Simon knew what he did. He ruined you by asking to see other people. He thought it might have been okay now, it's been open for about a year, you'd seemed fine these last six months, maybe the winter was treating you harsh and you were a little sick but you didn't even need antibiotics.
He knew you asked for the divorce because he couldn't stick to you. He ruined everything asking to open things for Soap. And he felt sad and regretful of course, you were so perfect, but he knew he deserved this. He couldn't even find it in him to go hunt you down and just watch from afar. He didn't even bother checking your socials.
But he did confine in Soap. Johnny was such a great listener, he didn't even tell him about his problems of his own. How his other little bird just up and ran off, broke things off with him cold turkey and was gone.
Johnny just thought it had to do with that tan line on your ring finger, he was smart. You had to be when you majored in chemistry at 18. He figured he'd just been keeping you warm, even if he did have a little crush on you, he kept it at bay even though it stung when you were gone.
He figured you went back home and that was that. But he couldn't help but worry about his little crush that kept him frowny and pouty all week though out base. Ghost was too worried about you to notice Johnny's attitude.
You didn't know you'd been fucking his seargant at the same time he was. He'd asked to open it but you couldn't stay with that guilt. Cut to a few months later and you had a bouncing baby boy with big blue eyes and dark lashes and you knew it wasn't Simon's. You're fine, you could handle this alone. And you did, being a mom wasn't even as scary as it seems. After you made it through that first month you had it in the bag.
You swore the two months old could already smile even though he was still pink. The tan lines on your ring finger had long since faded and you were getting a long just fine in America. There was no reason for Simon to find you, Johnny either.
You'd picked a place in town the furthest possible spot away from any remotely close military base, never ever again. You could make it here, alone, with one blue eyes baby boy named Simon.
A 1920s time period piece. I made this as historically accurate as I could. It is more historically inspired and set in London. This is for @justamegafan
Yandere 1920s Imagines: Parlor Maid
Yandere Socialite x Fem Maid Reader x Yandere Nobleman
TW: Wlw, internalized homophobia, messy love triangle between siblings (Not incest), bullying (mention), yandere behavior, abuse of power, uncomfortable situations, two emotionally constipated nobles, and unhealthy relationship dynamics
Duchess Frances and Duke William Monroe had always fought over toys and trinkets since they were young. These small squabbles never ended, even when they reached adulthood. Especially when they both had their sights set on you, the pretty little maid. Both siblings were incredibly competitive over you, their sweet, oblivious maid.
You had been with them since they were children since you were the daughter of a maid. And once you were a teen, you worked for the family too… and those two siblings made your life a living hell. You had no idea that they did such awful acts upon you for your utmost attention rather than sadistic pleasure, but how were you to know the truth? They merely learned love through what they observed between their cold parents.
Frances used to cut your hair without your permission and stuff the remnants into a tin under he bed, while William had a much stranger habit. He enjoyed keeping your dirty socks. They were both so strange to you as the years went on. What started at childish bullying turned into a strange dynamic they had with no other house servant.
When adulthood finally came, Frances Monroe became a diva. Unlike her war commander brother, who threw elaborate parties and had gaggles of women dancing on his arms, she’d flaunt her furs and jewelry amongst the party guests. And she made you, her maid, do her hair and makeup multiple times a day just so she could have your hands on her. Frances adored the attention she recieved from other women, but didn’t like the attention of men… the socialite didn’t quite understand why, but she gravitated towards you. You were the only one who indulged her every command and it made her feel special. Even though Frances failed to realize you didn’t quite have a choice.
Your hands were constantly making finger waves in her French bob. You swore your hands were in the permanent shape of the comb and your hands smelled constantly of sugar water. Yet Frances was never satisfied.
“Redo it. You can’t possibly think this hairstyle is acceptable for my party guests.” She’d tell you each time despite how good the hair looked. This was all to have your constant attention… and to keep you away from her older brother, William.
When you finally had free time, you’d be hounded by William who wanted you to fetch him all kinds of assortments. Whether it was drinks or snacks, he’d ask for them in bountiful amounts. Yet that wasn’t the worst part, the worst part was when William had you feed him and it was always a show.
William would beckon you over like a dog in front of so many people before he’d have you nearly straddling his lap to hand-feed him an appetizer or an olive from his martini. His blue eyes would be half lidded and dazed… like you were yet another woman he wanted as a conquest. It made you sick.
You hated those two spoiled brats. The hours you worked as a servant were so long and demanding and the pay? It was so low, you almost felt like a pet rather than a worker. You worked multiple jobs since the Monroes' cutback on servants in the manor. There were hardly any male servants due to the ongoing war… and you knew it was only a matter of time before one of the few men left in this house might try to put their hands on you. You had heard stories from other maids… and you had no interest in being a bed warmer and ultimately, known as a trollop it’s why you’ve been saving most of your checks. You needed enough for a ticket to sail across the Atlantic to America… maybe you’d find a better life in New York than working for this awful Duchy.
You sat up as you went to the hidden hole you had hidden under your mattress where you kept a metal tin full of shillings. You had about £14 that you’ve collected over three years. It’d be enough for a boat ticket… You only made about that much a year as a parlor maid. Which was more than what you made years ago. You were grateful for the meager pay rise because you were that much closer to freedom. You packed your tin back where it was before you made sure it was secure once more. The last thing you needed was for someone to discover this… you had been talking to a sailor for a few months now on getting on the hair and he promised you a spot if you ever truly needed it. You took great advantage of your looks to get what you wanted. And you were hopeful that he’d keep his word.
The days went on and you noticed William began to seek you out more and more. Whether it be to ask you to fetch him a beverage or to stand as close as possible beside you while you dusted. It unnerved you how he looked at you, yet the older maids could do nothing to help you.
“I’ll be going to war soon,” William told you softly. His blue eyes filled with longing. “…meet me in my room tonight.”
Frances angrily stormed into the room when one of the maids let it slip that William asked you that request. Her blue eyes were narrowed as her pin curls were still pinned to her head since she had waited all morning for you, specifically, to come to her room to take them out despite her having a personal maid.
“How dare you indulge my brother! You are to be at my beck and call, not his!” She huffed in annoyance, her pale cheeks flushed red. “I’m far better company than that sheik! Look at my hair! I need you to fix it.”
You obediently followed her to her room as she practically dragged you. Frances complained the entire time as you fixed her blonde bob for her. The socialite was leaning into your hands the whole time which made your job even more difficult. If only you looked up to see the dazed expression on her face, then you’d know how Frances really felt. Frances felt the feelings for you that a man would feel for a woman and that really upset her. Because Frances knew she could never truly have you. She’d have to marry a nobleman one day. Unless… She took you back with her.
It rained that night, but you quietly went to William’s room as he asked. You didn’t want to upset him since William had a worse temper than Frances, herself.
He was quick to wave you over to him as he sat in his chair. His blue eyes studied your form in an emotion you could only describe as reverence. Which was odd since he was a known ladies' man. Yet you never truly looked into whether or not he genuinely joined those ladies in his room. He was just a privileged elite in your eyes anyways.
“You’ve grown so beautiful.” William quietly told you, and his hand went to grab yours. His grip was as tight as the coils of a snake around its prey. “It’s not fair that my sister keeps you all to herself.”
The moment he went to try to pull you into his lap, you quickly tried to push away from him. His blue eyes widened before they became half-lidded. Did you enjoy teasing him? How naughty…
“I’m sorry, my lord. I hadn’t meant to offend you-“ William chuckled as he continued to let his hands roam your body. He had been holding back for so long but no other woman could get him quite as worked up as you did.
“Nonsense. I’m finally able to appreciate you and your beautiful body now that my father isn’t here. Do you know how hard it was to keep all the men away from you all these years? I didn’t want another man to ever touch you, sweetheart.” William smiled. “I’ve been carrying a torch for you for years and now I finally get to touch you.”
The moment he went to pull you in for a kiss, you shoved him before you fled. The Duke hardly had time to register what had just happened before he gave chase. If you glanced back, you would have see the expression of pure panic on his face. William had thought you liked him too… You had never lashed out like this before!
“Wait! Please-“
But you rushed into your room and took out that little tin full of money from under your mattress before you fled down the staircase. A few servants merely gave you a glance at first until they saw the young master chasing you. The room soon descended into pandemonium, which of course attracted Frances to exit her room in shock. Her blue eyes widened when she saw you rushing out the door in only your maid uniform and your little, metal tin.
“Wait! Where are you going?!” Frances soon descended the stairs as well, yet she wasn’t quick enough. You were out that door. Both siblings screamed for you over and over again, but you drowned them out.
You ran down the streets of London, grateful that you were a fifteen-minute run to the Tilbury port. You practically threw the money at the sailor you had spoken to for all these months to take you away this very instant, the poor man was practically at a loss with how inconsolable you were. Yet he allowed you onto the ship. You had escaped your hellish life as a servant for the Monroe Duchy… unaware that your nightmare was only just beginning.
Haven’t really full gathered the idea but here’s what I’m thinking. The reader in this case travels with dunk and egg during their lil journey. She is attempting to become a knight under the guise of being a man.
She joins the battle during the trial of the seven as a “man” to try and prove her capabilities. During the battle she manages to block the hit that would’ve fatally ended Baelors life, essentially saving him in the process.
Maybe at the end she could reveal herself as a woman? Not really sure where I’d go from there 💔
Also I love your writing style immensely, I’ve never sent a request to anyone before so this is my first time!
To Break a Dragon’s Fall ͙͘͡★
pairing: baelor targaryen / reader…./ meakar?
summary: after duncan quite possibly saves your life as a stranger on the road, you are determined to fight for him in the trial of seven, with your participation ultering the course of history
part 2! part 3
content: violence, slight threat of sexual violence, you egg and duncan being a cute trio, slow burn, multichapter, enemies to lovers but make it one sided.
note: tysm for sending this in! also i’m honoured cause this is my first request too. i really couldn’t stop thinking about this, i loved the idea. idk really where the story may go from here but i’m welcome to suggestions!
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
A falling star streaked across the sky and vanished beyond the dark, and you found yourself praying that whatever fortune it carried might drag the jeering men behind you away with it.
“Come on love, we don’t bite!…Well unless you’re keen on it.”
Two men had been trailing you for the better part of twenty minutes along the rutted dirt track, their voices carrying easily in the open air as they called for you incessantly to turn about and give them a “proper look.”
You did not oblige. Instead you kept your eyes forward and your stride even, praying with every footfall that the Ashford tourney encampment would appear beyond the next stand of trees. You had been travelling for a week or so, eager to witness the thrilling jousts with knights from across the seven kingdoms, even if you resented not being able to participate yourself.
If you could just reach the press of tents and banners, you could lose yourself in the crowd, and trust that even men such as these would think better of making a spectacle in plain view.
Even so you kept your eye on your sword in your saddle sheath from where your horse rode next to you, and your dagger warm against your palm. A handful of backward glances however told you what you needed to know: they were armed as well, and from their surcoats and sigils they were likely knights.
Little good they were for it, you thought bitterly.
You would not draw steel. Not yet. Though you had spent half your life with a sword in hand and a bowstring biting your fingers raw, you would not risk blood here, not when there were two of them, broad-shouldered and braced for it, and only one of you.
Not unless you had no other choice.
But then you felt their footsteps closer and fingers close around your arm, with hot wine–stained breath brushing the shell of your ear. “Don’t be shy now sweetheart.”
You drew your dagger out from your hip, and sliced it cleanly against the drunk’s forearm. He staggered back in surprise, and you felt your own heart leap with the realisation of what you’ve done. You were really in for it now.
You reached for your horses’ reins, heart hammering in your chest, and watched as the man’s once so-called friendliness twisted into something dark, his flushed face hardening with hatred. His companion’s hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, and the cold weight of your solitude pressed down like iron.
“You little whore. Oh I’m going to fuck-”
A sudden rustle cut him off. From between the trees, a shadow moved, then filled the path. A man, nay a giant emerged. His gaze locked on you, taking in the dagger still raised in your hand, then slid toward the two men before you, their own weapons being reached for. A silence fell, thick as the forest shadows, broken only by his low, even voice.
“Are you alright, m’lady?”
The two would-be attackers faltered backwards, uncertainty creeping into their eyes. It seemed their bravado faltered under the weight of his presence alone, and for a moment, you realized just how alone you had been and now how entirely the odds had just shifted.
You swallowed a shudder and forced your voice to a casual familiar pitch. “Cousin!” you called, stepping slightly forward, letting your hand rest lightly on his massive forearm. “There you are! I was beginning to think I’d lost you in the trees.”
The stranger’s brow furrowed in surprise, but he said nothing, letting your false story settle in the space between you. The two men blinked, confusion replacing aggression.
“Oh, these fellows were just teasing me,” you continued, waving a hand toward them. “I told them my cousin would have them running home crying if they tried anything foolish.”
The man’s massive frame shifted, his gauntleted hand brushing against the hilt of his sword, not threatening, but heavy with potential.
The men staggered backward in defeat, drunkenly tripping over roots and each other, muttering curses that carried none of their earlier bravado. You let the dagger fall slowly to your side, though your fingers still itched with the pulse of adrenaline.
You studied the stranger for a moment, taking in the contrast between size and gentleness. For all his towering frame, shoulders broad enough to block the moonlight and hands large enough to lift you without effort, there was no hardness in his face. His jaw was firm but not cruel, and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes softened the seriousness of his gaze. There was a youthfulness there, too, something you hadn’t expected when you first noticed him; perhaps he was not much older than yourself.
“Did they hurt you?” He asked, concern knitting his eyebrows.
“No,” you said, letting your voice soften. “They didn’t get the chance. I should thank you for that.” You offered a small smile, careful but genuine, and you thought you saw a flicker of something in him. Perhaps surprise, perhaps amusement as if the world had just reminded him that not all battles were won with strength alone.
He shook his head lightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. You had it quite managed on your own. I… all I did was stand here.”
You tilted your head, considering him as you let your smile broaden just a little. “And you did that very well.”
“Well… um,” he began, scratching the back of his neck, “You’re welcome to join us. I don’t have a pavilion, but there’s a fire, and… well, perhaps we’d both be a bit safer together.” He gestured behind him, and your eyes followed to a small boy standing half-hidden among the trees, watching quietly, while the warm glow of a flickering fire marked their camp just beyond. “My… name is Ser Duncan.”
You weighed his words carefully. The tourney grounds were close, yes, but you too had no pavilion of your own. The thought of falling asleep on the cold ground to the jeers of strangers surrounded by tents was hardly appealing. You were not accustomed to relying on the kindness of others, and yet there was something different about him.
With a small nod, you accepted. “Thank you,” you said, fully meaning your words. “I appreciate it.”
A faint, almost shy smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment the forest seemed a little warmer, the danger of the road behind you fading as you followed him toward the fire.
The three of you settled quickly into a quiet, easy familiarity. The boy, whose name you learned was Egg, peppered you with endless questions, his curiosity relentless. How did you come to be in Ashford? Where were you from? Was that your own sword you had sheathed on your horse? Each inquiry was rapid-fire, but earnest, and you found yourself smiling despite your exhaustion as the hour grew late.
Duncan scolded him gently more than once, his deep voice rumbling through the quiet night. “Egg, give her a moment to rest,” he would say, leaning back against the trunk of a tree, the firelight catching the planes of his kind face. And yet, despite his scolding, Duncan listened to every answer you gave. His eyes followed yours, attentive and patient, as if committing each word to memory.
You told them of your father. How he had left your mother and you to fight in the Blackfyre Rebellion years past, how the promise of Targaryen favor and hollow honors had pulled him from your home. You could still feel it in your chest, the hollow ache of abandonment, as if the very crown he had served had reached into your life and plucked him away. When he returned, broken and bleeding, it was too late; his injuries soon claimed him, leaving only his sword and the weight of what he had left behind.
You also spoke of your mother, worn to nothing by endless toil, the lines of care and worry etched deep into her face, the work she had done to keep you alive while your father chased a war that was not his. You could almost see her again, bending over the hearth, hands raw, hair streaked with gray, and you felt the sting of both pride and fury.
It was impossible to hide the edge in your voice when you spoke of the Targaryens. How their promises of glory had cost your family everything. You clenched your fists unconsciously, the anger simmering just beneath the surface, a quiet heat you carried with you. You did not curse them aloud; you didn’t have to. The sharpness in your eyes, the tight line of your jaw, the sudden flare of your temper when you recalled your father’s departure all spoke louder than words.
And now, here you were, on your own, no mother to shield you, no father to guide you. You had learned long ago that honor and courage in men were often fleeting, unreliable shields in a dangerous world. You would rather trust in the steel in your own hands than the promises of a husband, or the protection of a knight who might vanish at the first call to glory. You had inherited your sword, and with it, the certainty that you would rather die protecting yourself than die hoping for the aid of an honourable man.
Despite the recollection of your memories, the fire before you and the presence of two unlikely companions, offered a strange but welcome comfort you hadn't known in a long while. The sword at your hip now felt heavier in a way that steadied you, a tangible proof of your key to a life that you could make your own with no one to follow but yourself.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next morning dawned bright and restless, the tourney encampment’s air already alive with anticipation before the first trumpets ever sounded. Duncan, Egg and you moved with the throng of the crowd, animatedly discussing the events of the day.
Then came the banners, red and black, snapping sharply in the wind and above the mounted procession beneath them. The crowd of smallfolk surged forward, craning for a glimpse of the blood of the dragon as the riders passed, their armor gleaming and their horses stepping proud beneath their embroidered sigils.
You felt your jaw tighten. You hated that your eyes followed them as everyone else’s did. Hated that, for all your anger, you looked just the same, another face turned toward House Targaryen. Another figure caught in the spectacle of their arrival.
The resentment coiled low and familiar in your chest, hot as a brand. All this pageantry and worship, for the dynasty that had only brought war and suffering to the realm.
So consumed were you by the sight of them that you barely turned to give Egg your farewell as he returned back to camp. Nor did you question why you followed Duncan, when he began moving toward the castle courtyard, your boots carrying you forward almost of their own accord.
It seemed as if you had almost a morbid fascination with wanting to catch a glimpse of the princes who your father had given his life so readily for.
And then you had it. You weren’t sure what you had expected. Monsters, perhaps. Men with dragonfire in their eyes and cruelty etched plainly across their faces. Something visible, something you could point to and say there, those are the tyrants who took everything from you.
Instead, you just saw men. The elder rode first. Baelor Targaryen. The man you recognised as being heir to the iron throne.
He looked…commanding but not unkind That was your first, unwelcome thought.
He was tall in the saddle and, and his hair, darker than you had imagined, was cut short and streaked with grey at the temples where you had expected bright Targaryen silver. It lent him more of a softness that did not match the songs. His face was striking, almost unfairly so, all strong lines and steady eyes, the sort of handsomeness that seemed effortless rather than cultivated.
Then your gaze shifted to the other man, the one who left no room for doubt. He was every inch the Targaryen of your father’s dying stories.
Prince Maekar sat his horse like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath, controlled, but dangerous. His silver hair caught the morning light like polished steel, bright and unmistakable. There was nothing gentle in him. His posture was rigid, his jaw set, his expression carved from something hard and unbending.
If Baelor unsettled you with an unexpected look of warmth, Maekar looked exactly as you had imagined: a prince forged for war, stern and impenetrable, the living embodiment of the dragons your father had once followed into battle.
“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse.”
The command rang out sharp and careless.
A rider had pulled up directly before Duncan, this man also unmistakably of the dragon’s blood. His hair was cropped short and silver, bright against the dark of his riding leathers. The confidence with which he had issued his order carried the easy arrogance of someone who had never expected to be disobeyed.
You watched Duncan falter. “I—I’m not a stable boy, m’lord,” he said, the words careful, almost apologetic.
“Well if you can’t manage horses, then fetch me some wine and a pretty wench.” The prince replied, dismounting from his horse.
That was when his gaze slid past Duncan and landed on you. His eyes swept indulgently over you from where you stood a pace behind, in a way that made your stomach tighten.
“Or have you already found me one?” he added, the smirk on his lips enough to make your skin crawl.
You simply pretended not to hear him. Turning your back as if the words had never been spoken, you forced your hands to remain at your sides, though your fingers had already begun to curl into tight fists. Better to walk away, you told yourself, because if you stayed a moment longer, you weren’t entirely certain what you might say.
That small exchange had been enough. The feeling returned at once, sharp and familiar, reminding you exactly why the sight of dragon banners made your stomach turn.
Hatred crept back into your thoughts as you watched the prince stride off across the yard. Duncan lingered behind, soon drawn into conversation with a pair of the king’s white-cloaked guards. You might have joined him but you had already had your fill of the king’s men for one morning.
But soon they were gone as well, and the courtyard settled back into its restless rhythm.
You drifted back to Duncan’s side.“Shall we head back to Egg then?” you asked.
He didn’t answer. His gaze had gone distant, fixed on something you couldn’t see, and for a moment you wondered if he had heard you at all.
“Uh… just wait here for me, will you?” he said suddenly.
Before you could ask what he meant, he was already moving, long strides carrying him across the yard toward a narrow servant’s entrance. In another moment he had slipped inside, disappearing into the shadows beyond the door.
You blinked after him, dumbstruck. “Where are you going? Duncan!”
But he was already gone.
How long you waited there, scuffing the dirt with your shoe you weren’t quite sure, arms folded tight as you muttered a few choice curses under your breath. You knew how desperate Duncan was to find someone to vouch for him so he could enter the lists. But barging into a lord’s castle uninvited? What in the seven hells did he think he could possibly accomplish?
If it was folly for him to sneak inside, but it was probably even greater folly for you to follow. You had known the man less than a day. And yet you had already seen enough to know he was good and honest in a way that was almost painfully rare. The thought of him stumbling into trouble alone sat wrong in your gut.
With a sigh of resignation, you pushed yourself away from the wall. Fine. You would find him, drag him back out before he made a complete disaster of things… and, if luck favored you, slip out again before anyone noticed the intrusion at all.
Once inside however you quickly realized you had no idea where Duncan might have gone.
The passage beyond the servant’s door was dim and narrow, lit only by thin slivers of daylight from high windows. You hesitated for a moment, listening, then pushed forward anyway, boots quiet against the worn floor.
You followed down the dark corridor, turning once, then climbing a short flight of stairs that opened onto another hall. That was when you heard the voices. Several of them, low and measured, and among them one you recognized immediately.
“As you say, Your Grace. I–It was four. I do apologize. The old man, Ser Arlan, he used to say I was thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs.”
Duncan.
You crept closer, heart quickening, until you reached the entrance to the hall. Pressing yourself flat against the wall beside the doorway, you leaned just enough to hear but careful enough not to let your shadow betray you. Fuck, you thought grimly. He’s really done it now.
From the sound of it, he was grovelling, stumbling over his words before someone important. You braced yourself for the inevitable: sharp reprimands, offended nobles, perhaps even guards being summoned.
But the harsh words never came.
“No harm was done, ser. Rise.”
The voice that answered was calm. Gentle, even. It surprised you.
There was no bite in it, no arrogance or impatience, nothing like the young prince in the courtyard earlier. For a moment you simply stared at the window in front of you, trying to reconcile the sound with the men you had seen ride in beneath the dragon banners.
You didn’t quite believe it but you knew it had to be one of the princes speaking. You forced your attention back to the voices within the hall.
“You wish to enter the lists, is that it?”
“Yes.” Dunk’s answer came quick and eager.
“The decision rests with the master of the games,” the prince replied evenly, “but I see no reason to deny you.”
That lucky bastard, you thought, a grin tugging at your mouth. Only Duncan could blunder his way into the presence of princes and walk away with exactly what he wanted. Though, if you were begrudgingly honest, it seemed far more the result of the Targaryen’s kindness than Duncan’s nerve.
“Your Grace…” Dunk began, sounding overwhelmed.
“Very well, ser. You are grateful. Now piss off.”
The sharp interruption carried enough irritation that you didn’t need to see the speaker to guess who it was. If you had to wager, it was the silver-haired brother, the one who had sported a scowl from the moment he’d ridden into the courtyard.
There was a brief pause before the calmer voice spoke again.
“You must forgive my brother, ser. His sons went astray on the road here, and he fears for them.”
“Of course,” Dunk said quickly. Then, after a beat of thought, he added, “I trust they will not be found dead.”
Your eyes widened. A strangled gasp escaped before you could stop it as you slapped a hand over your mouth, pressing your back harder against the stone as laughter threatened to spill out despite yourself.
Seven hells, Duncan truly had no sense of when to stop talking.
Slowly, you let your hand fall from your mouth. Your thoughts, however, refused to settle. You had braced yourself for mockery, for cruelty, for the sort of cold dismissal men like Duncan usually received from those born to castles and crowns. Instead you had heard patience. Kindness, even.
The older prince Baelor, had spoken to him like a man, not like some nuisance who had wandered too close to the wrong door. Yet even as the thought crept in, you pushed back against it almost immediately.
A few gentle words meant nothing. A courteous tone did not erase the wars fought beneath dragon banners, nor the countless men who had marched to their deaths in service to a crown they would never wear. Your father among them.
No, princes could afford kindness since it cost them very little. You straightened from the wall, jaw tightening. Whatever pleasant impressions the moment might have tried to plant in your mind, you would not let them take root. Royalty was royalty, whether they spoke softly or barked orders. And you despised them all the same.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next day unfolded with a kind of easy joy you had not felt in longer than you cared to admit.
Ashford had come fully alive with the tourney now in full swing. The fields beyond the castle walls buzzed with noise and color, tents and banners fluttering in every direction while merchants and performers filled every spare patch of ground.
You drank more than was strictly wise, though you blamed the warmth of the afternoon and the cheerful press of the crowds.
The lists drew you back again and again throughout the day. Whenever the horns sounded you joined the surge of spectators, shouting and cheering with everyone else as armored riders thundered down the field. You found yourself yelling encouragement and insults in equal measure with depending your voice hoarse long before the afternoon faded.
You too helped Egg practice the small but important tasks of a squire, buckling straps properly, handing off weapons quickly, learning where to stand and when to stay out of the way. He approached it all with serious determination, brow furrowed as if the fate of the realm depended on whether he could fasten a strap correctly.
You even challenged Duncan once or twice to a friendly duel to each of your victories, though he was clearly holding himself back much to your annoyance.
For a little while, the bitterness that usually shadowed your thoughts loosened its grip. The dragon banners still flew, the princes still walked the grounds somewhere beyond the crowds, but for that single day, you managed to forget them.
But then, the destruction that so often followed the Targaryens materialised, shattering your short lived contentment. Duncan and you had been enjoying the hospitality and cider of a friendly Raymun Fossoway, spitting out words to describe the Targaryens that would have been considered treason, when Egg dashed in with calls of peril.
“Ser! Ser Duncan! You have to come! Aerion’s hurting her.”
All three of you had followed the boy without hesitation to the puppeteer’s tent where chaos awaited you.
People crowded the edges of the tent, some shouting, some only watching, their faces caught between fascination and fear. In the center of it all stood Aerion Targaryen, and before him the puppeteer girl you had come to know that past day as Tanselle.
He was hurting her and the memory of it would sit sour in your stomach long after.
Then Duncan moved. Before anyone else could react, he surged forward, wrenching Aerion away from the girl and throwing the prince hard to the ground with a punch in the process. The sound of it, a prince striking packed earth, seemed to shock the entire tent into silence.
The guards however soon roughly seized Duncan, and for a few monstrous moments you were convinced he would not make it out of that tent alive, as Aérions forced his mouth against the stage. But then Egg had stepped forward, and much to yours and the rest of the tent’s astonishment revealed himself as one of the missing princes, Aegon Targaryen.
You knew the whole thing would have ended far worse if he hadn’t done so.
Shame however rolled over you in waves, heavier than any armor could be. You had done nothing, nothing to stop Aerion from his rampage. Neither did you make to move when Duncan lunged, relying entirely on his strength and courage to intervene where you had stood frozen.
You wanted to tell yourself there was no way you could have helped, that Aerion’s power and the presence of the guards made interference impossible. And yet the thought did little to quiet the sting in your chest. You had trained for years with sword and dagger, honed every skill to survive the world as it was and here, but with everything you knew and all the strength you could muster, you had been useless.
Anger joined the shame, sharp and bitter at the Targaryens themselves. At the entitlement that allowed Aerion to administer punishment on a feeling. By the way the men born to crowns could bend law, loyalty, and fear to their whim, while others, like your father, died or suffered in service to the same dynasty.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Hours had passed since the chaos in the tent, and now you stood in the pouring rain with Raymun, doing the only useful thing to do: watching the horses.
Water streamed down your cloak and plastered your hair to your face, yet you barely noticed, half consumed by the cold and half by the gnawing dread that churned in your stomach at the thought of Duncan’s fate.
The silence between you and Raymun was heavy as you had since given up on offering hollow words of comfort to each other. Each minute stretched like an eternity as your fingers ached from the cold, not knowing if your friend would return.
Then by some god’s great mercy Duncan appeared, soaked but unmistakably alive. Relief flooded over you. You and Raymun didn’t hesitate: both of you pulled him into a tight shivering hug, hearts racing at the realization that he was even alive still.
The rain was suddenly inconsequential, as laughter and exclamations of exhilaration broke through the tension that had bound your shoulders for hours.
Practicality however returned quickly. Together, the three of you made for the Fossoway tent.
Once inside, wrapped in the relative warmth of the tent, the three of you, joined by Raymun’s cousin, poured over the situation, turning it over from every angle. You discussed every possible way Duncan might somehow escape what awaited him. The trial of seven.
The odds were cruel, stacked against him before he even drew a sword. And you knew it. There seemed to be little hope in him even securing six other champions to fight alongside him, let alone winning.
An idea however ignited in your mind the instant the words “trial of seven” were even uttered, sharper than any arrow you had ever drawn. A fire flared along your spine, sudden and undeniable: you would fight alongside Duncan, no matter what it took.
It wasn’t just for loyalty, though that alone was enough to drive you forward. You owed him that much. He had stepped into danger without hesitation the first night you met, risked his own safety to keep you from harm on that dirt track. He had offered you kindness and his protection in a world that had too often denied both, and for that alone you would stand beside him now.
But it wasn’t only for him.
You owed it to yourself. To prove that you could stand your ground, that you could fight with the same courage and skill as any man who claimed the title of knight. The thought coiled around you like a living thing, thrilling and terrifying all at once. I can do this. I will do this.
You had watched a Targaryen prince torment a girl on a whim, watched a tent full of knights and spectators stand frozen because dragon’s blood made him untouchable. But now you wouldn’t let the only man brave enough to stand against him die.
Besides, steel did not know the difference between a man’s hand and a woman’s. A blade cut the same either way, you thought wryly.
All your life you had been relying on the flighty honour of men. On the idea that men who carried swords and titles would stand between the weak and the cruel, that their vows meant something solid, something you could trust your life to.
But you had learned, slowly and painfully, how feeble that promise truly was.
Your father had ridden off chasing honor beneath a king’s banners and returned only long enough to die. And your mother had worked herself into the grave while the men who spoke so proudly of duty never once looked back to see what had been left behind.
The honour of men to you seemed just to be a thing spoken loudly in songs and tourney fields, yet strangely absent when the moment demanded real courage.
You were tired of it.
The rain had begun to ease by the time you stepped back outside the Fossoway tent, though the ground was still churned to thick mud beneath every passing boot. You stood for a while beneath the grey sky, arms folded against the damp chill, your thoughts beginning to scheme on how you might have hope of assuming to be one of the champions tomorrow.
Then movement down the path pulled your attention away. Two figures were making their way through the muddy lanes between the tents, one small and familiar, the other taller and moving with a kind of languid reluctance.
“Ah—there you are.” Egg’s voice carried a note of relief as he hurried toward you across the camp. “Is Ser Duncan inside?”
It was the first time you had seen him since he had revealed the truth, that he was no hedge knight’s squire but a Targaryen prince. Now he looked as though he had stepped straight out of the songs: dressed in black and red, the colors of his house, a small dragon worked in thread across his chest.
Well, almost like the songs. He was still missing the signature silver hair but it was hard to have silver hair when you had no hair at all.
“In the tent,” you answered, nodding toward the canvas behind you. “Trying to decide how he’s meant to find six men foolish enough to fight princes.”
Hurt and guilt flashed across his face all at once.
You immediately wished you could’ve taken back the edge that laced your words. In truth, you weren’t angry at him for lying, not really. He was just a boy, who was probably just outrunning the very thing you’d also hated the Targaryens for.
What unsettled you more was remembering that first night on the road, before you knew who he was. How freely you had spoken then, your anger spilling out in careless words as you cursed his family and all the ruin they’d left behind.
He had listened quietly the whole time. You still didn’t know what to make of that. Or what he made of it now. You watched him disappear under the tent flaps.
But the prince who had walked beside him did not follow. He seemed a far cry from the polished image of a prince. His long, sandy hair hung loose and tangled around his face, sweat-darkened in places, and his skin had the pale, slightly blotchy look of someone who had spent too much time with wine rather than sleep.
Prince Daeron’s pale eyes rested on you with a strange sort of focus, like he was trying to put your face to a name.
You shifted uncomfortably under the attention. “Do you need something, your grace?” you asked, not intending for the sarcastic tone but it coming out all the same.
The prince blinked slowly like a man surfacing from deep water. “I dreamed of you,” he said.
The words were so unexpected you almost laughed, assuming some strange jest. But his expression held none of Aerion’s cruelty or mockery, only that same distant seriousness.
“In the dream,” he continued quietly, “there was a dragon.”
Your stomach tightened instinctively at the word.
“It was large,” he went on, his voice thoughtful, almost puzzled. He studied your face a moment longer before finishing. “and it bowed to you”
You stared at him, unsure whether to scoff or be unsettled by the certainty and seriousness with which he had said it. “You must have very strange dreams, Your Grace.”
Daeron continued to watch you for a moment longer, as though weighing something unspoken. But whatever thought had been forming seemed to slip away.
“...Excuse me,” he said at last, almost absently.
Then he turned and ducked beneath the tent flaps after Egg, leaving you alone with the quiet camp and the strange weight of his words.
A dragon bowing to you.
The thought should have sounded ridiculous. And yet something about the way he said it left a faint, uneasy echo in your chest. Maybe all Targaryens truly are just mad.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The sky was still dark when you woke, and you had slept little, if at all. Each time your eyes had closed the same vision had come for you again and again, relentless as a drumbeat. Seven riders thundering together, steel flashing, Duncan bleeding on the ground, a pale haired fighter standing over him with you powerless to help.
So you rose before the sun.
You dressed quickly in the dim grey light, pulling on the plain tunic and dark trousers you had slept in before reaching for the bundle you had hidden beneath your saddle blanket.
Your armor was simple, nothing like the shining plates worn by knights and princes. No gilding, no heraldry. Just pieces you had gathered over the years.
Your padded gambeson was thick and worn from secondary use. You shrugged it over your shoulders and tugged the laces tight across your chest, binding it down firmly. The weight and pressure flattened your shape enough that, beneath the armor, few could tell what you had underneath it.
The mail shirt hung a little loose over the padding, the extra slack helping to hide the shape of your body rather than reveal it. Next you fastened your simple leather vambraces, tightening the worn straps around your forearms before buckling on a plain belt to carry your sword.
Last came your hair. You gathered it quickly and tied it back tight at the nape of your neck, pulling it close so it would sit neatly beneath your helm, leaving nothing loose that might betray you.
By the time you were finished, the figure staring back at you from the dull reflection of your blade looked far less like a woman and far more like some thin young hedge knight who had not yet filled out his armor.
It would have to be enough.
Your horse greeted you with a soft nicker as you approached them, breath puffing white in the cold air. You ran a hand comfortingly along its neck, murmuring under your breath while fastening the last straps of your saddle and securing the shield and helm beside it.
The sky had only just begun to pale.
Mist clung low across the tourney grounds as you stepped quietly through the waking camp. Tents loomed like silent shapes in the gloom, their banners hanging limp in the still morning air. A few early risers moved about, stable boys, guards, a cook stirring embers back to life, but none paid you more than a passing glance.
You kept your head down, guiding your horse toward the far edge of the field, away from the heart of the camp. From there you could see the tourney grounds stretching wide and silent before you. You waited knowing Duncan would have to pass this way to meet the other champions.
At last a familiar tall shape appeared through the mist. Relief and dread twisted together in your stomach. You stepped out to meet him.
“Duncan.”
He stopped immediately.
For a moment he only stared at you, confusion creasing his brow.
“What are you—”
“Let me fight with you.” The words came out faster than you intended, tumbling over each other before you could lose the nerve. “There’s still no word from Ser Steffon,” you rushed on, “and even if he comes you’re still one man short. Knight me and I’ll ride beside you.”
Duncan blinked at you as though you had spoken in another language.
For several long seconds he said nothing at all.
Then he found his voice.
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“I won’t.”
You clenched your jaw.
“I won’t make a lady fight for me.”
You breathed slowly through your nose, fighting the urge to groan. Of all the moments for Duncan’s stubborn chivalry to surface, this was perhaps the worst.
“I am no lady,” you said sharply. “And you know perfectly well I’m as skilled with a sword as you are. Perhaps more so.” You added, a smile twitching at the corner of your mouth despite yourself.
Still he shook his head determinedly. “Men will die out there.”
“Yes,” you said, stepping closer. “They will. Which is why I won’t stand aside while you ride to face seven of them without every blade you can muster.”
His expression hardened. “Even if I agreed, you truly think the lords would allow it?”
“They won’t know.” You held his gaze steadily. “They never need to know what’s between my legs or what’s beneath my helm.”
Duncan stared at you.
“Introduce me as Gillhem,” you continued calmly. “I’ll be the son my father never had. No one will question it once the fighting begins and I’ll be gone after it ends…if I’m still alive.”
Before he could answer, you dropped to one knee in the damp earth. “Now knight me,” you said.
The words hung between you in the grey morning light. For a moment he simply stood there, tall and silent, the mist curling faintly around his boots. Then his hand moved slowly to the hilt of his sword.
Hope flared in your chest but just as slowly, his hand stopped. You watched his face carefully. The uncertainty there was plain enough, his brow furrowed, his jaw working as though wrestling with something larger than either of you. But if anything you thought he looked more lost than apprehensive.
A bitter laugh escaped you before you could stop it, as you pushed yourself back to your feet. “Oh, what does it matter if I’m actually knighted or not,” you muttered. “We only have the gods to witness us out here anyway.”
You met his eyes again, letting a small, crooked smile pull at your mouth despite the tight knot in your stomach. “Just remember, Duncan,” you said. “I’m Ser Gillem now.”
Before he could object further you swiftly mounted your horse and pulled on your helm and visor, riding out to meet where the other champions would be.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The waiting was excruciating.
No steel yet. No thunder of hooves. Only the slow gathering of men and the restless shifting of horses beneath their riders.
You kept your head lowered beneath your helm, careful not to meet anyone’s gaze for too long. The slit of your visor narrowed the world to fragments, glints of armour, the dark backs of horses, and glimpses of the watching crowd. Your palms were slick inside the gauntlets.
A horse moved closer beside you, heavy hooves pressing into the churned earth. You heard the creak of thick armour and the slow snort of a powerful destrier. Then a voice rumbled from somewhere beside you.
“You.”
Your stomach dropped as you lifted your head slightly to find the speaker. It was Lyonel Baratheon. Over the past two days you had spent a small time with the man, you weren’t even sure if he could remember your name since he had had a drink in his hand almost the entire time. You felt your heart in your throat.
“I don’t know that sigil,” he said.
Slowly, carefully, you straightened in the saddle as you fought against your racing mind. Think.
“Not surprising, my lord,” you said at least, forcing your voice lower than usual, rougher, and speaking through your teeth so the helm muffled it further. “I’ve little fame to my name.”
“Yes, my lord.” You dipped your head just enough to appear respectful without inviting further inspection. “Ser… Gillem.”
For a moment Lyonel said nothing. His eyes moved again over your armour, your horse, your shield. You forced yourself not to shift beneath the scrutiny.
Then suddenly the great lord gave a short bark of laughter. “Well, Ser Gilllem,” he said, sounding almost pleased, “you’ve chosen a bold morning to earn your reputation.”
Your shoulders loosened a fraction.
Lyonel gave you one last measuring look. “Just make certain you can swing that sword of yours,” he said. “those princes won’t be gentle.”
Your grip tightened on the reins. “I wouldn’t expect them to be.”
The Laughing Storm grinned at that and turned his horse away, his attention already shifting toward the field where the opposing champions now rode into place.
You exhaled slowly the moment his attention left you. Your heart was still racing. But at least one thing was clear now. For the moment, your lie lived.
However, even with Ser Gillem stepping forward, Ser Duncan’s side lacked a seventh champion. Steffon Fossoway had arrived only to reveal he had chosen to stand with the accusers, selling his sword in exchange for the promise of a lordship.
Perhaps you should have been angrier than you were. Betrayal like that should have stirred outrage, yet what you felt was something quieter, duller. You were not surprised. Not truly. Ambition has always held more sway over most men in your life than honour ever could.
What proved far harder to witness, was what came next.
Duncan stepped forward, turning toward the gathered crowd. There was no pride left in his posture now, only a desperate honesty as he spoke, appealing not to rank or power, but to the simple truth of what had happened in that puppeteer tent. His voice carried across the field as he laid his heart bare, asking for one man, just one, to stand beside him. He was only met with silence then mockery.
The last embers of hope had begun to fade, sinking beneath the weight of inevitability. Around you the field felt heavier, thick with the quiet tension that comes when men know blood will soon be spilled, with a trial or not.
Without a seventh champion, Duncan’s innocence was lost.
Then the sound of the tourney gates groaned open.
Heads turned. From the far edge of the field a rider burst into view, his horse driving forward in a spray of mud and turf. He wore armour black as midnight, polished so darkly it swallowed the weak daylight. Upon his chest, unmistakable even from afar, gleamed the three-headed dragon.
A ripple of confusion spread through the onlookers. Men leaned forward, craning for a better view as the rider thundered across the field, slowing only when he neared the assembled champions. The horse reared slightly before settling, breath steaming in the cold air.
You watched, scarcely daring to breathe. Prince Maekar stepped forward to meet the rider. For a moment nothing made sense. Why would another Targaryen arrive now?
As the rider removed his helm, the crowd stirred again. Dark hair, cut short and a neatly kept beard framed his handsome face. There was a quiet strength in his features. Your gaze fixed on the dark-armoured figure as realization crept slowly into place.
Baelor Targaryen. His voice carried clearly across the field. “I will fight for Ser Duncan’s side.”
The words struck the crowd like a hammer on an anvil.
For a heartbeat the world seemed to stop, before a chorus of cheers and applause erupted from the stands. A prince of House Targaryen, standing with Ser Duncan?
It was unthinkable.
Of all men, it was Baelor who had come riding onto the field to throw his weight behind the hedge knight. A prince of the blood, heir to honour, prestige, and the expectations of an entire dynasty and yet here he stood, openly choosing a side that placed him against his own.
You felt a chill of disbelief run through you.
Every man present knew the weight of what he had just done. Which made it all the more confusing. Why risk the dignity of his house? Why step into a trial that could stain the honour of the dragons themselves? What could he possibly hope to gain from this?
However, those thoughts were soon swallowed by a wave of paralyzing fear, wifh a firm realisation that the trial would go ahead. The noise of the gathering riders blurred into something distant and indistinct, voices rising and falling around you without meaning.
You stood among them as they gathered near Baelor, dimly aware that he was speaking, offering counsel, perhaps strategy, the sort of steady words meant to bind men together before a charge.
You heard none of it. Your mind had narrowed to a single, suffocating awareness: the field before you, the coming clash, and the terrible certainty of how these could be your last moments alive.
It took almost everything in you not to turn your horse and ride away from it. Everything else you had left went into forcing your hands to steady, guiding your horse into place, and lowering your visor as you took your position for the first charge.
A horn bellowed across the field.
The low note rolled through the crowd like distant thunder, and at once every horse beneath the seven champions grew restless.
Your heart began to hammer again. This was it.
Across the churned earth the opposing riders lowered their lances and began to spread slightly, positioning themselves for the charge.
Seven against seven.
Beside you the great warhorse of Lyonel Baratheon stamped impatiently. Somewhere along the line Duncan shifted in his saddle.
Then the horn sounded again.
“CHARGE!”
The world exploded into motion.
You dug your heels into your horse’s sides as the line surged forward, the ground thundering beneath fourteen pounding hooves. Wind tore past your helm, rushing over your armor as the two sides closed in on each other in a heartbeat.
The impact came like a crashing wall.
Wood exploded as lances shattered on shields and armour. Horses collided shoulder to shoulder, screaming as riders crashed into one another in a storm of steel and splintering shafts.
Your own lance struck a shield and snapped cleanly in half, the jolt rattling up your arms. Before you could recover, another rider came thundering toward you from the side.
His white cloak streamed behind him like a banner.
A knight of the Kingsguard.
You barely had time to raise your shield before his lance struck. The force of it ripped you straight out of the saddle and the world flipped violently. You hit the ground hard enough that the breath exploded from your lungs. For a moment you could see nothing but sky as hooves thundered past your head.
Mud splashed across your visor as you rolled desperately aside to avoid being trampled. Your gaze swept desperately across the field only to discover your horse was already gone, bolting riderless across the field.
Wood shattered around you as riders collided again, the crack of breaking lances echoing across the field. Horses screamed and reared, men tumbled from saddles and shields splintered beneath the force of the charge.
Your own lance had glanced off a shield hard enough to send the weapon spinning from your grip.
You didn’t even give yourself time to register it as you were already drawing your sword.
The battle dissolved instantly into chaos. Somewhere nearby you faintly heard Lyonel roar with savage delight as he battered an opponent from his saddle.
But then your attention was drawn instead to the center of the melee. There Duncan was fighting intensely, surrounded on nearly every side.
And near him was Baelor Targaryen. Even in the chaos he stood out.
He fought with a calm precision that seemed almost unreal amid the frenzy of the field. His sword moved with controlled efficiency, each strike deliberate, each movement measured.
You watched him drive one knight back with a brutal series of blows before wheeling his horse sharply to intercept another rider who had been charging straight for Duncan.
It took you only moments to realise what he was doing. He was guarding him. Again and again Baelor positioned himself between Duncan and danger, forcing attackers away from the hedge knight all the while maintaining relentless skill.
You had heard stories of the prince’s prowess from your own father but seeing him fight was something else entirely.
For a moment you almost forgot the battle around you as you watched him work, the fluid movement of his sword, the quiet authority with which he responded to the chaos around him.
Then everything happened at once.
Baelor had just forced one opponent back when another rider broke from a neighbouring melee and came charging toward him from the side.
His armour also bore the three-headed dragon.
Prince Maekar.
You realised catastrophically that Baelor did not see him. He was still turning from his previous opponent, his flank fatally open.
His brother’s sword rose high for a brutal downward blow aimed straight at his unguarded side. A strange, almost bitter thought flashed through your mind.
A Targaryen killing a Targaryen. A small part of you thought you should let it happen. After all, you had spent most of your life hating that name.
Hating the dragons.
And yet—
Your eyes drifted back to Baelor.
Suddenly you were moving without a thought, sprinting towards the two of them. You raised your shield just in time.
Maekar’s blade slammed into your shield hard enough that the impact nearly tore your arm from its socket.
Baelor’s head snapped toward you in surprise.
“Go!” you barked through your helm. “Help Duncan!”
For a heartbeat Baelor hesitated. Then he nodded once and charged back away toward the center of the melee, where the hedge knight seemed to be fighting a losing battle.
And suddenly you were alone with the anvil.
There was no hesitation in him. His sword came down again immediately. You barely caught the blow on your blade, steel ringing loudly as the force of it drove you backwards.
Gods.
You were not fighting some tourney knight now, you were fighting a prince raised in war. He pressed forward again, relentless. Another strike came, sweeping toward your shoulder before you’d even got the chance to register the last.
You twisted out of his aim and let the blade scrape harmlessly across your shield instead of meeting it head-on.
You didn’t try to answer with a counterblow. You already knew better. Maekar was stronger, heavier, with more combat experience than you could ever imagine. Trying to overpower him would be suicide.
So you did the only thing you could. You made him miss.
The next strike came low and fast. You hauled yourself sideways, dodging as his blade cut empty air where your leg had been a heartbeat before.
Maekar adjusted instantly, straightening himself for another blow. His sword flashed again. You leaned away just enough for the edge to glance across your armour instead of biting into it.
Steel screeched. The force of it still jolted your entire side.
You circled him warily, with your heartbeat in your ears. One wrong or delayed move and it would be the end of you.
Your sword stayed ready, but you struck rarely, only quick probing slashes meant to keep him cautious rather than do real damage.
Maekar noticed your strategy. You could see it in the way his shoulders stiffened. You weren’t fighting him like a knight. You were avoiding him. But so what if you weren’t fighting with honour, the odds had been stacked against your side from the start.
His next attack came faster, anger and frustration beginning to sharpen the motion. You ducked the worst of it, the blade slicing past your helm close enough that you felt the rush of displaced air.
Another blow. You turned it aside with your shield.
Another.
You turned sharply as it whistled past your head.
Under the armour, your lungs had started to burn.
But Maekar’s breathing was growing heavier too. For a brief moment hope flickered. If you could keep him swinging long enough—
His next strike came suddenly faster than the rest.
You raised your shield to block it—
Too slow.
The blade slipped beneath the edge of your shield and drove forward. Cold steel punched through your side. It took you a few seconds to even comprehend what had happened, and then your world erupted into pain as your breath tore from your lungs in a broken gasp.
Your sword fell from numb fingers as you slid into the mud. For a moment you couldn’t even breathe. Above you the sky spun wildly.
Through the haze you saw Maekar stepping toward you with his sword still firmly in hand.
You tried to move but your body refused.
So this is it, you thought faintly.
He drew to a halt beside you, the thundering of combat around you fading into a distant clang. The pain was growing steadily now, from where it had at first you had felt vaguely numb but all you could focus on was him.
Through the narrow slit of his visor, you caught a glimpse of his violet eye, intense, and unyielding, burning with a fire that seemed to pierce right through the steel that separated you.
Then a simple thought struck in your mind. Would this really be the last thing you saw?
His blade lifted slightly, as you shut your eyes, waiting for the end. But it never came.
Your eyes fluttered open to find Maekar turned, looking across the battlefield. Something had changed.
Across the field a cry rose from the crowd. “Aerion yields!”
Your head turned weakly toward the sound.
It was over.
Maekar turned away from you without another glance, already moving to reach his son.
Relief washed through you in a strange, distant wave, with the realisation you had actually survived.
But the warmth spreading beneath your armour was growing colder. The chaos of the battlefield, which had roared in your ears only moments ago, receded further. The world now suddenly felt dreamlike, distant and muffled, as though you were underwater.
You tried to push yourself up but your arm refused. Perhaps just a moment of rest, just a few seconds with your eyes closed would help you gather enough strength to rise.
The sky above you was painfully bright. Then suddenly a shadow fell across your vision.
It was Prince Baelor.
Strong hands pulled you carefully from the mud. Pain flared sharply in your side, tearing a gasp from your throat as he gathered you against his side.
“You’re losing a lot of blood.” He said calmly, but urgently.
Another figure appeared beside him, mud-spattered and breathless. You felt them both carry your weight across the field, away from the crowd and the fallen riders. Every step sent another wave of sickening pain through your body, blood soaking through the gap in your armour.
You tried to keep your eyes open but the world kept slipping from your vision.
They laid you gently upon somewhere near the edge of the lists.
His hands moved quickly to the clasps of your helm.
“No—” you managed weakly, lifting a trembling hand at the realisation of what he was doing. “Don’t…”
“You need air,” Baelor said firmly.
The metal clasps came loose and you faintly felt your helm being lifted away. Cool morning air skimmed over your face.
You perhaps would never forget the look that crossed his face then.
His brow furrowed sharply, eyes widening as he took you in properly for the first time, no longer hidden by helm or visor. Baelor took everything in drifted from your clear feminine, now bruised, features to your hair that had been tugged loose to frame your face. The calm certainty he had just carried throughout the battle now vanished, replaced by something far more human.
Beside him Raymun froze. “Seven hells…”
Baelor’s gaze remained fixed on you, studying your face with stunned disbelief, as though trying to reconcile the bloodied knight he had fought beside with the woman lying before him now.
You found yourself staring back.
The world was fading fast at the edges now, but your eyes locked onto his face with a strange clarity.
You noticed things in fragments: the dark hair streaked with silver, the streak of blood across his brow, the tight line of concern tugging at his mouth. His eyes, you noticed were different colours. One a sharp, piercing blue like cold winter ice, the other a warm brown that somehow felt like the earth you lay on itself. They didn’t match, yet together they held you, twisting your thoughts into a dizzying tangle.
Suddenly you became aware of a metallic tang in your mouth.
Baelor leaned closer, one hand pressing firmly and painfully against the wound in your side to slow the bleeding. “Get the maesters now,” he said, his voice dropping lower, urgent but tempered by the weight of command.
But you barely heard him.
You were still staring at him, strangely fixated, as though his face were the only solid thing left in a world that had begun to drift apart.
But then all at once your eyes slipped shut before you could stop them and your body sagged in surrender against him.
And the last thing you saw, the final image to cling to, was him.
⤷ One-shot!!! in which...Jungkook, a 7th year pure-blood Slytherin, is secretly in love with you, a 7th year half-blood Ravenclaw. His only obstacle from consuming you is your Gryffindor boyfriend, Minjae, whom he hates with his entire heart. Jungkook hexes him in the hallways whenever he gets the chance and silently wishes for his downfall.
Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new (Do i wanna know?-Arctic Monkeys)
pairing: 전정국 x fem!reader
genre: enemies to lovers | slice of life | smut | angst|
warnings: 18+, nsfw, jk is a manace, he's cocky but he's SOO in love, love triangle, dom!jungkook, swearing, multiple orgasms, making out, drinking, teasing, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, class differences, power imbalance, teasing, pet names, arguing
word count: 11.3k
Click here for the characters' moodboards and information!
Taehyung slid into the chair opposite you. "You're hiding. Minjae is looking for you. He wants you to help him with some Quidditch strategy diagrams, again."
You sighed, the sound barely disturbing the quiet. "Tell him I'm studying."
Taehyung gave you a look that said he knew exactly what kind of "studying" you were doing… which was none. The heavy book in front of you was, in fact, upside down.
"Mhm, I will tell him you're studying… whatever," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "He'll probably believe it. You're the smart one."
Then, the heavy oak doors of the library swung open, and a very specific brand of chaos walked in. Or more accurately, two brands.
Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin. Slytherins. Pure-bloods.
"I'm telling you that it's a terrible idea," Jimin's voice was a strained whisper.
"All of my ideas are terrible, that's why they're fun," Jungkook said, his voice loud enough to carry.
You didn't need to look up. You knew that voice. Jeon Jungkook's eyes scanned the room until they landed on your little corner. He quickly looked away, a disinterest that was more telling than a stare.
"Besides, what else are we supposed to do? Study?" He snorted, leaning against a bookshelf, his arms crossed over his chest. He paused, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "I heard Whitmore's new strategy involves trying not to fall off his broom this time. It's revolutionary, really."
Jimin let out an exasperated sigh. "Keep your voice down JK, for Merlin's sake."
Taehyung mumbled just loud enough for you to hear, "He has the emotional range of a teaspoon, I swear."
Jungkook's head snapped toward your table, his smirk widening. "What was that, Taehyung? Working on your NEWTs in stating the obvious?"
Jimin grabbed Jungkook's elbow. "Oh, we're leaving now, before you make a scene and Madam Pince bans us for life."
You finally looked up as Jimin was steering Jungkook toward the door, but not before Jungkook shot a sharp look in your direction and called over his shoulder, "Don't strain yourself, Y/n. It would be such a shame if a Ravenclaw Head Girl failed her exams."
The library door finally shut.
Taehyung closed his book with a soft thump. "That was so subtle."
You muttered, "What's his problem anyway?"
Taehyung laughed a bit. "His problem is about 5'10", wears red and gold, totally reminds him of a golden retriever, and he can't help but bring up Quidditch at the worst moments."
He gave the book cover a little tap. "But honestly, I'm more worried about into these books you’re getting. They read from bottom to top, you know."
You shut the book, a bit embarrassed. "Come on, quit it."
While you were packing up, Minjae burst into the library, his usual lively energy brightening the mood.
"There you are! I've been searching everywhere for you!" He waved from across the tables, completely unaware of the drama that just unfolded. "You won't believe the new formation I've come up with for the Hufflepuff game, it's genius, and I need your help to map it out."
"Oh, sure," you said, the words feeling hollow.
Minjae plopped down in the chair next to you, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment from his robe pocket without even noticing the upside-down book or how flustered you were.
"Alright, picture this: instead of doing a regular starter formation, we flip it. Chasers fly in reverse! It’s a bit risky, but if we pull it off…"
Taehyung cleared his throat as he packed up his stuff. "I’m outta here. Try not to burn the library down with all this revolutionary brainstorming."
You nodded. "Catch you later." Then you looked back at Minjae. "It's a bold move..."
Minjae was grinning, totally wrapped up in his 'genius' idea, scribbling messy lines on the parchment with a quill that was leaking ink everywhere.
He was so focused on his plan that he didn’t see Jungkook come back into the library this time without his usual buddy, Jimin. Jungkook leaned against a bookshelf, not looking at you at first. He was too busy fixing the cuff of his green robes, his silver Slytherin tie just loose enough to seem a bit rebellious.
"A starter formation...? How ambitious of you. Did you come up with that all by yourself, Whitmore, or did you have help from a first-year's Quidditch practice picture book?"
Minjae was startled and turned to face him. "Jeon, we're in the library."
Jungkook pushed off the bookshelf and took a few steps closer. "I know, I can smell the desperation from here." His eyes flickered to you for a split second.
"Can you two take this somewhere else?" Your voice cut through the tension like a knife. Both boys turned to look at you, Minjae with surprise, and Jungkook with a mask of indifference that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Minjae held up his hands. "Sorry, you're right." He turned back to Jungkook. "This isn't the place."
"Don't sweat it, Y/n. We definitely wouldn’t want to interrupt your… studying," he said, giving you a pointed look at the upside-down book on the table.
Minjae let out a sigh. "What’s his deal? Seriously, he’s been acting like this for ages." He glanced at you, his expression softening. "Anyway, sorry about that. Let’s hit the Great Hall, I'm starving."
You nodded, grabbing your bag while Minjae quickly picked up his crumpled parchment.
"Lead the way, beautiful. I swear no more Quidditch talk for at least ten minutes," he said with a grin.
As you both headed out of the library, you noticed a quick shimmer of a disillusionment charm hastily casted . Next to where Jungkook had been standing was a small, crumpled piece of parchment. You bent down and snatched it up fast, folding it clumsily and shoving it into your robe pocket before Minjae noticed it.
The walk to the Great Hall was filled with Minjae chatting about random stuff, the upcoming Hufflepuff match, the treacle tart he was hoping would be dessert, and a funny story about a Gryffindor first-year. He didn’t mention Jungkook again, and he totally missed how often your fingers brushed against that folded parchment in your pocket.
Once you got to the Great Hall, it was loud and warm, buzzing with the usual dinner noise. Minjae walked you to your table and hung out with you for a moment. Across the hall, Jungkook sat at the middle of the Slytherin table, surrounded by a bunch of younger Slytherins who were clearly hanging on his every word. His eyes were locked on you.
Jimin elbowed him sharply. "You're staring, again."
Jungkook's gaze snapped back to his friend, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm observing; it's called strategy."
Jimin sighed. "Right. The only thing you're strategizing is how to not get another detention for hexing Minjae."
Jungkook's jaw tightened, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the table as he tried his best to look casual.
You sat down at the Ravenclaw table, Minjae next to you as he wanted to stay a little longer.
"Here, tart," Minjae said, pushing a small plate toward you.
You thanked him and took the food, trying to pay attention to his story about the team’s latest practice, but your mind kept wandering. A table over, Jungkook had his arm casually draped over the back of the bench, cracking up at something a seventh-year girl said, but his laugh didn’t reach his eyes.
He raised his voice just enough. "-think the best parties are the ones Filch doesn't find out about until the next morning, right, Jimin?"
Jimin stabbed a roasted potato. "I think the best parties are the ones where you don't set anything on fire."
Jungkook chuckled, his cocky grin showing. His eyes caught yours again, and he raised his goblet in a mock toast in your direction before returning to his friends.
Minjae finally noticed your distraction. "Oh, don't let him get to you. He's just trying to get a rise out of you. Out of everyone."
At the Slytherin table, Jimin whispered to Jungkook, "What do you think you're doing?"
Jungkook shoved him lightly away. "I'm having dinner."
Jungkook stood up suddenly, his chair scraping across the stone floor. The Slytherin side of the table went silent. He didn’t look at you again. Instead, he stuck his hands in his pockets and left the Great Hall. Jimin let out a sigh, rubbing his face in frustration, before getting up to go after him.
Minjae shook his head. "See? Drama. Everything is a performance with that guy." He cleared his throat. "More tart, pretty?"
You shook your head, your heart pounding. "No, thank you. Excuse me, I have to use the bathroom."
You quickly ducked into the girls' bathroom, hoping there wasn’t a ghost hanging around tonight. You leaned against the sink and pulled out the parchment you had in your pocket.
As you unfolded it, the writing was all over the place. It wasn’t a letter; it was a list.
• Charms essay (ask her for notes? Stupid)
• Check broomstick polish
• Tell Jimin to mind his own business
• Don't look at her in the Great Hall
• Don't look at her in Potions
• Don't look at her. Period.
• Yule Ball (who is she going with? Don't care.)
• I care
• Stop caring
• Her hair is beautiful in the sun.
• Merlin, I'm pathetic.
The last line was crossed out so violently that the quill had torn through the parchment in one spot. At the very bottom, written smaller, was:
• Tell her
Everything except one thing was crossed out, and that one thing was circled over and over, with the ink soaking through the paper. Suddenly, the door creaked open. You jumped, clenched the paper in your fist, and quickly shoved it back into your pocket.
And then Moaning Myrtle decided to make her entrance with a dramatic sob. "Oh, what's that in your pocket? Is it a secret? I love secrets!"
Myrtle swooped down, her translucent form passing close to your pocket. You clutched the paper instinctively.
"Nothing and nobody wants to hear you wail for the next hour," you said, your voice sharper than you intended. "Go bother someone in the prefects' bathroom. I hear they have better bubbles."
Myrtle let out a piercing wail and flew into a nearby toilet. You took a shaky breath, your mind racing. The list, the messy and crossed-out thoughts of the boy who tormented you at every turn. The boy who, it seemed, was just as tormented by you.
You stepped out of the bathroom, the crumpled paper crammed in your pocket feeling like a heavy rock. The Great Hall was still loud, but it all felt far away, like it was muffled. Minjae was still at the Ravenclaw table, chatting excitedly with one of your classmates. He noticed you and his face brightened up with a smile.
"Hey! Everything okay? You were gone a while," he asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
You forced a smile, the muscles in your face feeling foreign and stiff. "Everything's fine. Just a headache." The lie tasted like ash in your mouth.
Minjae, bless his oblivious heart, accepted it immediately, his brow smoothing out as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders.
"Ah, the perks of being the smartest and the most beautiful witch in the room. Come on, let's get you back to the common room, you need rest."
You let him guide you, you couldn't bring yourself to glance at the Slytherin table to see if Jungkook had returned. You weren't sure you could handle it. The walk to the Ravenclaw tower was a blur of Minjae's comforting chatter. You murmured noncommittal and monosyllabic responses, your mind a thousand miles away, replaying the crossed-out words on the parchment.
Finally, you reached the bronze eagle knocker. Minjae waited patiently for you to answer
"I have cities, but no houses live there. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?"
"A map," you answered automatically.
The door swung open, revealing the circular common room. Minjae followed you in.
"Well," he said, dropping onto one of the blue sofas. "That was… eventful. Jeon really needs a hobby." He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. "You know, I sometimes wonder what his deal is. We could probably be friends if he wasn't so… Slytherin about everything."
You froze by the window, your hand tightening on the sill. The crumpled parchment in your pocket seemed to burn.
"He's not just 'Slytherin', Minjae," you said, your voice quiet but sharp. "He's cruel."
Minjae sat up, his easy-going expression replaced by one of confusion. "Cruel? He's just an arrogant boy who takes the house rivalry too seriously. It's not personal."
"It's always personal with him," you whispered, turning to face him. "Don't you see that? The hexes, the comments… It's all aimed at you."
"Because I'm the Gryffindor Captain and he is the Slytherin Captain! It's part of the game!" Minjae insisted, his voice rising slightly in frustration. "Why are you defending him all of a sudden?"
"I'm not defending him!" you shot back, "I'm just… I'm saying it's not just a game to him. Nothing with him is just a game."
The silence that fell between you was heavy and unfamiliar. Minjae was looking at you like he'd never seen you before, a flicker of hurt and confusion in his hazel eyes.
"What's going on with you, Y/n? You've been distant for weeks. And now you're defending Jungkook? Is this about that note he passed you in Potions? Because that was just him being a jerk as usual."
You stared at him, and he remembered the note Jungkook had "accidentally" dropped on your desk that simply said, "Your tie is crooked, Head Girl." You had seen the way Jungkook's fingers had brushed against yours, the panicked look in his eyes before he'd masked it. You had thought it was a strange moment, now you knew it was a desperate move.
"I'm tired," you said finally, turning away from him and heading towards the girls' dormitory. "I'm going to bed."
"Y/n, wait," Minjae called out, standing up.
But you didn't stop and walked up the spiral staircase, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the common room.
You flopped onto your bed in your dorm, leaning back against the headboard. The room was quiet; your roommates were already out cold. You pulled the crumpled paper from your pocket, feeling your fingers shake as you laid it out on your lap. You read it over and over again.
Your eyes wandered to the bedside table, where a photo of you and Minjae was sitting. He had his arm around you, and that grin on his face was just full of happiness. It was a perfect snapshot of a couple in love.
You picked up the frame, tracing Minjae's smile with your thumb. You glanced back down at that frantic, ink-stained paper in your lap, and a scary thought crept in: maybe being safe just wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe it never was.
The prince in the dungeon
The decision was born of a desperate, reckless curiosity. For two days after you had found the list, the piece of parchment in your pocket felt like it was burning a hole through your robes.
"You've been a million miles away,” Minjae said on Friday afternoon, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you stared out a window. "Is it NEWT stress? Because if it is, we can have a fun study session with snacks."
You forced a laugh, leaning back into his warmth. "Something like that, just tired."
It was always the same damn excuse, and he bought it every time.
That evening, as you sat in the Great Hall, the announcement came. Jungkook was throwing a party tonight in the Slytherin common rooms.
"He's going to get himself expelled," Minjae muttered “and probably take half his house with him."
Taehyung, sitting across from you, caught your eye. He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod. He knew, he knew you knew, and he knew this was your chance.
"I think I'm going to skip the study session tonight" you said.
Minjae looked at you, surprised. "Oh? Okay, we can just relax then, maybe sneak up to the Astronomy Tower?"
"No," you said, a little too quickly, "I mean… I heard about that party in the dungeons."
Minjae's fork clattered onto his plate. "You want to go to Jungkook's party? Y/n, why? It's just going to be a bunch of Slytherins getting drunk and being… well, Slytherins."
"I'm curious," you lied, your heart starting to pound. "I'm Head Girl, maybe I should… make an appearance, show them I'm not afraid."
It was a flimsy excuse, and you both knew it, but Minjae wanted to believe it.
"Okay," he said slowly, "If you think that's a good idea, but I'm coming with you. I'm not letting you go down there alone."
Panic flared in your chest. This wasn't part of the plan. You needed to see him, to talk to him, alone.
"No, Minjae, it's fine, really. You hate that stuff anyway. I'll just pop in, make a scene, and leave. It'll be good for my reputation."
He looked unconvinced, but you gave him your most convincing smile, the one that usually made him agree to anything.
"Alright but be careful.”
You nodded, your throat tight. "I got it."
An hour later, you find yourself wandering down a dark, unfamiliar hallway, your footsteps echoing off the stone walls. . You're making your way to the dungeons, drawn in by the muffled music. As you reach the bottom of the last staircase, the noise hits you first, and the air is thick with the smell of Firewhiskey.
The password, told to you by a cheeky Slytherin, is "Pureblood."
When you step into the common room, it's like a whole different world. The place is packed with students, a sea of Slytherin green mixed with a few from other houses, all dancing, laughing, and drinking. You can’t help but feel like you stand out in your blue and silver colors.
And then you notice him.
Jungkook is up on a raised platform, drink in hand, looking like he owns the place. His gaze sweeps over the crowd. He definitely gives off the cocky pureblood prince vibe, and you think about bailing.
But then he spots you.
His eyes lock with yours, and the smirk he had disappears for a moment. He looks genuinely surprised, but then a slow, confident grin spreads across his face. He says something to Jimin, who’s next to him, and starts pushing through the crowd, still keeping his eyes on you.
"Well, well," he said, his voice low and raspy, just for you. "Look at you, come to bust the party, Head Girl?"
"I came to see what all the fuss was about."
"The fuss is about not caring. You should try it sometime." His eyes flickered down to your pocket. "Or maybe you already are."
Your breath hitched. He knew you'd taken the list, he had to. This was a game of cat and mouse. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" He was so close now you could smell the Firewhiskey on his breath. "You're in my world, Y/n. You should learn the rules."
"And what are the rules?" you challenged him, your chin held high, your arms crossed.
His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he was going to kiss you right there, in the middle of his own party, but then he smirked.
"The first rule is that you don't belong here."
He looked entirely too proud of himself. He was playing with her, treating the conversation like a Quidditch match where he already had the lead. He liked the way she crossed her arms, it was a defensive gesture, but it didn't hide the way she was still flushed.
"Besides, if you leave now, you're just proving me right. You're just a little bird who's too scared to stay in the dark for more than five minutes."
"Fine," Y/n said, the word defiant.
"Now that's more like it."
Your gaze shifted without meaning to a couple making out in the corner of the room. His eyes followed your line of sight to the couples, and Jungkook let out a low, mocking hum.
"Careful, Y/n. If you stare too long, you might actually learn something. What's the matter? Is the Gryffindor too gentle? Does he only hold your hand and kiss your forehead?"
Y/n felt the heat creep up her neck. "None of your business."
Jungkook chuckled sarcastically. He turned away from you and rejoined his friends. You didn't leave, and you grabbed a bottle of something that smelled like cinnamon from a nearby table and took a sip. It burned all the way down.
You spent the next hour watching him from across the room. You saw him charm a pretty sixth-year girl, saw him win a round of wizard's chess, saw him laugh with Jimin, and through it all, you felt his eyes on you, quick glances that he thought you didn't notice.
Finally, you'd had enough, you set your bottle down and pushed your way through the crowd towards the exit. You'd seen enough for tonight and you knew what you had to do.
You were almost at the door when a hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a small, dark alcove behind a tapestry. He slammed his other hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in. The noise of the party was suddenly muffled, replaced by the sound of your own breathing.
“What the-”
"Where do you think you're going?”
"Home," you said, your voice trembling.
He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. "You shouldn't have come here," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "You shouldn't have seen that."
"Seen what? The perfect party?"
"This," he said, gesturing vaguely at the party beyond the tapestry. "This is all I have. This is all I am, a joke, a performance. Is that what you wanted to see?"
"No," you whispered, your anger melting away. "That's not what I see at all."
His eyes searched yours, desperately "Then what do you see?"
You saw the boy who wrote the list, the boy who was desperately lonely, the boy who thought he was unlovable.
"I see you-," you whispered, the words hanging in the charged air between you.
"You don't, you see him." He jerked his head in the direction of the party, in the direction of where Minjae would be. "You see the charming Gryffindor hero. You don't see this."
"This?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "What is this, Jungkook? This party? This… mask? Is this all you think you are?"
"It's all I'm allowed to be!" he said angrily, his eyes blazing. "Do you have any idea what it's like? To be told, every single day, that your worth is tied to your name, your blood, your ability to be ruthless?”
He was so close, his body trembling with the force of his confession
"I look at you and I see everything I'm supposed to hate, everything I can't have. You're good, you're brilliant, you’re beautiful and kind, and you're with him, the perfect Gryffindor. It's a fucking fairytale, and I'm the monster in the dungeon."
"You're not a monster," you breathed, your hand coming up to rest on his chest, over the frantic beating of his heart.
He didn't pull away. "Aren't I?" he challenged, his voice a bitter whisper. "I hex your boyfriend in the corridors, I spread rumors about him, I do everything I can to make his life miserable because I'm jealous of him. I'm jealous of the way he gets to hold your hand, I'm jealous of the way you look at him, I'm jealous of the air he breathes because it's the same air you're breathing. If that's not a monster, what is?"
"Why?" you asked, your own voice shaking. "Why do you do it? Why not just… tell me?"
"And say what?" he laughed, a harsh, broken sound. " 'Hey, Y/n, I know I've been a bastard for the past seven years, but I'm secretly in love with you, please leave the wonderful, decent guy you're dating for the messed-up son of a Death Eater sympathizer who doesn't know how to feel anything without hating himself for it?' How well do you think that would go?"
"I would have listened" you said, your heart aching for him.
"No. You wouldn't have. You would have seen me as a joke. A pathetic Slytherin pining after something he can't have. It's better this way, the enemy part, at least that's real."
"It's not real," you insisted, your fingers curling into the fabric of his robe. "None of it is real. This…" you said, gesturing to the space between you, "…is real. This is the realest thing I've felt in years."
For a moment, you thought you had reached him. The wall of arrogance and cruelty crumbled, leaving just the boy who was lost and scared and so incredibly in love with you, it was destroying him. He leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut, his lips parting slightly. He was going to kiss you. And you were going to let him.
You licked your lips
You swallowed
Your stomach did the flip thing
But then, a loud cheer erupted from the party, followed by the sound of a shattering bottle, and Jungkook's eyes snapped open, everything you’ve tried to build tonight crashed down.
"No," he whispered, pulling back from you, running a hand through his hair, his eyes wild. "No, we can't, I can't."
"Jungkook, wait-” you reached for him, but he flinched away.
"Don't," he said, his voice flat "This was a mistake, a big stupid mistake.” He straightened his robes, the mask was back on. "You should go."
"Jungkook, please…," you begged, your heart breaking.
"Go back to your tower, Y/n." He didn't look at you, he looked at the stone wall behind you, as if you were no longer there. "Go back to your boyfriend.”
He turned his back on you and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of laughing, Slytherins. He had pushed you away, but not before he had given you everything.
You stumbled out from behind the tapestry. You didn't look back, you couldn't. The walk back to the Ravenclaw tower was a nightmare.
The rest of the weekend drifted by in a quiet silence. You stayed away from the Great Hall, saying you had a terrible headache at the NEWT level, and Taehyung kindly brought your meals to your room. Minjae kept sending owl messages, each one cheerier than the last, checking in on how you were feeling and letting you know he was thinking of you. But, somehow, you just couldn't find the words to reply to any of them.
By Monday, the bubble of your isolation had to burst. You had Charms with the Gryffindors, and you knew you couldn't avoid Minjae forever. Walking into the classroom felt like marching to your own execution.
"Hey! You're back!" he whispered as you sat down, his hand immediately finding yours on the desk. "I was so worried. Are you feeling better?"
"I'm fine," you lied, pulling your hand away to retrieve your wand. "Just needed some quiet."
"Right," he said, his smile faltering slightly. "Well, I'm glad you're here, maybe you can help me with the wrist flick, I always mess it up."
You tried to focus, you really did. You tried to listen to Flitwick and to perform the practiced flicks of your wand, but all you could think about was the way Jungkook's body caged you in, and the sound of his voice as he confessed everything.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a concerned whisper. "Y/n, seriously. What's going on? Is this about Jungkook's party? Did he say something to you? Did he hurt you?"
"I think we should talk, Minjae," you said, your voice barely audible over the chatter of the class. "Meet me by the Black Lake, after class."
He didn't know what, but he knew something was fundamentally wrong. "Okay, the Black Lake, after class."
The next twenty minutes were the longest of your life. When the bell finally rang, you packed your bag with shaking hands and walked out of the castle. He found you a few minutes later, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He looked at you with those honest, hazel eyes.
"So, this sounds serious."
"Don't," you whispered, turning away from him to look at the water. "Please don't be kind right now."
"What? Why? Y/n, whatever it is, we can fix it. Just talk to me."
"I am trying to talk to you! I'm breaking up with you."
"You're… what? No, you're not. You're just stressed."
"It's not that," you said, finally turning to face him. His face was pale. "This isn't working, Minjae."
"Not working?" he repeated, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. "What does that even mean? We've been working for years! We work!"
"We were," you corrected gently. "But we're not anymore."
"Is this because of him?" he demanded, his voice rising with anger. "Is this because of Jungkook? That party? What did he do to you?"
"He didn't do anything!" you insisted, the words feeling more and more like a lie. "This is about me. This is about… us. We're a fairytale, Minjae. We’re a lovely story, but it's not real."
"It is real!" he shouted, stepping closer. "What I feel for you is real! Is this a joke? Are you breaking up with me because you're bored? Because you've decided you want some drama in your life? Is that what this is?"
"No!" you cried, tears finally welling in your eyes. "It's because I don't love you! Not the way you deserve, not the way I should."
"You don't… but you said…"
"I know what I said," you whispered, the tears now streaming down your face. "And I meant it when I said it. But things change, and people change."
"So you've changed," he said, his voice flat. " You've changed so much that you just throw away two years? Don't I deserve a real reason? Don't I deserve the truth?"
"The truth is that I'm not the person you think I am. And you deserve someone who is, someone who can give you all of this, without hesitation." You gestured between you, to the life you had built together. "I can't. I’m sorry."
"So that's it," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Just like that."
"I'm so sorry, Minjae," you choked out. "I am so, so sorry."
He shook his head, a sad, broken little smile touching his lips. "Don't be. Just… go. Please. Just go."
You didn't want to. You wanted to stay and explain, to take the pain away, but you knew you couldn't. You turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone; the perfect hero had just lost its heroine.
You skipped dinner that night and found yourself hiding in the back of the library, acting like you were researching some potion you already knew by heart. You felt like such a coward for breaking a good guy's heart, and now you were just avoiding the fallout. Every time the library doors opened, you freaked out, hoping it wouldn’t be Minjae or, even worse, Taehyung, showing up and wanting to know what the hell happened.
It was nearly curfew when a shadow fell over your book.
"Rough day, Head Girl?" He slid into the seat opposite you, his movements fluid and predatory. He looked rested, composed, a stark contrast to the emotional wreckage you had become.
"What do you want, Jeon?" you asked, not looking up from your book. Your voice was hoarse from crying.
He reached across the table and deliberately closed your book.
"I want to know why," he said. “I want to know why you did it."
"I don't know what you're talking about," you lied, your voice a pathetic whisper.
"Don't even think about lying to me. You dumped him, the so-called hero of your fairytale. So I'm gonna ask you again. Why?"
You had no answer. How could you explain that his confession changed everything?
"I… I had to," you stammered, looking away.
"Had to?" He laughed harshly. "No one has to do anything, Y/n. You wanted to end it. Why? Was it because of me?"
Your head snapped back to his. "What?"
"Was it because of me?" he repeated. "Did you see me on Friday night and decide your perfect little life wasn't so perfect anymore? Did my 'performance' finally get to you?"
"It wasn't a performance!" you shot back, your own anger rising to meet his. "I saw you, Jungkook. The real you."
"The real me?" he laughed again, that same broken, bitter sound. "You saw a pathetic, drunken mess in a dungeon who spilled his guts because he couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut. That's not the real me. The real me is the one who hexes your boyfriend and makes your life hell. That's the one you should be afraid of."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be," he hissed, leaning even closer. "You took it, the list. The one thing, the one stupid, pathetic piece of parchment in the entire world that was just for me, and you took it. You read it, and then what? You decided to do what? Pity me? You felt so sorry for the monster in the dungeon that you threw away your prince?"
"No," you breathed, shaking your head.
"Then what?" he demanded, his voice rising in frustration. "Give me one good reason why you would throw away everything for… for this."
You couldn’t tell him the whole story. You couldn't admit that all those mean things he’d said now felt like love notes. You couldn’t say that his broken confession stuck with you more than two years of Minjae being all sweet and easygoing. So, you did the only thing you could think of: you dug into your pocket.
His eyes followed your movement, his breath catching in his throat. You pulled out the crumpled, worn piece of parchment, his list. You didn't unfold it.
"This," you said, your voice shaking. "This is why."
"I don't understand," he whispered.
"You told me to tell you what I see. You said I see the hero, and honestly, you’re right, I did. I saw that boy who was kind, good, and safe. But he wasn't really mine, not really." You glanced down at the parchment in your hand. "This… this is mine. This chaotic, messy, broken thing. This is real, and I'm over pretending it's not.
He looked at the paper, then back at you, his eyes wide with realization. He hadn’t pushed you away; he’d actually pulled you in.
“No,” he whispered, like it was both a prayer and a curse. “You can’t. You shouldn’t.”
“I already did,” you replied softly.
The days after the breakup blurred into a week. You were… on your own. The castle felt off. Minjae kept his distance, which was both good and bad. You’d catch sight of him in the Great Hall or outside on the lawns. Taehyung was always around, his sharp eyes catching everything, but he gave you your space.
And then there was Jungkook.
Nothing much happened, at least on the surface. He went back to being Jeon Jungkook, the cocky Slytherin prince, but it felt different now. You noticed the cracks, you saw how his eyes searched for you across a crowded room, not with his usual teasing. He was giving you space, which had to be tough for him. He was waiting, you realized. Waiting for you to make the next move. The ball was in your court.
However, things hit a boiling point on Friday morning.
The Great Hall was buzzing with the pre-weekend energy. You were picking at a piece of toast when Taehyung slid onto the bench beside you.
"You look like a dead pufferskin," he stated, not unkindly. "Have you even slept?"
"Shut it, Taehyung," you mumbled, pushing your plate away.
He sighed, pulling a bowl of porridge towards him. "Look, I know you're going through… whatever this is. But you can't just exist on air and angst forever.”
"I'll be fine."
"No, you won't," he said flatly. "And neither will he."
You didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was. Your eyes automatically shifted to the Slytherin table. Jungkook was staring blankly at his plate, pushing food around like he was annoyed but didn’t have the energy to care. Jimin was chatting with him, looking worried, but Jungkook wasn’t really paying attention. He looked just as miserable as you felt.
Just then, the main doors of the Great Hall creaked open, Minjae. He wasn’t his usual bubbly self. He scanned the Ravenclaw table and finally locked eyes with you. For a moment, you could see a flash of something cross his face before it turned cold, and he focused on someone else.
Jungkook.
Before you could even wrap your head around what was going on, Minjae was confidently walking across the Great Hall.
Taehyung grabbed your arm under the table. "Oh no. Y/n, don’t just sit there."
But you were totally frozen. You could only watch as Minjae stopped right in front of the Slytherin table, staring straight at Jungkook.
"We need to talk, Jeon," Minjae said.
Jungkook slowly lifted his head. The tired look was gone. He leaned back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back in a way that showed he didn’t care.
"What’s up, Whitmore?" Jungkook said with sarcasm. "Your amazing new plan to lose tomorrow’s match?"
A few of the younger Slytherins laughed. Jimin looked like he was about to be sick.
"This isn't about Quidditch," Minjae said, his voice tight with restraint. "This is about Y/n."
At the sound of your name, Jungkook's entire posture changed. He sat up straight.
"Ah," Jungkook said, his voice now dangerously soft. "The Head Girl. What about her? Did she come crying to you, telling you the big, bad monster scared her in the dungeon?"
Minjae's fists clenched at his sides. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Jungkook stood up, towering over Minjae. "I saw you sulking around for a week. I know she finally got fed up with pretending to be happy with the perfect Gryffindor. She woke up and realized she wanted something real."
That last part hit hard. A gasp went through the students nearby. You felt your face go pale.
"You're lying," Minjae shot back, stepping closer. "You manipulated her. This is all your fault."
"My fault?" Jungkook chuckled, but it sounded nasty. "How's it my fault she finally realized you're just a boring, safe placeholder? I didn't even have to lift a finger. You messed up all on your own."
That was all Minjae needed to hear.
He charged at Jungkook, hands stretched out, ready to grab the collar of Jungkook's fancy robes. But Taehyung was quicker. "Immobulus!" A blast light hit Minjae mid-lunge, freezing him in a goofy pose.
Jungkook didn’t even blink. He ignored Taehyung, the professors rushing in. He locked eyes with Minjae. Slowly, he raised his wand.
“Finite Incantatem,”
The spell hit. Minjae stumbled forward, nearly losing his balance before he caught himself, breathing hard, embarrassment flaring in his eyes. Jungkook just saved him from making things worse.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” Minjae growled, his voice strained. “Don’t even look at me after what you’ve done.”
“What I’ve done?” Jungkook took a step closer, stepping into Minjae’s space, holding his wand loosely at his side like a casual threat. “I haven’t done anything. That’s the issue, right? I stayed out of it. I kept quiet. And she still left you.”
"You messed with her head!" Minjae shot back, his voice shaking. "You've been filling it with your garbage for years!"
Jungkook laughed, “Garbage? I told her the truth. I told her I was a wreck. I told her I was a monster. The only thing I’m guilty of is wanting her. What about you? You had her! You had everything anyone could want, but you were so boring that you let her slip away."
"I loved her!" Minjae yelled, fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, "I would have done anything for her!"
"Anything except what she actually needed," Jungkook shot back, his words hitting hard. "You loved the idea of her, the smart, pretty girlfriend to make you look good. Did you ever really see her? Did you notice how she bit her lip when she was deep in thought? Did you know she hates treacle tart but ate it every time you offered it because she didn't want to hurt your feelings?"
Each question was a fresh blow, and you watched Minjae's face crumble. He didn't know. He didn't know any of it. And Jungkook, the boy who supposedly hated you, knew everything.
"She was happy with me," Minjae whispered, a last, desperate defense.
"Was she? Or was she just comfortable? There’s a difference. She was settling for a life that was easy, safe, and a bit empty. I just… I gave her a reason to stop."
Minjae looked completely shattered. He locked eyes with Jungkook, pleading for him to deny it, to tell him it was all a lie. But Jungkook said nothing. Eventually, Minjae’s gaze slipped past Jungkook to you across the silent hall. The anger had faded from his eyes, replaced by deep sorrow. He understood now, he saw everything. With that final, heartbreaking look, he walked out of the Great Hall.
Jungkook's shoulders drooped for a moment, the weight of his victory pressing down on him. Every eye in the room was on you, judging silently. You were the reason for this chaos, the girl at the center of a storm you hadn't known how to stop.
In that crowd, his eyes found yours. His eyes locked onto yours, and in them, you saw not a question but a command. Come.
You pushed your chair back, the sound slicing through the quiet like a shout. Keeping your head up and your expression blank, you made your way over to him. You didn’t glance at Taehyung’s worried expression or Jimin’s cautious look. All that mattered was reaching him.
He met you halfway, right before the huge doors of the hall. He didn't say a word; just turned and brushed past you, and you fell in step beside him. Instead of dragging you down to the dungeons or some creepy hidden spot, he took you up on the moving staircases. As you climbed higher, the noise of the castle faded away, replaced by the sound of your own racing heartbeat. He was guiding you to a place filled with ghosts and memories, somewhere you hadn’t been in ages.
The Room of Requirement
"Are you happy now?" you finally asked, your voice barely a whisper.
He turned slowly. "Happy?" he repeated, the word a bitter taste on his tongue. "No. I'm not happy."
He closed the distance between you in two long strides.
"I'm furious. I'm furious at him for being so blind. I'm furious at you for being so stupid. And most of all, I'm furious at myself for thinking for one second that this could ever end well."
"You didn't have to do that," you shot back, he grabbed your wrist.
"Didn't I?" he chuckled. "What was I supposed to do? Let him keep living in his little fantasy? Let him keep looking at you like you were his trophy? I had to show everyone. You’re not his. You never were."
"And I'm yours?" you whispered.
His eyes grew dark as he lifted his other hand, fingers gently tracing your jaw, his touch surprisingly soft compared to the tight grip he had on your wrist.
"You've always been mine, little raven," he said quietly, his thumb brushing your bottom lip.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn't soft or sweet at all. His mouth was demanding, pushing against yours with an urgency that took your breath away. He pressed you back until your shoulders hit the cool stone of the wall, trapping you in.
He let go of your wrist and tangled his fingers in your hair, tilting your head to make the kiss deeper. His other hand moved down your back, pulling you against him so you could feel his arousal through your robes. A gasp slipped out, and he seized the chance, slipping his tongue inside to explore and claim you.
Your hands flew around his neck, pulling him closer. You wanted to crawl inside his skin, to consume him, to be consumed by him.
He broke the kiss, both of you panting, your foreheads pressed together. The night air was cold on your swollen lips.
He leaned in again, but this time his kiss was softer. It felt different, almost like he was cherishing the moment after that intense passion from before. His lips moved against yours slowly, setting a rhythm that made your legs feel a little wobbly. One of his hands slid from your back to your hip, his thumb drawing little circles, sending shivers all over you.
"Y/n," he murmured against your lips, making your name sound almost sacred. "You’ve gotta tell me this is real."
"It's real," you promised.
That was all the permission he needed.
His mouth reclaimed yours with a renewed hunger, his hands growing bolder. He found the clasp of your school robes, his fingers fumbling with it for a moment before it came undone with a soft click. The heavy wool pooled at your feet, leaving you in the thin white blouse and skirt.
He reached out and slowly, deliberately, began to unbutton your blouse. His fingers were calloused from Quidditch, rough against your skin. One button. Two. Three. He took his time, his eyes never leaving yours, watching your every reaction.
When your blouse was open, he pushed it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the stone floor. You stood before him in your simple white bra and skirt.
"You're so beautiful, little raven." He reached out and traced the lacy edge of your bra with his fingertips. "Merlin, I've thought about this. About what you'd look like. In bed, under me."
His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. He leaned down and kissed the hollow of your throat. His kiss felt warm and open, and he traced a line down your neck to your collarbone. You tilted your head back, letting him have better access, a soft sigh slipping from your lips. His hands were on your waist, holding you steady.He found the sensitive spot behind your ear, and you couldn't stop the moan that rose in your throat. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound against your skin.
"I knew you'd be sensitive here," he murmured. "I spent an entire Transfiguration lesson once just watching the way you'd twist your hair when you were concentrating, wondering if you'd make that same little sound if I put my mouth right… here." He punctuated his words with a sharp nip of his teeth, and you jolted, a gasp torn from your lips.
"Jungkook," you breathed.
"Tell me what you want, pretty," he commanded, his mouth moving back up to claim yours in a searing kiss. "Tell me, Y/n."
You couldn't form the words. All you could do was hold on tighter, arching against him, a silent, desperate plea for more.
He seemed to understand. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, "Can't talk? That's okay. I can do all the talking."
His hands moved from your waist to the small of your back, tracing the curve of your spine before sliding down to grab your ass through the fabric of your skirt. He squeezed, pulling you tight against him, and you gasped as you felt his hard cock pressing into your stomach.
"You feel that?" he said, his lips close to your ear. "That's what you do to me. You've been doing it for years. Every time you walked into a room, every time you answered a question in class, even when you just breathed in my direction."
His hands were restless now, roaming over your body, learning the shape of you. He slid one hand up your side, his thumb brushing against the side of your breast. You whimpered, pushing into his touch, needing more.
"Patience, I've waited too long for this to rush it."
But his own patience was running out. He let out a frustrated groan, reached behind you, and struggled a bit with your bra's clasp. It clicked open, and he tossed it aside with the rest of your clothes. The night air hit your bare skin, and your nipples instantly got hard.
Jungkook stilled, his gaze fixed on your chest. "Fuck, you're perfect."
He reached out, his hand lingering for a second before he grabbed one of your breasts, his palm warm and heavy. He ran his thumb over your already hard nipple, and you let out a gasp.
"Shh," he murmured, leaning down to take the other into his mouth. "We don't want to bring the whole castle up here, do we?"
His mouth was hot and wet, a shocking contrast to the cold air. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive peak, then sucked, hard. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding him to you. He gave attention to your breasts, alternating between them, his mouth and hands working in rhythm.
Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, he pulled back, his breathing ragged.
"I need to see all of you," he said, his voice a raw, rough command.
He dropped to his knees before you, He looked up at you from his position. He reached out and placed his hands on your hips, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your skirt. You nodded.
Slowly, he peeled your skirt down your legs, his fingers tracing the path of the fabric as it went. He followed it with his mouth, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your hips, your stomach, the tops of your thighs. You were trembling.
When your skirt was around your ankles, you where in nothing but your simple cotton underwear.
"You're shaking," he observed, his voice soft.
"You're doing this to me," you managed to say, your voice barely audible.
"I haven't even started yet."
He hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties and slowly pulled them down. You stepped out of them. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss under your navel, his lips soft and gentle. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.
"Jungkook," you pleaded, not even sure what you were begging for.
"I know," he murmured against your skin. "I know."
He shifted, settling between your thighs. He looked up at you one last time, and then he lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue against your clit was a lick and it sent a shockwave of pleasure through you so intense your knees buckled. He held you steady, his hands gripping your hips, while his mouth working its magic.
He didn’t hold back. He explored you with his. He circled your clit, then flicked it, then sucked it into his mouth. Your world was just the sensation of his mouth on you, the rough slide of his tongue, the desperate sounds of your own breathing.
You were babbling now, a stream of incoherent pleas and praises. "Please, Jungkook, yes, don't stop, please, please, please…"
He didn't stop. He increased his pace, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. He slid one hand from your hip, his fingers finding your entrance. He teased you for a moment, circling the opening, before sliding one long finger inside you.
You cried out, your inner walls clenching around him. He began to move his finger in time with the movements of his tongue while you were closer to the edge. He added a second finger, stretching you.
"Come for me, Y/n, let me feel it, let me taste you."
With a final, desperate cry, you orgasmed. It left you breathless and shaking, and he held you through it, his mouth and fingers milking every last drop of your slick.
Once the shaking finally stopped, he stood up and wrapped his arms around you. You sank against him, your head on his chest, listening to his heart. He just held you for a while, gently running his fingers through your hair.
"You're gorgeous," he murmured.
You looked up and kissed him. You could taste yourself on his lip, his tongue sliding into your mouth. He was still fully dressed, and the rough texture of his robes felt amazing against your bare skin. All you could think about was wanting to feel him fully, wanting to see him.
You pulled back, your hands going to the front of his robes. "Your turn."
He watched you as you fumbled with the clasp of his robes. Your fingers were clumsy with urgency, but you finally managed to get it open. You pushed the heavy fabric off his shoulders, and it joined yours on the stone floor.
He was wearing a simple black shirt underneath. You made quick work of the buttons, your hands brushing against the warm, hard plane of his chest. He was lean and muscular, his body a testament to years of Quidditch training.
Your fingers trembled as they traced the lines of his chest, feeling the steady, rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. You pushed the black shirt off his shoulders, and it joined the growing pile of discarded clothing on the cold stone floor. You reached out, your fingers tracing the lines of his abs, feeling them tighten under your touch. He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands coming to rest on your waist.
"Your hands are cold," he murmured, a low rumble in his chest.
"Sorry," you whispered, but you didn't stop touching him.
"Don't be," he said, his voice thick.
His skin was warm, and you could feel the fine tremor running through him, a mirror to your own. He was magnificent, and he was all yours.
Your gaze drifted downward, to the very obvious bulge straining against the fabric of his trousers. You swallowed hard.
"Like what you see, little raven?" he asked, his voice a low, husky rumble.
Instead of answering, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his chest, right over his heart. You could feel it thumping against your mouth. You kissed your way across his chest, your tongue darting out to taste the salty skin, to trace his collarbones. His hands came up to rest on your back, his fingers digging into your flesh as if he needed to anchor himself.
With a surge of confidence, you let your hand drift lower, palming him through his trousers. He groaned. His hips jerked forward instinctively, seeking more friction.
You knelt before him, just as he had done for you, your gaze fixed on the button of his trousers. Your hands shook as you undid it, the sound of the zipper loud. You looked up at him, your eyes wide, and saw the raw, naked hunger on his face.
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and slowly pulled them down. His cock sprang free, hard and thick. It was bigger than you'd imagined, the head flushed, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip.
Your breath hitched in your throat. You'd seen boys before; you’d seen Minjae, but this was different.
You reached out a trembling hand and wrapped your fingers around him. He was hot and hard in your grasp, the skin velvety soft over the rigid core. He let out a harsh groan, his hips bucking forward instinctively.
"Fuck, Y/n," his head falling back. "Don't… don't tease."
You weren't teasing. You were exploring. You ran your thumb over the head, smearing the bead of pre-cum over the sensitive skin. He shuddered, a full-body tremor that ran through him like a wave.
"You don't have to."
“Shut up, Jeon, I want to.”
You leaned in and flicked your tongue against the tip, tasting the salty, slightly bitter flavor of him.
He hissed, his hands flying to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. "Y/n," he warned, his voice strained. "I'm serious. If you… if you do that…"
You looked up at him, your lips hovering just a breath away from his cock. "If I do what?" you whispered boldly.
"Gods," he groaned, his eyes squeezing shut. "If you put your mouth on me, I won't be able to control myself. I'll… I'll fuck your mouth. And I don't want to do that. Not yet."
His words sent a fresh wave of heat to your core. He wanted you so much he was afraid of his own reaction.
You took a deep breath and made your choice. You wanted to taste him, to feel him, to give him the same mind-blowing pleasure he had just given you. You wanted to see him lose control.
You wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip. He cried out, his fingers tightening in your hair, his hips jerking forward. You took more of him into your mouth.
You couldn't take all of him, not at first, but you tried. You relaxed your jaw and took him deeper, your hand working the base of his shaft in time with the movements of your mouth. He was breathing heavily now, his head thrown back, his eyes closed. The sounds he was making were driving you crazy.
He was right. He couldn't control himself. His hips began to move, a slow, shallow rocking at first, then faster, deeper, his cock hitting the back of your throat.
"Y/n, fuck, your mouth… so good… gods.”
"Fuck, yes, just like that. Your mouth is so fucking good."
You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, and he cried out, his whole body tensing. You could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic.
“Y/n, I'm gonna…"
He tried to pull back, to warn you, but you held on. With a final groan, he came, his hot, salty release flooding your mouth. You swallowed, your throat working, milking him for every last drop.
“You crazy little witch,” he murmured against your lips, his voice hoarse.
You chuckled softly.
He shifted, his body covering yours. He was already hard again, his cock pressing against your thigh.
"I need to be inside you. Are you ready for me, little raven?" he murmured against your lips.
You nodded frantically. He reached between your legs, his fingers finding your clit. You were still wet from your earlier orgasm, and his fingers slid easily through your folds. He circled your clit, then slid two fingers inside you, testing your readiness.
"Mhm, You're so wet for me," he said.
"All for you," you echoed.
His fingers stroked and teased you until you were squirming beneath him, begging. He reached between you, guiding his cock to your entrance.
"Look at me, clever girl," he commanded, his voice low and intense.
You forced your eyes open, and he held your gaze as he slowly, deliberately, pushed into you.
There was a brief, sharp sting as he stretched you, and you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. He stilled.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
You took a deep breath, the pain already starting to fade. "I'm okay," you said. "Don't stop."
He began to thrust slowly and deeply at first, then faster, harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the silent room.
"Harder," you gasped, your voice a raw, desperate plea. "Jungkook, harder."
His movements becoming almost brutal, his cock pounding into you, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
"You're so tight, sweetheart," he gritted out, his fingers digging into your thighs. "So fucking perfect."
He reached between you again, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed it in time with his thrusts, and you felt your orgasm building again. Your entire body tensed, your muscles locking up as the pleasure increased.
"Come for me, Y/n," he commanded, his voice strained. "Come with me."
With a final, brutal thrust and a hard pinch of your clit, you orgasmed. You screamed his name, your body shaking underneath him, your inner walls clamping down on his cock in a series of powerful, rhythmic spasms. He fucked you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, his control finally breaking as your body milked him. With a loud, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his own orgasm crashing over him, and you felt the hot, powerful pulse of his release as he spilled into you.
He collapsed on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You were both panting, your bodies sweaty and trembling. He didn't move for a long time, and you didn't want him to. You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him close.
“Hi," he whispered, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips.
You laughed, a breathy, soundless puff of air. "Hi," you whispered back.
He leaned down and kissed you gently. "Are you okay?" he asked again, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.
"I'm more than okay," you whispered.
He smiled, a genuine, brilliant smile that lit up his entire face. He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips.
“Me too," he murmured against your skin.
With a soft sigh, he carefully withdrew, the loss of his warmth making you shiver. He grabbed the heavy wool of the discarded school robes and draped them over you both.
"You’re going to have bruises," you murmured. "I'm sorry," you said, your voice thick with regret. "I got... carried away. I didn't hurt you, did I? Truly?" You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at him.
He reached up and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking his skin. "No, little raven. You didn't hurt me. Plus, I like them, they're a reminder."
"A reminder that you’re mine?" you asked.
"Mhm, always," he confirmed. "So. What do we do now, Y/n?"
"We walk out of here, and tomorrow, we sit together at breakfast. And I’ll sit at your table, and you’ll hold my hand, and we won't care who sees."
"Just like that? You know…Y/n, my father-"
"Just like that," you confirmed.
He buried his face in your hair, his arms tightening around you like he was afraid you might disappear.
"I love you," he whispered, the words muffled against your skin. "I think I've loved you since the 4th year.”
You laughed, "I thought you were an arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed boy. and I love you too."
"I am," he said, pulling back to grin at you. "But I'm your arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed boy."
Eventually, you knew you had to move, because the night couldn't last forever, but this time you risked it for the biscuit and walked down with him in the dungeons. Jimin had luckily gone somewhere, maybe also dealing with his little secret.
When morning came, Jimin's jaw practically hit the floor, his eyes darting from Jungkook's smug face to the copper hair peeking out from the duvet.
Jungkook pulled the duvet higher over the still asleep Y/n, shielding her, and looked at Jimin with a look of absolute, smug triumph. His voice was a low, morning rasp.
"Morning, Jimin. Close the door."
"Close the door? JK, you have a Ravenclaw, a Head Girl, in your bed!" He gestured wildly with one hand. "Do you have any idea what happens if a Prefect walks in? Or a professor? Or the entire school?"
Jungkook yawned lazily, not moving an inch, his arm remaining locked around you. His voice was thick and rough, devoid of any guilt.
"Then they'll know." He looked down at you, his gaze softening into something sweet, before he looked back at Jimin. "Now, I said, close the door, Jimin. Unless you want to be the one to tell the Gryffindor Golden Boy that his ex-girlfriend spent the night in the snake pit."
Jimin scoffed and left the room.
Jungkook didn't move to get up. Instead, he shifted, his chest vibrating as he chuckled. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a teasing, low vibration. "Wake up, little monster. We have an audience."
Y/n groaned and buried her face deeper in his chest. "Five more minutes. Are we doomed?"
"We're not doomed," he said, his eyes soft. "We're just beginning." He leaned in and kissed you. When he pulled back, he was smiling. "Now, get dressed, Head Girl. You have a castle to run. And I have a rumor to start."
You looked at him, "What rumor?"
He grinned, "The one that says Jeon Jungkook finally got his girl."
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰
a/n: I hope you guys enjoyed this. i have been obsessed with H.P. and Hogwarts Legacy lately, and I couldn't bring myself to not write something, even if I'm graduating next month and my mind is everywhere ;-;
♡ Desperate to avoid an arranged marriage with Naoya, you seek refuge in Yuuta—unaware that he may be the most dangerous curse of all, especially when he’s been secretly and hopelessly in love with you all along.♡
ft. Yuuta x reader, Naoya x reader, Sexual Content. Dark Romance. Arranged marriage.
Naoya x Reader x Yuuta (Part 1)
-
Warning tag: Arranged Marriage AU!, Possessive! Naoya, Love-Drunk! Yuuta, Hurt/Comfort, Dark Romance, Explicit Sexual content, Lots of Smut, Love Triangles, Unrequited Lust, Sexual Tension, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Obsessive Behavior, Yuuta is a love-struck sweetheart, Jealousy, horny sorcerers, Possessive Behavior, Pining, Possessive sex, Breeding, Pregnancy Kink, Cock Warming, Enemies with Benefits, Porn with Feelings, Zenin Clan Drama, Manipulation, Naoya Zenin is his Own Warning, Uncontrollable thirst for Reader, Manipulation, Thigh Riding, Cock Riding, Fucking, cock-drunk, gaslighting, HEAVY plot.
-
Gojo suggested it.
It was a good plan, easy enough to fake, and most importantly, it served a purpose—an important one.
“He’s not even here,” your sensei said confidently. “He is abroad for the rest of the year,” Gojo pressed, making you consider the crazy scheme once more.
"You can easily claim that you and he have a long-term relationship," he advised cunningly, and Maki nodded, endorsing the idea with a sly grin—one of those mischievous smiles that indicated you'd be quite foolish not to heed their advice.
"Or perhaps you really want to be the wife of that arrogant, self-centered misogynist?"
That actually hit home, you didn’t!... arranged marriages were unfair to women, degrading, and terribly permanent.
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Megumi frown at the mention of:
Naoya Zenin.
The man was infamous within the Zenin clan, known for his arrogance and cruelty towards others, both within and outside his clan, claiming that their weakness was a disease and that he was the ultimate cure.
You truly disliked this man, and even when your clan leader announced the advantageous agreement, you hastily dodged the bullet by claiming you were already in a serious relationship.
Your older brother, who was now head of the family due to your father's devastating and unusual death, raised an eyebrow at your declaration, and his expectant gaze, waiting for you to reveal your beloved's name, nearly sent you into a panic attack, causing involuntary spasms.
All eyes set on you, as they waited for the name, to judge him worthy or unworthy.
If you didn't choose a suitable candidate, you'd be forced to end the nonexistent relationship and be bound to Naoya for life, who only by the way he was looking at you screamed how incapable of loving anyone but himself he was… yet still seemed more than willing to keep you as a trophy wife and rightfully treat you like a piece of meat to satisfy his most intense urges, all while putting you in good use by giving him strong heirs.
That smug, self-satisfied grin was in his lips in your honor, and making sure your eyes met, he lazily licked his lips to let you know where you belonged once he had you in his grasp, forever.
That's what women were for, isn't it? To be fucked to a pulp, serve men in every way possible, and to push strong heirs out of their gifted cunts.
Naoya Zenin was the king of misogynists in every sense of the word, just as Sukuna is the king of curses.
“(Y/N), tell us his name.” Your brother pushed, suspecting the lie you were sly enough to conjure, but he needed to be sure before he could close or break such an advantageous deal.
Nervousness turned you into a beating, blushing mess, like a maiden being cornered against a wall, and you could almost swear you see Naoya shudder out of the corner of your eye. He has a fetish for obedient, innocent, and timid girls who grow pink and pretty in a man's presence. Eager little things unwilling to raise their voices to their spouses, and if they did, the punishment arrived in the most erotic or violent of ways.
You are NOT one of those girls he liked to lure into his bed, but in the current situation, with few seconds to spare, you were unable to control the blood rushing to your face or mouth as you stammer out a plausible suitor.
Quickly making a list of the likely friends and allies who might entertain this ruse and willingly enter the farce.
Yuuji would be the perfect candidate, since he openly overprotects you, no matter how many times you try to dissuade him… but Sukuna's presence within him rules him out, as he had a death sentence hanging over his neck.
Megumi, your childhood friend, you spent most of your youth together, learning about jujutsu sorcerer’s world, hand in hand to this day, a loyal and fierce friend… but you knew that involving him would be cruel and unfair when he was already entangled in clan politics.
Toge, strong and reliable, his lack of normal language would amusedly drive your brother crazy. However, he could be a plausible candidate. After all, it was just play pretend until Naoya found another woman to torture and force to marry him.
Aoi, no… too weird, Noritoshi, too strict to enter into these games, kokichi… you didn’t even know how that would work.
The candidates were running out, and all stares are still on you.
Just say a name… any name, Megumi… he’ll understand… say Megumi!
But your mouth won’t open to such despicable act of selfishness. Involving any of them in this disastrous scheme was beyond your moral compass, and glimpsing the ticking clock of your doom, you sigh and prepare to reveal the shameful truth of your single status.
“Oh! don’t be shy, (y/n), you can tell them.” You hear a cheerful, familiar voice call out.
Your gaze shifted to Gojo, sitting comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, showing how relaxed and carefree he was even in the tense atmosphere, and a strange feeling churned your stomach as you suspect your own sensei was about to proclaim himself your secret lover.
Perhaps... perhaps that would have been better than what he ultimately ended up saying.
“Yuta Okkotsu.”
Yuta-a Okkotsu-u…? Special grade sorcerer? Yuta?... Rika's faithful and loyal companion, better known as the Queen of Curses? That Yuta Okkotsu?
He went on many missions abroad, already a fully-fledged and graduated sorcerer, while you were just leaving the Jujutsu Academy and entering the world. The fact that you were both adults would make things easier if this charade dragged on longer than it should... but it still made you incredibly nervous.
Simulating the movement of a ping-pong table, all eyes shifted from you to Gojo and then back to you, when you didn't immediately support his revelation due to shock.
Your sensei's amused smirk widened as you nod, and immediately a barrage of questions from your mother surrounds you like a swarm of bees.
Why didn't you tell me about this? How can you be dating a cursed sorcerer? How long has this been going on? This guy is older than you, but Naoya, who's almost ten years older, is fine-... you thought deadpanning.
Your mother was outraged, close to a bitch fit thanks to your awful choice in mate. Somehow, your brother’s narrowed eyes tell a different story. Sharp-witted and composed as he is, knew you were lying yet gives you the option to play along, if you prove that you know how to play the game, cunningly.
“So, this is a long-distance relationship?” your brother asked in a serene tone.
“Y-Yes! Yuta is abroad and right now we only talk on the phone, t-text each other, and have some video calls to stay in t-touch.”
Was your voice always this soft and feeble? If you don’t pull yourself together, you are going to make Naoya blow a load in his pants.
“Mm-mmm... well, if that’s the case, we can offer someone else from our clan to marry—”
“No.”
You squeezed your eyes shut at the sound of your, presumably, future husband's voice.
“We had an agreement: your sister will marry me, and your clan will gain the privilege of being one of the three greatest clans.”
Naoya stated, and you could feel his piercing gaze fixed on you as he spoke.
“We won’t accept anyone else.”
I won’t accept anyone else…
Damn you, Naoya.
“I’m sure we can still find a solution… I don’t think this Yuta is going to last…” the clan leader honored you with his speech, for the first time. “It’s a summer fling, a game, nothing serious…”
Dismissing your feigned relationship with more than a touch of disrespect, the old man seemed determined to continue with his plans without your consent.
“Awww~! But I’ve seen this relationship wholeheartedly blossom and if you ask me—”
“No one’s asking you.”
“—I truly believe they’re seriously and irrevocably in love and going for the long ride.” Gojo beamed, radiant with excitement, as if he were enamored with your legendary, nonexistent love story, his grin stretching from ear to ear, as if Naoya weren’t throwing daggers through his eyes. “Am I right, (y/n)?”
Weighing your options and realizing you’ve gone too far in this charade to back down, you nod once, and a unison sigh echoed in the silent room.
“What a predicament! Looks like you’ll have to choose another bride, Naoya.” Gojo snickered, but his face showed a more perplex grimace.
“I don’t see a predicament…” The blonde was quick to affirm, smug smile unwavering. “I’m the future heir of the Zenin clan, and as such–”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt…” but he already did. “But that’s a rather brazen statement, don’t you think, Naoya?”
Gojo was quick to speak his mind and voice out what internally everyone may be thinking yet are too polite and politic to even dare to make a tweet.
“But Megumi is also a strong candidate for that position, so I wouldn’t count it as a point in your favor, just yet...” Your sensei seemed unconceivably satisfied with how outraged Naoya grew, to the point of clenching his fists and gritting his teeth to maintain composure.
Clearing his throat, the old man beside the offended blonde Zenin muttered some unintelligible words, and Naoya scoffed before crossing his arms over his broad chest, looking away apathetically.
"We've decided to postpone this for the time being," the old man announced in a weary, raspy voice that sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard.
“The Zenin clan isn't unreasonable, and if this lovely sorceress is as madly-in-love of Okkotsu Yuta as her sensei proclaims…” his sharp gaze stabbed you and his clouded intentions seeped through tightly closed eyelashes. "Time will tell which path to take."
“So, the arrangement is over…” your brother stated bluntly, and before you could sigh with relief, the elder sealed your fate once more.
"Not at all, young man, it's only on hold until we find a more suitable bride."
You glimpse your mother gasping with relief at the still-plausible marriage arrangement, and you puff air from your mouth, shoulders abandoning the tense square they were set in but keeping a slight air of concern.
“It’s quite acceptable.” Your brother bowed politely, and the elder requested a private conversation with him, your mother and your eccentric sensei. Leaving you in the awkward limbo created by the silent and arrogant Zenin heir, seated opposite you.
Taking a modest sip from his teacup, his narrowed eyes peer at you from the rim, and the intense blush that stained your cheeks with embarrassment, due to how everything had unfolded amidst an intricate web of lies, made you feel uneasy and vulnerable in his intimidating presence.
"You're dangerously charming, (y/n)."
The compliment made you flinch, and, regaining your composure, you thank him stoically.
“I hope that Okkotsu guy knows how lucky he is.” Something smelled fishy and awfully mocking about his gentle statements and you unconsciously frown at his witty jabs since you were unable to retaliate for fear of being caught red-handed.
"I must admit, it bothered me a little to think I might not get my way, but seeing you tremble like this at my mere presence… soothes me," he shared with a sadistic smile.
Your body hadn't stop trembling since the beginning of the meeting, you're so nervous, but the fact that this jerk pointed it out as a virtue he appreciated infuriated you.
Rage unruffled your cursed energy at his wicked bluntness and his devilish smirk only widened.
“After all, you are just a woman…” His eyes narrowed in two slits giving you the sensation of being speaking to a sly fox and the shock reflected in your big, beautiful orbs ended up being too difficult to hide, “and no matter how lovely and mouth-watering fuckable you are…” that smirk only stretched to the point of almost splitting his face in two, “...you’re not smart enough to keep up this charade until the end.”
You hated how open your face was when it came to showing emotion, and you knew he was seeing right through your shock as if you were made of glass.
Fragile little thing you were to his mighty eyes… weak and feeble… only worthy for the warm, tight haven lying between your legs. The fertile, cursed energy enhancing womb that hid behind your belly. Promise of healthy, divinely strong children. His powerful seed must prevail in this world, and you were the key to making that happen.
“Yuta and I—”
“There’s no Yuta and I, foolish girl–” he interrupted brazenly. “Do you really think we’re going to swallow all that lovey-dovey nonsense Gojo spouted so quickly, so rehearsed and conveniently designed to help you avoid your responsibilities as a woman…?” he spatted coldly, staring at you intently, and continued shamelessly, “MY woman.”
Disgusted by his self-centered, alpha-like pronouncements, you pursed your lips, and he shrugged before spitting indifferently, “Whatever.”
“Play your childish game all you want; I’m a patient man.” Finishing his cup of tea in one gulp, he panted contentedly, slowly rising. “Satoru will lose interest as usual, and in the end, you’ll neglect your own lies.”
Your gaze followed closely his every move.
“And before you know it... PUM!–” his fist slammed into his open palm, making you flinch violently at the intrusive noise. It took you a full thirty seconds to realize how amused he grins down at you from his privileged position, big shadow devouring all your hopes and shattering your most recent dreams before continuing. “–You are mine… only this time, forever.”
Breathing heavily through your flared nostrils. Naoya starts to leave, and just before he stepped out the sliding door, he glanced over his shoulder at you, a sinister and repulsive smile playing on his thin lips.
“One more thing, sweetheart… if you ever let anyone — and I do mean anyone…” His voice softened, dangerously calm, slow and offensively patronizing. As if explaining something of utmost importance to a spoiled little girl, “…Fuck you…”
Your breath hitched, your face draining of color before heat rushed back, painting your skin red. Yet, blatantly ignoring your obvious discomfort, the Zenin heir and first-degree sorcerer finished his promise.
"… I'll kill him."
The last thing your eyes caught were the cruel beauty of his face, drinking in the sight of you breaking — your elegance dissolving into quiet despair, your pride barely holding back furious tears. He threw you a wicked little wink before vanishing into the daylight. Disappearing into the golden light outside, but it never reached you. For the rest of the day, only shadows keep you company.
Gojo, as always, was the only one who tried to brush away the metaphorical cloud hanging over your head.
Sometimes it was hard to keep up with Gojo, his long strides a challenge for someone as small as you, but he always made sure it was his problem to handle — never yours. So, he slowed his pace almost imperceptibly. You really adored your sensei. Even now that you were both adults, he still takes care of you like when you were a pup under his wing.
A firm hand settled on your head with a teasing gentleness, long fingers gliding through your hair until a quiet, relaxed giggle slipped from your lips. Your wide, pleading eyes caught him off guard, and Gojo let out a small, almost sympathetic sigh, still trying to show you the brighter side of the chaos.
“This is a nightmare, Gojo sensei.” You were prone to voice out.
"Well, to be precise, you're in Schrödinger's cat dilemma..." Gojo swiftly added, permanent playful note to make it more digestible for you. "That is, you're engaged and not engaged to Naoya at the same time."
Your shoulders slumped, and Gojo gave you a light, encouraging tap on the head before keep going.
“There’s a fine line you’re walking, (y/n). A tightrope, really… luckily for you, Yuta is far away and can’t complicate things any further,” he said thoughtfully. “That gives us some time to figure something out.”
"...And for the Zenin clan to find a more suitable bride."
The hope in your tone was painful. A condescending look captured Gojo's gaze, and even through his blindfold, you could see the truth.
“They are not looking for anyone else, are they?”
It was even more devastating to admit it out loud.
“No, pipsqueak, their minds are set on you.”
“… How awful.”
You resigned yourself to accepting, but Gojo wasn't ready to give up yet, not with you. Even if you did, he would still go on.
“Hey! But look on the bright side, sooner or later their patience will run out...” I'm a patient man, you could hear Naoya's words echoing in your head. "With Yuta gone for almost two years, that's enough time for a lot of things to change."
"Trust me, this will all be behind us in a few weeks and everything will go back to normal."
Gojo’s enthusiasm was contagious — if he saw a way out, then there had to be one.
"You promise, Gojo-sensei?"
"I swear, shorty!"
But if Gojo ever made a mistake, it was underestimating his enemies — and just how sticky and relentless the Zenin clan’s hands could be when they truly wanted something… or someone.
----> NEXT CHAPTER
🔞➡️ On my Patr3on: extra content, spicy art & JJK NSFW — with exclusive content for this story coming soon.🌶️
inspired by the show/book series: the summer i turned pretty!
— love triangle. friends to lovers. forced proximity. reader can’t decide between jaafar and jermajesty. slight angst. jermajesty is talking to another woman that’s not the reader. clit rubbing. make outs. pussy eating. sneaking around. jermajesty calls the reader ‘mama.’ reader’s bestfriend is dating randy jr. reader is petty asf!
— reader is 24. jermajesty is 25. jaafar is 29. randy jr. is 33. reader’s bestfriend is 26.
— summary: you and your bestfriend reunite with the jackson brothers for the summer at their beach house. turns out, you’re in love with both jaafar and jermajesty at the same time.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
JUNE
it was finally summer. you were on your way to see your friends, your friends who you haven’t seen in almost three years. you had moved away, lost contact with them. but, you came across them on social media.
was this fate?
you followed jaafar, jermajesty, and randy jr. on instagram. you didn’t expect them to remember you, but they did. they followed you back and even reached out to you.
and that’s how this summer trip started. they invited you and your bestfriend to stay with them during the summer.
you went from having no plans, to plans with your friends that you never thought you could cross paths with again.
you and your bestfriend almost arrived at the beach house, your suitcases filling the backseat and trunk completely, along with music blasting in your car.
you were excited to see them all again, but also you were nervous. anxious. and that’s because not only were you friends with them, but you also liked them.
had crushes on both jaafar and jermajesty.
arriving at the summer house, your bestfriend got out the car in excitement. the weather was warm, and the wind was moving in a calm breeze, the  atmosphere already felt so refreshing.
standing outside was randy, he was tall, his smile was radiant and beautiful.
your bestfriend immediately ran into randy’s arms, he picked her up and spun her around as they both hugged. you smiled, happy seeing them together.
your bestfriend and randy began to date last year. randy asked her out on a date and the rest is history.
they were know in a one year relationship.
“missed me, huh?” randy asks her, as he began placing kisses all over her face, eventually reaching her lips.
she nods her head, placing her face into his neck and hugging her tighter. “of course, randy.”
despite dating, they both had busy schedules this year. the last time they saw each other in person was almost two months ago. they kept on contacting through texting, phone calls, and video chats.
randy puts your bestfriend down, she’s immediately back on her feet. you greet randy, saying hello, as he does the same.
“jaafar and jermajesty are inside, if you wanna go in.” randy tells me. he knew about my somewhat complicated relationship with them.
you nod, as you walk towards the front door of the beach door. your heart was pounding inside your chest and you felt more nervous now than you did before. this was really happening. you’re really seeing them.
randy and your bestfriend walked back towards the car, unloading all of the suitcases one by one.
you opened the front door and walked inside, seeing jermajesty on the couch while jaafar was standing in front of the kitchen counter making himself some food.
both of their faces lit up when they saw you. jermajesty hops up from the couch and nearly runs to you. he was the first one to greet you while jaafar approached you but stood from afar, waiting for you and jermajesty to finish hugging.
“jermajesty, you’re taller than me now?” you ask, as you admired his tall height. jaafar was always very tall, but he was even taller than this. both of them were.
jermajesty laughs, “i told you i would be taller than you, didn’t i?”
and he did.
jermajesty’s hug was warm. you didn’t want to leave his arms. you pulled away from the hug and walked over to jaafar, hugging him too.
jaafar’s hug was comforting. you couldn’t get enough. you missed both of them, especially their hugs.
“how you been?” jaafar asks you.
“good. i’ve been so busy. and you?”
jermajesty cut into the conversation, being as mischievous as ever, like he always was.
“he just got out of a relationship.”
jaafarr glares at jermajesty, he couldn’t believe jermajesty told you that. all you did was nod, you were happy for him really. but you couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous.
“is that so? sorry to hear that.”
deep down on the inside, you were relieved that jaafar was single again, but you would never admit that out loud.
“besides that, i’ve been fine. just working.”
you definitely needed to get the tea from jermajesty later.
randy jr. and your bestfriend entered the beach house, suitcases behind them and in their hands. you, jermajesty, and jaafar helped with the suitcases as well.
“how much shit did you pack?” jermajesty asks, dramatically picking up one of your suitcases. “you’ll only be here until the end of the summer, you didn’t need to bring so much.”
you rolled your eyes. everyone knew that you always overpacked. that’s just how you were. “stop complaining. i bet you won’t complain when you see all of the cute bikinis i bought.”
and with that exact comment, jermajesty immediately closed his mouth, accepting defeat. your bestfriend greeted jaafar and jermajesty as well once she was done bringing in the suitcases.
“sorry we got here so late. the traffic was horrible.” your bestfriend announces. it was almost nighttime. it was only four o’ clock to be exact. there was a whole summer ahead of you after all.
“oh, and love island starts soon. we need the tv.”
jermajesty groans, he was so tired of hearing about that show. the show was on the entire summer, there was no escaping it.
“after y’all finish your show, we’re still on for dinner, right?” jaafar asks.
you respond, “yeah, the new episode is usually only an hour long. then, we’ll be ready.”
time passes by, and you and your bestfriend were sitting on the couch, with your snacks, watching love island while the guys were setting up and cleaning the backyard for the dinner later.
“i fucking hate him with her.” you say. both you and your bestfriend were commentating the show as the couples were re-coupling on love island.
the episode ended, the tension and intensity being saved until the next episode. the guys called you both outside.
dinner wasn’t even ready, it wasn’t even set. instead, they were all in nothing but swimming shorts and shirtless. your eyes widened, seeing jaafar and jermajesty.
your bestfriend smirking, checking out randy jr. she was distracted by his abs, admiring them. you had to tap her shoulder to snap her out of it.
“change of plans, we’re going swimming. dinner later.” randy announces.
“fine by us.”
you both went into the house, trying to find the sexiest bikini that you can wear. you had no idea what your true intentions were, but all you knew was, you wanted to impress both jaafar and jermajesty.
“you have to wear this one, you’ll look so hot.” your bestfriend points at the hot pink bikinki that you were holding up.
“you sure? it’s not too much?”
“it’s never too much.”
you wore the hot pink bikini and your bestfriend wore a black bikini. you were both back outside, meeting up with the guys again.
jermajesty let out a whistle, seeing us both walk outside in our bikinis. randy pulls your bestfriend into his chest, hugging her and holding her waist.
“baby, you look good.” randy tells your bestfriend.
“thank you.”
jaafar and jermajesty couldn’t stop staring at you.
everyone was in the pool, the music played on the speakers, and the weather was finally becoming a bit more cool, the sun was setting.
you all swam in the pool, splashed around, and enjoyed the cool temperature of the water. jaafar was currently holding you up, his hands on your waist and so close to your ass.
you couldn’t swim, so he stayed by your side while everyone else was on the deep end.
jermajesty and randy were splashing your bestfriend, throwing water on her, while you and jaafar quietly stayed in the moment.
“you’re scared to swim?” jaafar teased, holding onto you tightly. you weren’t scared, you just never had the chance to learn.
“no.”
there was a quick silence between you, you can hear the wind passing by. a chill sound surrounds you both.
“i’m glad you came.” jaafar speaks, out of nowhere. “thought i would never see you again.”
“i kept my promise, remember? i said we would see each other again.”
jaafar smiled at that comment. “you did keep your promise.”
“well, i know you’re not in a relationship with anyone. what about jermajesty?”
jaafar looked like he was debating between telling you the truth or lying. perhaps letting jermajesty tell you. but considering that jermajesty said jaafar’s business to you, jaafar didn’t care anymore.
“he’s been talking to this girl for a few months.”
your heart dropped. you felt sick to your stomach. you weren’t dating jermajesty. you both didn’t have any romantic history besides you both being each other’s first kisses.
but that hurt.
jaafar noticed the change in your face, how sad you suddenly looked. jaafar placed his finger under your chin, tilting it upwards so you’re looking at him.
“you know jermajesty has always been like this. always had some girl to talk to.”
your voice breaks, without you wanting it to.
“yeah. i know.”
“you okay?”
you nod, trying not to cry. you had no idea why you were even affected by this. he wasn’t yours. he was never yours.
“yeah, um, i’m gonna get a drink from the kitchen.”
with that being said, you got out the pool. your body was drenched in water, you grabbed a towel and carefully made your way inside.
you took a soda from the refrigerator, drinking it as you were glaring at jermajesty. he was still splashing around with randy and your bestfriend.
jaafar followed you inside, he was also wrapped in a towel. jermajesty, your bestfriend, and randy didn’t notice you both had left the pool.
“you coming back outside?” jaafar asks you.
“don’t feel like it.”
it was only the first day at being at the beach house and you were already so heated. so irritated. but you didn’t want to let this ruin your summer. it’s not a big deal.
“want me to stay in here with you?” jaafar’s voice was so soft, so gentle. so comforting.
“yes, please.”
so, jaafar stayed. he opened a soda and stood next to you in front of the kitchen counter and you both talked about everything. catching up on each other’s lives and sharing memories.
“i feel gross, i need to shower.” once you were dry, you placed the towel to the side, walking towards the staircase to shower upstairs.
jaafar needed to shower too, heading upstairs as well, with his original plan to shower in the other bathroom, while you were in the guest bathroom.
however, you both only ended up in one bathroom. together.
the shower was flowing, hot water came out the shower-head and steam surrounded the bathroom. you both don’t know how long you were in there for, easily losing track of time. all you knew was, you couldn’t keep your hands off each other.
you were both naked in the shower, jaafar was rubbing your clit in circles while you both continued to make out. the kiss was hungry, and you both didn’t want to let go.
you pulled away from the kiss quickly, you felt your body stiffen. you looked into jaafar’s eyes, your eyes full of lust. he pressed onto your clit harder, moving his hand in circles slowly to tease you.
“jaafar, please don’t stop. i’m so close..”
a knock was heard at the door, as you both froze in place. jaafar held your legs open, whispering in your ear. “stay quiet.”
jaafar continued moving his hand against your clit. you bite down on your lip, trying to hide your moans from spilling out your lips.
you hear another knock, a voice speaking this time.
it was your bestfriend. she called your name first, no answer. then, she called jaafar’s name.
“yeah?” jaafar replies.
“sorry, i just wanted to know if you’ve seen y/n anywhere.”
“she’s taking a walk around the beach, she’ll be back soon.”
you wanted to so badly cuss jaafar out after that. you were distracted by pleasure to even care or be upset with him. your legs began to buckle forward and shake, your orgasm approaching.
your held onto jaafar, signaling that you were about to cum, right there on his hand.
“okay. well, she left her phone. that’s weird. but, thank you.” then, your bestfriend left the door. now, it was just you and jaafar again.
“feels good, huh?” jaafar rubs your clit faster. you throw your head back, as you immediately came. you placed your hand onto the shower wall, trying to steady your balance.
you were coming down from your orgasm. reality suddenly hit you. you couldn’t believe you just did that with jaafar.
“still mad?” jaafar studies my face.
“no, i just.. don’t want jermajesty to know about what we did.”
few hours pass, it was now almost midnight. you all decided to go out to eat for dinner. at first, you didn’t want to go at all. you didn’t want to be around jermajesty. but, you went anyways.
you didn’t think that jermajesty would catch onto your attitude towards him, but he did. he decided to address it after dinner.
now, you were all home. jermajesty asked if y’all can chat in another room and you agreed. surprisingly.
jermajesty closes the door and you sit on the bed. you didn’t make eye contact with him but instead, looked down at the floor.
“what’s up with you?” jermajesty asks.
you scoff, not wanting to give him the actual answer. it was ridiculous really.
“nothing. i’m tired.”
“you don’t need to lie to me.”
and you snapped. you don’t know why, but you did. you let your emotions get to you.
“jermajesty, are you in a relationship right now?”
the look on his face, he was clearly in disbelief and confused.
“why does that even matter?”
of course he avoided the question.
“stop playing in my fucking face and just answer the question.”
jermajesty could see the anger in your face. the disappointment. he walked towards you and sat next to you on the bed.
“no, i’m not in a relationship. i’m talking to someone, but i don’t like her like that.”
“i don’t know if i believe you.”
“okay, why are you even asking me about this? we’re not even together.”
all you wanted was jermajesty to put the pieces together. he was right, but you couldn’t help but feel jealous.
jermajesty realized there was way more to this. about why you were really upset.
“are you jealous?”
you let out another scoff, “why would i be.”
“if you’re that worried, you can go through my phone.”
you laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was ridiculous. you knew you couldn’t stop his other relationships. there was seriously nothing you could do.
“i’m not doing some shit like that. i don’t even know why i’m mad.”
jermajesty waited for you to calm down a bit. your shoulders relaxed a little and that’s when he continued to speak.
“you know, jaafar almost got engaged. he ended the engagement. guess he wasn’t ready for marriage.”
your eyes widened. you were not expecting to hear that. you looked at jermajesty finally, after all this time.
jaafar? used to be engaged?
“as far as me, i don’t have any interest in that other girl anymore, you don’t gotta worry about that. i’m breaking things off with her.”
“she’s prettier than me, isn’t she?”
you don’t know why you were being so petty, but that only made the tension between you and jermajesty more intense.
“she’s not. you’ve always looked good. still do.”
all of your anger that you had towards jermajesty disappeared. you moved closer to jermajesty, both of your knees touching as you still sat on the bed.
“jermajesty, i-“
jermajesty pulls you into a kiss, a kiss that was full of heat and passion. jermajesty picked you up, placing you onto his lap and you wrapped your legs around him.
after a while, you were finally calm.
he pulls away from the kiss, looking at your face, seeing if you were relaxed.
“drop the attitude, mama.”
jermajesty smacks your ass, causing you to jolt forward, surprising you.
“focus on me, nothing else.”
“i want you, jermajesty. don’t want any other girl to have you.”
jermajesty smiled, he’s been wanting to hear that from your mouth for a while.
he placed you down on the bed and spread your legs open. removing all of your bottoms, he tossed them to the side, only leaving your shirt on.
“can i eat this pussy?”
you nod, your body was heating up. you wanted him so badly, more than anything.
“yes, it’s all yours.”
jermajesty dips his face into your pussy, it was dripping and soaked. he kissed your clit and began to eat. a wave of pleasure entering you and completely taking over.
you placed a hand over your mouth, trying not to moan loudly. the sounds of your soaked pussy filled the room as jermajesty slides two fingers inside you.
he curls his fingers, trying to find that pleasurable spot for you. “oh, fuck yes.” you moan. without warning him, your orgasm spilled out of you. you couldn’t hold it in anymore.
you clench around jermajesty’s fingers, as you orgasm on his face. as you orgasm, he flicks his clit back and forth with his hand.
you almost moaned louder, but you pressed your hand onto you mouth tighter to stay as quiet as possible. jermajesty pulled away from you, watching you come down from your release.
an hour later, you were sleeping in the same bedroom as your bestfriend. she was asleep, but you were still awake. you wanted to talk to her, ask for her advice, but you didn’t want to wake her up.
so, you sat with your thoughts and continued to stare at the ceiling, sitting in the dark with only the moonlight shining through the windows. you couldn’t sleep. so much already happened today.
you were in the shower with jaafar, only because you were upset at jermajesty. you were trying to get back at him, when you didn’t need to.
but despite that, you didn’t regret a single thing. you’ve always had a crush on him, but didn’t think y’all would ever become something else other than friends. it seemed impossible.
then, you were in the bedroom with jermajesty. you were supposed to stay mad at him, but you let that anger fade away.
especially, after how honest jermajesty was. a talking stage wasn’t as serious as an engagement, that’s what you had to realize.
how were you supposed to enjoy the summer with everyone when you were so stuck on your feelings?
did jaafar and jermajesty feel the same way about you? do they just see you as a friend like they always have?
you cared about them both deeply. you couldn’t help it, you loved them both so much. you already knew that this was about to be a very interesting summer.
author’s note: part two is coming soon! would you choose jaafar or jermajesty? <3
jealousy on set | joe keery, jacob elordi & Actress ! y/n
—
joe learned about you and jacob elordi the same way he learned about most things that hurt by accident, too early in the morning, with coffee going cold in his hand. The headline was already halfway across his phone screen before he could stop reading.
“Hollywood’s New It Duo? Jacob Elordi Spotted Laughing with Rising Star Y/N.”
There were photos. Of course there were.
You, sunglasses on, looking up at jacob smiling and not with your camera smile or your polite one but the softer version Joe knew belonged to moments that felt easy. Jacob, all height and easy confidence, leaned in like he belonged there. Like it was natural. Like it made sense.
It twisted something sharp inside him as he stared longer at his phone than he should have.
He told himself immediately that it didn’t mean anything. That you were costars. That people loved inventing narratives out of nothing. That he was being stupid. But the familiar ache settled anyway, low and persistent, just beneath his ribs.
—
The rehearsal space smelled like dust and old amps, the same way it always did. Post Animal was halfway through a run through when Joe’s focus slipped for the third time.
“Dude,” Dalton finally said, cutting the sound. “You good?”
Joe blinked. “Yeah. Sorry. Just—did we start over or…?”
Dalton exchanged a look with Wes.
“You’ve been staring at the floor like it personally offended you.”
Joe huffed a breath of a laugh and rubbed his hands over his face. He hadn’t meant to bring it here. Hadn’t meant to let it bleed into this space. But they were his friends. And they knew him too well.
“Okay,” Dalton said, softer now. “What’s up?”
Joe hesitated, then unlocked his phone and slid it across the amp case.
Wes whistled low. “Ohhh. That’s her.”
Joe nodded once. He didn’t need to say your name.
“Elordi, huh?” Dalton added. “Tall guy. Australian. Looks like he belongs in a cigarette ad.”
“It’s nothing,” Joe said quickly. Too quickly. “They’re staring in something together. Paparazzi just—do their thing.”
Wes raised an eyebrow. “You don’t usually spiral over ‘nothing.’”
Joe leaned back against the wall, arms crossed tight. “I don’t spiral.”
Dalton laughed. “Buddy, you are the human embodiment of internalized spiraling.”
That earned him a reluctant smile, but it faded fast.
“I just—” Joe exhaled. “We’re bestfriends. She would’ve told me if something was going on.”
Silence settled.
Wes shrugged. “Or she doesn’t think it’s a thing worth mentioning.”
That landed harder than Joe wanted it to.
—
you were in your trailer when joe texted you.
Joe: You busy?
You replied almost instantly.
Y/N: Not really. Just hiding from wardrobe. What’s up?
When he showed up on set an hour later, you looked exactly the same as always. comfortable, familiar, real. Sweatpants. Messy bun. That soft, unguarded smile that always made his chest do something stupid.
“Hey,” you said, stepping into him for a hug.
he hugged you back, a beat longer than necessary, before pulling away.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
You tilted your head. “That sounds ominous...”
“Not ominous,” he said quickly. “Just…clarifying.”
You laughed. “Okay, now I’m intrigued”
Inside the trailer, Joe paced while you leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, waiting.
“So,” he said, finally. “You and Jacob.”
Your eyebrows knit together. “Me and—oh.”
you laughed then, actually laughed.
“Oh my god,” you said. “Is this about the photos?”
Joe stopped pacing. “So you’ve seen them.”
“Unfortunately,” you sighed. “I forgot how dramatic the internet can be.”
He studied your face carefully. “So it’s not true…?”
You didn’t answer fast enough, and he noticed this.
Your throat tightened. “No,” you said finally. “no it’s not true, we’re not together.”
Joe searched your face. “Not at all?”
You shook your head. “It’s… completely platonic.”
The lie slid out smoother than you expected.
Relief hit him first—sharp and dizzying.
Then something else crept in.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, softer now.
You frowned. “Tell you what? That I was…existing near a coworker?”
Joe opened his mouth. Closed it. Raked a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess I just—when I saw it, it felt like I was the last to know.”
“You’re not last to anything. There’s nothing to know.”
Joe swallowed.
“Okay,” he said. “Good.”
But the word didn’t feel like enough.
when he left, you sank onto the couch, heart pounding, because the truth was messier. Because Jacob’s hand had rested at your waist the night before. Because you’d kissed him once or twice, you told yourself it was harmless, fleeting, convenient. Because none of it touched the place Joe lived in your chest.
—
The thing Joe didn’t say, the thing he never said was how long he’d been standing exactly where he was outside your trailer. Close enough to be trusted. Far enough to be safe. He watched the way Jacob laughed with you on set later as jealousy gnawed at him, though he told himself jealousy wasn’t fair. You weren’t his girlfriend. You’d never been anything official. You were just…you. The person he texted first. The one who knew his bad days before he said a word. The only person who had ever felt like home without trying. Still, every photo of you and Jacob burned. Not because he thought Jacob was better but because he was there. Because he could touch you openly. Because he didn’t have to pretend his feelings were casual And Not because Jacob meant something to you. But because Joe had meant something quietly, patiently, for a long time and he was terrified of discovering that patience didn’t count for much in a world that moved fast. Joe watched you across the set, laughing again. free, brilliant, completely unaware of the quiet war he was fighting inside himself. And for the first time, he wondered if staying silent was no longer the kind thing. Maybe it was just cowardice dressed up as loyalty.
GUYSSS i kinda love this plot with my two fav white boiisssss, should i continue this with multiple chapters?? Let me know if ure interested in the comments;)) lowk looking forward to this one hehe
