notes for bay 4 when jack sat down across from you.

he didn’t announce himself. he didn’t even look over.

just coffee in hand, chart pulled up, pencil behind one ear like it lived there.

he typed with the same rhythm you’d come to recognize, deliberate, a little harder than necessary. his leg stretched under the desk. you adjusted yours, just barely, so you wouldn’t brush him.

neither of you spoke.

neither of you left.

the silence didn’t feel like something to fill. it wasn’t heavy. just… still. like the space between stars. far apart, but full of quiet gravity.

you looked up once, halfway through an update about wound care. his eyes were already on you.

not long. just enough.

then the printer in the nurses’ station came to life with a series of mechanical coughs, and the moment passed.

you turned back to your notes.

so did he.

you kept working, and neither of you explained why you’d stayed in that spot.

a few minutes later, shen appeared, carrying two coffees and his usual restless grin. he spotted the seating arrangement immediately.

“oh wow,” he said, smirking. “we doing satellite charting now? she’s not following you, is she?”

you glanced up, caught somewhere between a laugh and an apology. “just happened to be open.”

“sure,” shen said, circling like a hawk. “pure coincidence. like tectonic plates.”

jack didn’t look up.

shen handed him a coffee and kept going. “from here, it’s starting to look like gravity. you move, she moves.”

hack finally responds. still not looking away from the screen, he muttered, “if she were following me, she’d be going the wrong direction.”

shen laughed like that was a win.

jack didn’t.

he just went back to charting, letting the silence take its place again.

when shen wandered off, jack finally looked at you. just a flicker of a glance, and you saw it there in the corner of his expression: he’d heard the comment.

and he didn’t mind.

hours later, you crossed paths again in the break room. you were pulling pretzels from the vending machine when the door swung open and jack walked in like he’d been meaning to all along.

he gave a brief nod, acknowledging, not intruding.

you sat first, picking the corner of the table nearest the door. he sat opposite, unwrapping a sandwich with the kind of care people usually reserved for injuries or evidence.

it was probably turkey. it looked kinda dry.

halfway through peeling back the wax paper, he split the sandwich in two and wordlessly offered you a piece.

you blinked.

“i’m good,” you said softly. “but thank you.”

he shrugged and placed the half between you anyway. Not forcing. just… there if you needed it.

you opened your pretzels and crunched one slowly. he drank his coffee. the silence stretched again, but now it felt companionable.

across from you, jack leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, sandwich forgotten for the moment.

there wasn’t much to say. nothing that needed to be said.

but there was something about the way he sat. still, grounded, that made the room feel warmer than the harsh fluorescent lights allowed.

the sandwich stayed untouched between you.

later in the shift, when the lull deepened and the board stayed still, you walked the east corridor to shake the weight out of your legs.

jack followed. you didn’t hear his footsteps at first, but when he appeared beside you, it didn’t feel like a surprise.

“you ever get sleep paralysis?” he asked after a moment, casual, like asking the time.

you turned slightly toward him. “sometimes. not a lot.”

he nodded, slow. “used to think it was just from stress. but then it kept happening even on days off. like my brain never figured out the shift ended.”

you exhaled through your nose. “i dream i’m still charting, sometimes.”

jack gave a low huff of acknowledgment. “had one where I kept getting bounced between insurance and case management. whole dream I was stuck in a loop, trying to get a kid a psych bed. woke up angry.”

you smiled. “that’s on-brand.”

he glanced over at you. “you?”

“last week,” you said. “i dreamt a trauma rolled in and i forgot how to call a code. i couldn’t speak. i just stood there and watched.”

he didn’t tease you for it. didn’t make light.

he just nodded and said, “yeah. same.”

you walked the rest of the corridor without speaking. the fluorescent lights hummed overhead. the linoleum glowed sterile and empty.

and somehow, walking side by side in that nothing-hour quiet, it didn’t feel like working.

it felt like something slower.

like orbit.

like gravity.

#jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction

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fiendsgf · 4 days ago

Text

Only One

synopsis: You and Sylus are trapped. Only one can escape.

content: ANGST

The shuttle hummed quietly beneath your boots, a smooth glide through the dark velvet of space as Onychinus protocol played out around you. It was supposed to be a routine mission—just a brief meeting on a neutral station with a few Ever representatives. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing dangerous.

Which was exactly why you were allowed to come.

And exactly why Sylus hadn’t argued. Much.

He sat across from you now in the low-lit cabin, one ankle resting over his knee, gloved fingers idly spinning a sleek pen between them. The flick of silver caught the ambient light every few seconds, glinting like a secret. His coat hung open just enough to reveal the curve of his collarbone, the dark red shirt beneath it still crisp despite the long ride.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.

“I’m thinking,” you replied, arms crossed, pretending like the flush on your cheeks wasn’t blooming from the slow, smug smile that curved across his lips.

“Oh?” He tilted his head toward you now, lashes low, violet gaze narrowed with mischief. “Thinking about how I’ll look when I’m charming Ever’s delegates into spilling all their secrets? Or... something else?”

You raised a brow. “That’s a pretty bold assumption, considering you haven’t charmed anyone into anything yet.”

“Yet,” he echoed, and then leaned forward—elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked to yours. “I’ve got a solid track record, sweetie. When I want something, I get it.”

You swallowed. Too warm. Too smug. Too close.

“Then I guess it’s lucky I’m here to keep you from getting too cocky.”

That earned a soft laugh, rich and low. “You? Keep me in check? You’ve never denied me anything.”

You lifted a hand and flicked the pen out of his fingers.

“Hey.”

“I’m denying you this.”

He leaned back again with a quiet groan, but the grin stayed. “Unbelievable. I bring you on a date in deep space and you steal my toys.”

“This isn’t a date,” you said, even though it kind of felt like one. It always did, when it was just the two of you. Even on missions, even during late nights in his dimly-lit gym or quiet returns to the base after long days. The space between you always buzzed, not just with desire, but something deeper. Familiar. Pulled tight by history. Threaded through with want.

He gave you a look like he could hear your thoughts. “Could be a date. If we make it one.”

“Sylus—”

The shuttle landed with a gentle jolt. The cabin lights brightened as the system booted down, and your moment shattered into the reality of metal and motion.

“We’re here,” he said, voice still soft. But he lingered before standing. Reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek. “You ready?”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat.

“I’ve got your back,” you said.

His gaze lingered a beat too long.

“I know.”

The shuttle hissed as it docked, pressure seals engaging with a heavy clunk. Beyond the reinforced doors, the Ever outpost loomed — pristine white corridors, gravity-neutral chambers suspended in magnetic harnesses, the whole facility floating like a jewel in the dark curve of Earth’s upper atmosphere. From here, the stars looked like pinpricks carved into black glass. Still. Cold. Watching.

You tapped your fingers against the strap of your harness, watching Sylus slide his hands through his hair with practiced ease. He looked calm — as always — but you caught the way his shoulders rolled once, like he was working out tension. He always got quiet before meetings like this.

"Still time to back out," he said, not looking at you as he locked the weapon case on his belt. “Could say it was a boring intelligence recon. I’ll even tell them you had the flu.”

You gave him a look. “And miss watching you pretend to be professional?”

That earned a huff — not quite a laugh, but close. He turned, finally, meeting your eyes with that slow-burn warmth only he ever gave you. “I’m always professional, sweetie.”

“You’re still wearing the necklace I gave you under your shirt.”

“You picked it out. I’m not suicidal.”

He stepped closer, the synthetic floor humming under his shoes. His fingers brushed against your cheek, tipping your chin slightly. The pressurized hum of the ship behind you faded just a little as he lowered his voice. “You’re sure about this, kitten? These aren’t just numbers in a report. Ever plays deep.”

You nodded. “I know that. I need to know what they’re hiding. Same as you.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything — just looked at you, red eyes flicking over every line of your face like he was memorizing it. He always did that before missions, too. Like just in case.

Then: “Alright.” He leaned down, his lips brushing your temple. “But if anyone so much as looks at you wrong in there—”

“You’ll what?” you teased, stepping past him toward the door. “Tell them a long-winded story about Mephisto’s kleptomania until they cry?”

He followed with a faint smile. “It worked once.”

The Ever operatives were already waiting in the glass-panel briefing room — a sterile, floating space tethered between two structural beams. They offered polite nods, cold tea, and a datapad loaded with false transparency.

Sylus kept his tone clipped but polite, asking about Rift signatures near the old Chronos Labs, subtle mineral patterns in the asteroid belt — things only Ever would try to hide under the pretense of benevolence.

You watched their faces closely as they lied, your hand drifting to rest lightly on the edge of the console, where Sylus’s hand brushed yours beneath the table. He didn’t look down. Didn’t react. But his thumb curled around your fingers slowly — anchoring.

They talked for over twenty minutes. Boring, clipped lingo about graviton behavior, quantum decay rates, ship logs, monitoring systems. But something itched at the back of your skull. Like this entire facility was too clean. Too quiet.

Too rehearsed.

When the meeting adjourned, the lead agent offered a tour. “We’re proud of the improvements. All Ever technology is shared freely with Onychinus, of course. Feel free to observe what you like.”

You and Sylus exchanged a glance.

“Of course,” Sylus said, with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

The walk through the corridors was long — and strange. A few labs, observation pods, bio-stasis chambers that didn’t quite match what the facility claimed to be. Too few staff. Too many locked doors.

“Something’s off,” you murmured to Sylus, close enough for only him to hear.

He nodded once, subtly. “I’ve been mapping the hallways. Two sectors don’t line up with their official schematic.”

“And the lead agent?”

“Hasn’t blinked in twenty-seven seconds. I’m betting implants. Maybe worse.”

You exhaled slowly. But he squeezed your hand once, behind the shield of his coat.

“You trust me?” he asked under his breath.

You didn’t hesitate. “With everything.”

“Then stay close.”

He grinned then — that roguish, cocky one he only wore for you. “And after this, I’ll take you for a joyride. I mean it.”

You reached the core chamber under pretense of a systems inspection. The moment Sylus accessed the terminal, the entire room changed.

A low pulse rippled through the walls — like a heartbeat — followed by a sudden drop in temperature.

Behind you, the door sealed with a violent clang.

The lights flickered red.

The gravity vanished.

You floated for only a moment before a dull thrum surged through your skin — wrong, wrong, wrong — and Sylus cried out, grabbing his chest. You reached for him instinctively—

“Sylus?”

His knees hit the floor with a grunt. Sweat beaded at his temple. “Antimatter—”

“What?”

“Antimatter chamber,” he gasped, bracing on one elbow. “It’s—nullifying me.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Antimatter. The one thing that could sever him from his Evol. Disable everything that made him what he was.

He looked up at you, face drawn, breath ragged. “This is a kill box.”

“Sylus—”

Your voice cracked as you dropped to your knees beside him, the air thick and vibrating with something wrong — something cold and heavy pressing in on all sides. He braced himself on one arm, jaw tight, his free hand curling into a fist against the floor.

“Sylus—hey—” Your fingers found his wrist, trembling slightly as you gripped it. “It’s just your Evol right? You’re gonna be alright—”

“Feels like…” he hissed through clenched teeth, forcing himself upright. “Something’s pulling—tugging—like static inside my bones.”

You felt it too, now that he said it. A buzz under your skin. Not painful exactly — but oppressive. Wrong. The floor no longer vibrated with ship systems or station hum. The silence was total. Manufactured. Staged.

You moved in closer, pushing hair out of his face, anything to comfort him.

“I’m sorry— I should have sensed it before we walked in— I should have—”

Sylus places his hand over your own trembling one, and then: “It’s not your fault sweetie,”

The look in his eyes made you want to cry. You turned your cheek, willing the sting behind your eyes to go away, scanning the room for any possible exit.

“The door sealed behind us, but maybe there’s another way out. Maybe if I resonate—”

“It’s an antimatter nullification field,” Sylus said again, voice low and strained, like he was forcing each word through glass. “It doesn’t just strip my Evol. There’s no energy in this room, so you won’t be able to resonate either.”

Your breath stuttered. “But why—”

A sharp electronic squeal sliced through the chamber, and you instinctively ducked, moving even closer to Sylus to shield him— arm braced around his waist.

The ceiling above flickered with life — a broad, concave screen shimmered to life with an unnatural glow. Blue light painted your faces, cast your shadows long and skeletal on the chamber walls.

Then a voice crackled through the air, smooth and artificial, modulated and unplaceable.

“Welcome, subjects.”

The chamber stilled.

“You’ve been selected for Ever’s latest experimental paradigm: a study on survival instinct, emotional prioritization, and the threshold at which love becomes expendable.”

Your blood went ice cold.

Sylus straightened beside you, more from sheer fury than recovered strength.

“You are inside a sealed facility. All exits are currently inaccessible.”

A long pause. Then:

“Only one of you may leave.”

You froze.

Sylus didn’t breathe.

“You have sixty minutes to make a decision. If no choice is made, both participants will be eliminated. This study aims to explore whether the human will to live outweighs the depth of emotional attachment. If sacrifice is instinct… or illusion.”

The voice smiled without smiling.

“Will love compel you to die? Or will instinct compel you to survive?”

A soft ding echoed in the chamber.

From the ceiling, a small ring of projection light scanned the floor, and a holographic timer materialized in midair.

59:5959:5859:57

It ticked slowly. Quietly.

You could hear Sylus’s breathing next to you — harsh and uneven.

The projection vanished from the ceiling, leaving only that timer, glowing a sickly blue in the dim.

You turned to him, your voice catching.

“We’re not doing this.”

He looked at you, eyes sharp. “Obviously not.”

“We can find a way out. We always do.”

Sylus’s lips twitched, and for a second you thought he was about to argue. But then he nodded — short, clipped, decisive.

“Then let’s get to work.”

59:06

The first ten minutes passed in a blur of frantic logic.

Sylus pulled himself up onto a bench embedded into the wall, wiping sweat from his brow, and you scrambled to scan every seam, every panel. The chamber was smooth, shiny surfaces that reflected your haunted gaze — the kind of manufactured perfection meant to be inescapable. No visible access points. No screws. No exposed wiring.

Just white walls. Blue light. And that damn ticking.

He walked you through what he could remember — where the fail-safes might be, how Ever had developed prototype nullification protofields before, but nothing ever stable. “They can’t keep this field up forever,” he said. “It’s too volatile. We just need to outlast it.”

“So we wait it out?”

“No,” he said immediately. “They won’t let it reach that point. If their data corrupts, they’ll kill us to preserve control.”

You grit your teeth. “Then what’s the plan?”

“Look for feedback points. Anything magnetic. Antimatter is sensitive to polarity. If we reverse the chamber’s flow…”

He didn’t need to finish. You were already scanning again, dragging your fingers over the edges of the panels, looking for hairline breaks, inconsistencies.

“You said your Evol is gone,” you said after a beat. “Completely?”

He flexed his hand slowly. “It’s not gone— it’s just… useless. In a place like this.”

His words made your stomach turn. You couldn’t hide the grimace that rippled across your face.

“I can still think. Still fight.” He made his way towards you, then, softly: “Don’t give up on me now, sweetie. We still have time. I promised you I would remain undefeated, I intend to keep that promise.”

You nodded, swallowing hard.

He pulled you into his chest, one strong hand cradling your head, the other gliding up your back.

“I will get us out of here.”

50:02

The timer ticked past 50 minutes.

You’d found nothing.

No irregularities. No temperature shifts. No hidden seams.

You slammed your palm against the wall and let out a frustrated breath. “There has to be a way out.”

Sylus was kneeling by the floor now, eyeing the base of the door where the seal had activated. “As much as I hate to admit it, they engineered this room well.” A pause. “Seems like they finally found someone competent enough to take me out.”

You turned sharply. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“This isn’t a joke, Sylus. Ten minutes have barely passed and you’re already talking like you’re going to die!”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable.

You took a step toward him. “You said we’d get out of this. That you’d take me for a joyride.”

“I meant it.” A flicker behind his eye. Then:

“I will.”

Your shoulders dropped, just a fraction of tension released from your frame.

“Then stop talking like that. Work with me.”

He exhaled slowly, and for a moment — just a second — he looked exhausted. Not from pain. Not from the nullification. But from you. From the ache in your voice. From what it meant.

You dropped to your knees beside him again. “We’re going to figure it out. After everything we’ve been through— this can’t be what beats us.”

He looked at you finally. “It won’t, sweetie.”

You reached for his hand — and this time, he let you hold it.

His skin was cool, but his warmth spread through your chest all the same.

40:13

You were stuck to the screen on the far wall of the room now. Trying everything you could think of — hacking, overriding the system — anything that might disengage this experiment and end the nightmare.

The room felt smaller. The air thinner.

Sylus hadn’t moved in minutes.

Internally, he was spiraling.

He was still trapped in this room — physically — but mentally he was in Tarus City. He was in the Judicator’s sanctuary, clutching his chest, fighting his desire to kill you, to fall victim to the curse.

He was running away. Running away from fate — from a choice he would never make if he had any say — running away from you.

He was trying to save you.

He didn’t notice you approaching.

“Talk to me,” you whispered. “You’re shutting down.”

“I’m not—” he said too quickly. “I just keep thinking... if I hadn’t brought you—”

“Sylus, don’t.”

He looked at you, jaw clenched.

“I followed you,” you said, reaching for him. “I chose to be here.”

“You didn’t know what this was.” He said, gripping your hand.

“Neither did you, I don’t blame you.”

He didn’t answer.

Silence stretched. Thick. Choking.

Then, softer:

“I’ve survived a hundred different deaths,” he said. “I’ve been through worse than most people can imagine. But if you die in here—if you die because of me—I won't come back from that.”

Your throat closed. You reached for him again, gripping his hand tighter.

“Then don’t let it happen,” you said. “Sylus, it’s not over.”

His eyes met yours — and this time, they were glassy.

But he nodded.

Once.

Then:

“Thirty minutes left.”

You looked up at the timer.

29:59

The chamber had gone still.

Only the low-frequency hum of the containment core pulsed through the walls — cold, mechanical, absolute. Every path you’d tried had dead-ended. Sylus’s fingers hovered over the holographic interface, but the security script just blinked back at him: ACCESS DENIED. CORE LOCK ENGAGED. COUNTDOWN: 00:27:42

He’d hacked through far worse before. Coded intelligent AI, cracked encrypted data under pressure, bypassed systems no one else even dared touch. Somewhere deep in his bones he wished he could summon Mephisto — anything that might crawl through a crack in the system, find a loophole he couldn’t reach alone.

But he was quiet. Too quiet.

He was scared.

You watched him from across the room. He stood motionless — not breathing for a second too long. His shadow stretched long and distorted beneath the sterile overhead lights, warping where the antimatter field shimmered faintly against the walls.

And then he said it.

“I want you to be the one who gets out.”

Your heart stopped. “What?”

“If we don’t find a way out in time,” Sylus said, still not meeting your eyes, “you should live. You have to. Don’t argue.”

Your voice cracked. “Sylus—”

He turned. His red eyes were soft — devastatingly so.

“I know how this looks. But I’ve already thought it through. The antimatter nullifies me — my Evol, my regeneration, everything that makes me unstoppable. But you... you’re still whole. You can walk out of here, strong, resilient. Everything I’ve ever wished for you to be.”

“You are not sending me out alone.”

“You would survive,” he pressed, stepping closer. “You still have your future. Your work. Your world. So much more ahead of you. Me—?” His smile twisted with unbearable tenderness. “I’ve lived long enough. I’ve seen everything worth seeing.”

“No you haven’t,” you snapped, cutting him off. “I won’t let our future slip away because of some stupid fucking experiment—” You paused, breath hitching. “You don’t get to make that decision for me, Sylus.”

“Sweetie...”

“Don’t do this.” Your voice broke. You crossed the room in two strides and caught his face in your hands. “Don’t you dare talk like you’ve already decided. Like you’re disposable.”

His hands closed around your wrists — warm, steady, trembling slightly.

“You don’t understand. I brought you into this. I told you it was safe.”

“I told you I don’t care about that!”

“You should. I wasn’t paying attention. I missed the signs. I—” He cut himself off, the guilt knotting in his throat. “You could’ve been anywhere else. You should have been.”

“I chose to be here,” you snapped, tears stinging. “Because I love you. Because I trust you.”

He faltered.

You touched his jaw, voice shaking but sure. “If I hadn’t come — if you died — without so much as a goodbye—” You choked back a sob. “I wouldn’t know what to do. If this is really it— then we go out together.”

He flinched. That guilt in his eyes twisted deeper, sharper.

“Don’t say that. I told you I wouldn’t let you die. I meant it.”

You stared at him. “It’s not your decision to make. We still have time. Let’s not waste it.”

You turned back to the screen, steel settling into your spine. You forced yourself to block out the timer, even as it kept bleeding toward zero. Sylus returned to the door, beginning another pass over the mechanisms, searching for even the thinnest crack in the system.

But your words echoed in his mind.

It’s not your decision to make.

You were right. He knew that. But it didn’t change the truth: he was selfish. Selfish in his desire to protect you. Selfish in the way he’d always placed himself between you and danger — not out of arrogance, but fear. Desperation. Love.

He was selfish then, too. In another life.

Letting you plunge the sword through his chest had come as naturally as breathing. There was no other option in his mind. Dying was the only way to free you. To protect you from the curse — from himself.

It had felt right. At the time.

But was it what you would’ve chosen?

He didn’t let himself think about what became of you afterward. Not often. On the hardest nights, he told himself you had your revenge. That you relished in the treasures he left behind. That you lived out your days in peace. That you moved on.

He had to believe that.

He couldn’t believe he left a gaping hole in your chest.

He knew he was wrong.

He thought of the binding curse you laid over him — how your grief kept him tethered to this life. Not vengeance. Not hatred. But love. Your curse was your forgiveness. A second chance — one where doomsday was behind you and the only fight left was to love each other freely. To see it through to the end.

And now he was here again.

If he left you behind, would you forgive him again?

Will this be my final curtain call?

15:01

“Sylus—”

Your broken sob dragged him out of the spiral.

He turned fast. You were trembling at the console, braced against the edge as though it were the only thing holding you upright. Silent tears tracked down your cheeks. Your eyes stayed locked on the monitor — on the timer ticking relentlessly downward.

Fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes until one of you died.

“Sylus,” you whispered again, breath hitching, fragile with panic and fury and unbearable love.

He didn’t speak. He crossed the room with quiet urgency and laid his hand on your back. You flinched—not from him, but from the weight of it all. The pressure. The grief. The fear.

“I can’t do this,” you said hoarsely. “I can’t—pretend like we’re okay. Like this is just another mission. I—every time I look at that timer I feel like I’m watching you disappear in real time.”

His voice came soft. “I’m still here.”

“But for how long?” You turned toward him, eyes red-rimmed and pleading. “You’re already deciding. I can see it. You’ve already made peace with leaving me behind, and I hate it.”

He swallowed hard. “It’s not peace. It’s just—logic.”

“Fuck logic!” you snapped, stepping into him. “I don’t know what to do— I can’t figure anything out with this stupid panel and my Evol won’t work—”

Your words dissolved into sobs.

“Sweetie, come here.”

He wrapped his arms around you. Held you like a lifeline.

“I know this is stressful. But there’s still time. Try not to panic. Just breathe with me for a minute.”

You buried your face in his chest, clutching his shirt like it could anchor you to this moment — this heartbeat, this warmth. His breathing steadied you. Together, for just one fleeting moment, you felt the world pause.

And then—

The intercom buzzed to life again, slicing through the silence like a blade.

“Subjects. You have ten minutes left. If a decision is not made in this time, both parties will be eliminated.”

A sob tore from your throat.

Shaking, you looked up at Sylus. His eyes were glassy now too — red and wet and barely holding back everything.

“Sylus—” you choked, voice breaking, “I know it might not work— but try to resonate with me.”

“Sweetie...”

“Just do it!” you snapped.

He said nothing. Just slowly slid his hand down your arm, lacing your fingers together. A grounding touch.

You closed your eyes, reaching inward with everything you had left — begging your Evol to reach past the containment field. Past fear. Past time.

Please… please…

You focused everything into him.

And waited.

The silence was unbearable.

No warning klaxon. Just the low, invisible hum of the antimatter trap and the weight of the minutes slipping through your fingers.

Sylus’s hand was still warm in yours, but your palms were slick, fingers trembling. You’d been trying everything. Overclocking your Evol, syncing your rhythms, pushing your Evol to its limit. The chamber had pulsed once—just once—with a shiver of blue light, your hands glowing gold for half a second like a breath being held. But then it collapsed. Fizzled.

Too weak.

“No, no, no—” you muttered, pressing your hands to the floor as if sheer force of will would draw something out. “We’re close. We have to be close. Why won’t it hold?”

The resonance flickered again — a bright, shuddering pulse that cracked through the silence like a held breath finally released — then dimmed just as fast, like it had thought better of trying.

You flinched at the collapse of it. “That was closer, wasn’t it? That had to be—”

Sylus’s hands tightened around yours. “It was. But it’s not enough.”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head hard. “No, we just have to—”

Another surge, then nothing. Not even a hum.

You pressed your palms flat to the chamber wall, sweat collecting at your temples. The silence afterward was unbearable. You could hear your heartbeat in your throat, loud, choking, useless.

“We can’t give up,” you said quickly, breath catching. “It was working. We can make it work again—if we try harder—if we—”

“Hey. Hey, kitten.” Sylus caught your face gently, brushing back damp strands of hair. “You’ve done enough.”

His voice was soft, so maddeningly soft, like you were already being put to sleep.

Your throat clenched. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m just saying it out loud,” he murmured. “In case we don’t get another chance.”

“No,” you said again, harsher this time. “We will. Don’t say that. Don’t you dare—”

His forehead rested against yours, warm and grounding. “I love you,” he said.

You froze.

“I love you more than I ever thought myself capable of loving anything,” he went on, voice trembling for the first time. “And if this is where it ends, I need you to know that was never your fault.”

You gripped his sleeves. “Sylus, stop. You’re talking like you’ve already chosen.”

“I did. The moment this trap activated.”

“No—”

“Yes.” He breathed in shakily. “I made peace with it already, sweetie. You have to let me.”

You shoved away from him. “I won’t let you. I already told you you’re not allowed to make this decision for me!”

His jaw tightened, but his gaze stayed steady. “I’m not choosing for you. I’m asking you to live.”

“You’re asking me to kill you,” you snapped.

“I’m asking you not to waste everything we’ve survived for. Everything you’ve become.”

You were shaking. “And you think I could live with myself if I just let you go? If I climbed out of here and left you behind in this empty metal tomb, alone—?”

“If it means you live, then yes.”

You shoved him, not hard enough to hurt. “You’re so selfish.”

He blinked. “Selfish?”

“You think you’re sparing me pain, but really you’re just choosing the option that makes you feel better. You’d rather be the one left behind than risk living without me.”

He opened his mouth to argue — then closed it. His silence was answer enough.

Tears blurred your vision. “You said you loved me.”

“I do.”

“Then stop trying to leave me.”

Sylus pulled you close, breath catching. “If you walk out, maybe I don’t die. Not really.” You looked up, startled.

He hesitated, voice lower. “You’ve always been the only one who could truly end me. If you leave… maybe some part of me will keep waiting. Maybe I’ll come back.”

Your hands trembled against his chest. “That’s not enough. I don’t want a ghost of you. I want you. I want us both out of here.”

“If it can’t be both,” he murmured, “then it has to be you.”

You shook your head, desperate. “There’s always another way. We just haven’t found it yet.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

“I’ll say it until my voice gives out,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his again. “Because I refuse to live in a world that doesn’t have you in it. If this place wants us to choose one life—it can’t have either.”

He didn’t answer. His arms only tightened around you.

The next resonance surge was weaker. Your time was running out.

5:00

The air in the chamber hummed like a dying star — pulsing faintly, then fading, the light from the holographic screen beginning to dim. Sylus sat against the wall, one arm around you, the other curled protectively over your hand, which trembled in his grip.

The resonance had sparked — once, twice — a flicker of your Evols trying to harmonize. But it never held. The antimatter core in the center of the room seemed to absorb everything. Even hope.

Your breathing was unsteady now. Not just from exhaustion. From fear.

“We almost had it that time,” you whispered. “I could feel it… just for a second. Sylus, maybe—maybe if we try again—”

“No,” he said softly, his voice so gentle it almost didn’t register as refusal. “It’s not going to work, sweetie. You and I both know it. I don't want to waste what's left pretending it’s not happening,”

A silence passed between you. Sylus looked at the ceiling — at the thin sliver of metal and glass that separated you from the sky outside. The stars had long since disappeared.

He let out a quiet breath. “I used to think dying scared me. That the worst thing in the world was not knowing what came next.”

You shook your head, voice raw. “Stop.”

“But it doesn’t. Not anymore. Not if I know you’ll keep going. That you’ll live the kind of life I always wanted for you.”

“No—stop it.” Your voice broke. “Sylus, listen to me. If I leave here without you, that life means nothing. I don’t want it. I never did.”

His hand tightened around yours. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” You looked him dead in the eyes. “You talk about me living, like I’m supposed to be okay walking away from this. Like I could smile and move on. I can’t. I won’t.”

There was a flicker of guilt in his expression—deep, old, familiar. Like a shadow resurfacing from some buried place.

“I made this mistake before,” he murmured. “A long time ago. Gave up my life, thinking it would be enough to save you. But it wasn’t. You still suffered.”

You frowned, confused—but he shook his head before you could speak.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters is I know better now. Dying for you doesn’t fix it. Not if it breaks you in return.”

You were both quiet for a while.

The core in the center of the room pulsed once—like a heartbeat. Then stilled.

You swallowed. “Then we don’t choose. Not one over the other.”

Sylus’s throat bobbed. His voice cracked when he said, “You mean—”

“I mean we stay.” Your hand lifted to his face, brushing his cheek. “Together.”

He exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” The tears came now, but you weren’t afraid anymore. “If this is it… I’d rather it be with you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He kissed you — slow, aching, his hand at your jaw like you were something sacred.

When the antimatter core began to glow brighter, signaling the final countdown, neither of you looked away.

You leaned into him. Wrapped your arms around his waist.

“I’m not afraid,” you whispered.

“Neither am I.”

The core was blinding now. You buried your face in Sylus’ shoulder, whispering your last goodbye.

“I love you, Sylus.”

“I love you, too, sweetie.”

And then—

Darkness.

Two sets of fingerprints on the glass.

Two people, curled together like they were always meant to return to each other — even here.

Even at the end.

a/n: i kind of hate this i won't lie. perhaps my first flop on this blog. when u love sylus so much u have to put him in a saw trap in ur fic

#love and deepspace #lads sylus #sylus #lnds sylus #lnds #lads #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #sylus angst

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