#perhaps.. chip away.. for old time sake...

[nghtry]

i went to watch a clip of the ph anime because there's a specific clip i am relating to Very deeply and i had the marvelous thought of "wow, hey, i should rewatch the anime."

[jaeminvore]

room(hate) | L.JN (M) — part I

SYNOPSIS: all you wanted was sleep after your long shifts at the hospital. All you needed was sleep after your long shifts at the hospital, but even that was considered a luxury in these trying times. A luxury blatantly stolen by your roommate, Jeno Lee, who seemed to have an endless line of bodies to fuck preventing you from getting at least an hour shut eye. It was annoying. It was disrupting and you seriously hoped that Jeno's dick falls off one day.

PART I (you are here) | PART II

[AO3 link for easier reading! Though please do consider leaving your thoughts on here if you’d like! I’d appreciate it sm 🥹💖]

GENRE: roommate au, non-idol au, slice of life-ish, unrequited hate, roommates with benefits, domesticity, porn with plot, fluff, comedy, crack treated seriously.

WORD COUNT: 18.3K out of 50K

CONTENT WARNINGS: afab!reader, a reader-insert but no ‘Y/N’ is used, MC's a little mean (blame it on the sleep deprivation), Mark has an unnamed girlfriend, Jeno's kind of an asshole (not on purpose) at first, mild slut-shaming, banter as forms of flirting/foreplay [smut warnings underneath the cut. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT]

SMUT WARNINGS: Jeno has a big dick. fingering, squirting, doggy, unprotected sex (please practice safe-sex unlike these two), back-shots, aftercare.

NOTE: save me beatbox Jeno... s̸a̷v̷e̵ ̶̟̀m̸̞̐̇ë̴̠̟̤̆... everything is consensual btw! MC just looooves to deny and deny and deny because not only does Jeno put the 'D' in dick, he also puts the 'D' in denial <3 if i sound a little too in love it’s bc i am i love that man and i need him so bad 🧍🏻‍♀️

"You like your peace, but you love a little chaos." — Maze by Alina Baraz

"I want you to love like you hate me and fuck me so crazy, crazy." — Lava Lamp by Lolo Zouaï

I.

“When you first get a taste and your heart starts to race.”

Mark thought it would be best to part ways after living together for four years.

He was leaving you. 

“I’m not leaving you,” Mark corrected. “I’m moving in with my girlfriend.”

“That does not make it any better!”

Mark Lee was leaving you.

Not as a side-piece. Not as his ‘actual’ girlfriend (gross!), but leaving you to fend for yourself as his best friend. Which, fine, perhaps you could have started with that and excluded your dramaticism, but no one could really blame the immediate distress when you were about to lose Golden Boy Mark Lee—golden in many ways such as being the perfect roommate (minus his awful cooking. He was a great haggling partner for cheap deals, though)—to domesticity.

The thought of throwing all that away in exchange for less would send anyone into a downward spiral, if you could consider your crazed search for the next best thing as that; treating it as if you had to gamble a huge chunk of your life for the sake of retaining that same level of comfort and ease you got from Mark.

The only catch was, you had no fucking idea what it meant to gamble. Neither in the literal, nor in the figurative sense.

Which should have been telling considering that you had never, not even once, thought of exchanging a portion of your paycheck for chips you knew you’d immediately lose the second the lack of knowledge and experience showed on your losing set of cards. The closest comparable scenario you could think of was accompanying your grandmother to Mahjong Sundays with her friends, but even then, keeping up with the rules was rather difficult for a kid who only knew toys and the air time of her favorite cartoon.

Granny’s friends and Granny herself hadn’t bothered with explaining it to you either, being far too invested with their acrylic tiles. What you did learn, though, was how agitating the sounds were when they hit together. It just about evoked such a raw feeling of irritation a seven year old could go through. The messy aftermath of snot and tears did it for Granny that she made sure to ask if you’d let her drag you along.

In short: no gambling experience, yet going in full-on with that mindset equated a recipe for a shitty disaster just waiting to implode on itself.

Still, you liked to think that you had played your cards right during the whole selection process. 

Details of each possible candidate were carefully written down—color-coded, bullet points, foot-notes. Some probable pet peeves highlighted to be raised for another round of deliberation—thanks to the extensive background checks you had done on your own accord, then later checked by Mark pushed by your unrelenting insistence. A second opinion would help narrow down your choices and who better to fill that role other than your own roommate?

Well, ex-roommate since—again—Mark had succumbed to the clutches of domestic bliss.

And it’s not like it couldn’t be seen from miles away. Everyone and their mothers knew Mark’s intentions right when he had brought home a shih tzu—a dog he and his girlfriend decided to co-parent despite living separately—to look after while Mark’s other half went away for a work trip. Really, anyone could tell that he was itching to start anew under the same roof with his girlfriend, but you didn't expect it to be that day to be so soon.

Who was going to play as your budget therapist now?

If there was anyone out there who knew how exhausting being in healthcare was, it was Mark. He understood the grievances that came with being a nurse and he was always there to lend an ear until you felt less burdened by the frustrations you had carried throughout a demanding shift. It was like an inborn skill he had, finding it in himself to simply know what to say and how to bring you back down.

No one could ever replace Mark. Your co-worker. Ex-roommate. Your best friend and now that he was off to start a new chapter in his life, in love as he could ever be, this called for new coping mechanisms, and a new roommate because there was no way in hell you were going to pay in full when you had other expenses already making a sizeable dent in your next paycheck. Making it bigger was not an option you would risk.

That was another reason why you insisted on the in-depth research amounting to almost a month’s worth of what was essentially the text-book definition of stalking.

From: [email protected] Subject the roommate games Attached: tributes_lol.doc

Don’t you think you’re being a little too nit-picky with all this? When did being a Leo become a deal breaker for you haha. Like people can’t change their birthdays and do I need to remind you that I’m a Leo? We’ve managed to not kill each other over the years. There’s also Jaemin? Dejun? Who are also Leos? Who are also our close friends? What is your problem with Leos? I thought Geminis were the worst?

To: [email protected] Subject: the roommate games Attached: tributes_lol_FINAL.doc

yes, and?? THREE Leos are enough i don’t need more! in my defense i made the worst mistake of becoming emotionally attached to you guys except Jaemin (and Hyuck by association) forced friendship onto me if u remember. he’s like a stray cat that wont leave me alone.

From: [email protected] Subject: the roommate games

This is literally just a blank document?

To: [email protected] Subject: the roommate games

Which means your selection was ASS!!!!!! i dont like ANY of them. One has a criminal record of insurance fraud and the other is weird as FUCK dude like who cradles and pets their fucking goldfish like its a cat?how bout this, do u personally know anyone in need of a place? LIKE someone at least 70% normal

Radio silence. Almost five hours of it and sitting in front of your laptop refreshing the shit out of your inbox as if that would do anything seemed like the worst possible choice of action when aiming for a productive afternoon.

By the time you heard from Mark again, golden light illuminated the living area that you had to squint, picking up your phone to read his text messages.

Mark (ER): I found someone Mark (ER): remember Jeno Lee?

You: no lol

Mark (ER): lol Mark (ER): tall, muscular and kind of a hermit?

You: ur not really giving me much to work with You: for all i know jaem legally changed his name to jeno for some reason

Mark (ER): he’s nicer than Jaemin

You: 😟 You: one of hyuck and jaem’s friends i assume?

Mark (ER): correct Mark (ER): he’s looking for a place Mark (ER): and he’s likely the 70% normal to your 30% normal 😁

You: wait what’s my 70% then?

Mark (ER): insane

You: die

“His lease is ending soon too.” Mark brought up a few days later in the middle helping him pack up for the great move, and it was nice out too. Not too cold, not too hot—really, just a nice day out with the perfect temperature accompanied by an occasional breeze, and yet Mark chose this day to pack up his life, enlisting your help when you could be doing something else that didn’t remind you of the impending loneliness that was about to come.

Even the outside wasn’t safe from the beginnings of grief.

The outside, a picturesque view of the city’s greens gradually bleeding into the many shades of fall framed by the large window, became the very subject of your mournful eyes.

Brooding became your default state, whereas Mark carried on plucking his vinyl records, a small collection of novelty trinkets from your joint travels and the handful of thick textbooks from nursing school he refused to throw out. I might need them at some point, y’know. He once told you after catching your eyebrows raised in question. Just because we graduated doesn’t mean we magically know everything and Mark was mostly right about these things.

You were going to miss Mark being mostly right about these things. Whether it would be over something trivial, or medical related, he just was. Always a step ahead of you in many cases.

Summer was at its peak when Mark had sat you down to tell you of his plans, the sun harsh with its light and adding on to the steady increase in temperature. He decided to push through once the summer heat dissipated completely in anticipation of a chilly fall, and just like how the seasons came and went, watching Mark stow away bits and pieces of himself into the boxes was an inevitable change you had to accept. 

The loud scratch of the packaging tape made him wince as you sealed the box. “Who?”

“Jeno,” He repeated, reminding you of Donghyuck and Jaemin’s elusive, so-and-so friend as he took the tape from you with a pointed stare. “y’know, your new roomie?”

“I haven’t even said yes.”

“Trust me, you will.” Mark looked very sure of his claim, too. “Anyways—” he waved towards the air “—said something about his lease ending in a few weeks or so? He wanted somewhere close to work and our complex is like, real close to his office. A win on both sides?”

At least it wasn’t just you benefiting from the change.

“Right. How the hell am I gonna get to work without your car now?”

“That’s all you can say?”

“Hm, no,” you said, turning to face Mark with a straight face. “Do you think I could bribe Jeno into driving me to work?”

Mark huffed, “you’re stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” you cried, doing an awful job of keeping the waterworks from overflowing with frustrated swipes to your face. “This is so stupid—I’m stupid—God, you only live like thirty minutes away.”

Mark, ever the one to find his friends endearing even in the most undignified of conditions, let out a fond coo while gathering you up in his arms in a tight squeeze. “I’m gonna miss your morning arguments with the coffee machine too.”

The dig was met with a thwack on the arm.

Wherever Mark went, you followed. Only because he was literally your ride to and from work and how convenient it was that you both worked at the same private hospital. He was the type to simply offer a ride when you obviously needed it. For years, it had been like that.

Now, Mark stayed behind. Where he belonged, leaving him in the care of his girlfriend practically absorbing his oozing joy as they both coddled her—their dog, Ziggy, just outside of their apartment complex. The couple were completely lost in one another, inadvertently forgetting the piles of boxes in Mark’s car that had to be brought up sooner or later. They had all the time in the world anyway and it was understandable that Mark would want to simply bask in the moment with the one person that made every waking day worth it. 

And leaving them behind to catch the next bus was a bittersweet pinch to your heart.

Mark was off to unfold the next chapter of his life, and here you were still, stuck in an endless cycle, wondering if you’d ever get to start on a new chapter of yours, too.

Jeno Lee hadn't exactly matched whom you pictured in your head.

When there was Jaemin and Donghyuck, it was kind of an unspoken rule that your one-way ticket to the nearest psychiatric ward was to be willingly associated with the likes of them. 

Years of dealing with their joint efforts of embodying the human version of a headache, you kind of knew how to deal with whatever Jeno could potentially have in store for you. Jaemin and Donghyuck got along like a house on fire when the weather was fair, or when the planets aligned by some convoluted space related jargon Jisung would happily indulge any of you with. On any other day, they simply could not stand each other, wanting nothing to do with the other and arguing for the sake of arguing.

Still, they were the best of friends and having their differences was simply unavoidable, yet the many similarities they shared became a sturdy foundation for their friendship to last a long time.

Being unapologetically insane was one of them.

One’s involvement automatically entailed that they were just as deranged to some degree, and seeing the elusive piece to the trio you weren’t even aware was a trio, Jeno Lee—in the flesh—with a smile so sweet and unassuming gave you an earth-shattering wake-up call and reminder that you probably shouldn’t solely rely on baseless assumptions, especially when it came to people. Insane friends aside.

Other than that, you didn’t think a man with a face and body carefully sculpted by marble and brought to life by the gods themselves would be up to some milder version of fuckery like they were, now that Jeno thought to introduce himself.

The apartment felt staggeringly bigger than what you were used to with the absence of what made it belong to Mark too, though Jeno did a swell enough job to fill in the empty spaces with his presence alone.

It was brief. The meeting with the potential roommate, but nothing short of nerve-wracking when the man had the vibe of a quintessential supermodel top modeling agencies would fight tooth and nail for, decked in athleisure that had shown how he was built to all hell. A hundred-eighty-something centimeters of lean muscle cut with precision; clearly the fruit of Jeno’s possibly strict lifestyle, quietly taking everything in with a sense of wonder, yet simultaneously staying attentive as you ran your mouth about the apartment’s features and how sharing possible expenses would work.

You know, the vital stuff you’d want to know when it involved sharing your space with another person.

Which raised a few questions from Jeno himself. Little things along the lines of how often trash would be collected? If the apartment complex had a laundry room and if not, was there a laundromat by at least walking distance? How about a convenience store? A gym closer than his current one? These were answered fairly quickly, from which Jeno seemed pleased when his eyes turned into little half moons when he smiled, bringing your attention to the beauty mark under his right eye. God, was it adorable and frankly, you still couldn’t believe he chose to associate with two of the most annoying people you knew.

It was cute. Jeno Lee was cute, but among everything he had going on—your wandering eyes greatly appreciated the free viewing—his voice was what stuck out to you the most with how gentle he had spoken.

A voice deep and rumbly, yet warmth coated each syllable rattling the beating palm-sized thing in your chest the more the carefully articulated sentences passed through Jeno’s naturally pouted lips. He talked like he was trying to get into your good graces; like talking in any other way would risk disrupting the pleasant ambience set in stone before Jeno’s visit, which wasn’t at all necessary when Mark practically sang his praises.

And Jeno was all Mark talked about post-moving out.

Seriously, if he hadn’t chosen the medical path like you had, Mark Lee would have made a mean sales rep. You even felt the need to stop him and ask if he was still talking about a human being and not a brand new car right after he had his fill of listing down exactly why you should take Jeno in. How he essentially met all your admittedly nit-picky roommate requirements. 

Mild-temperament. What was he, a dog? Jeno was neat and tidy. Claimed that he couldn't function if measly things such as a coaster was askew. Oh good. A neat freak just like me. There were also a few pages of referrals Mark had shown—yes, printed—from previous landlords and roommates because that was a thing, apparently. Squeaky clean criminal record (with a cute face like that, it didn’t come as a surprise). Worked in tech. In the same income bracket as you.

A Taurus man.

Which shouldn’t have given you that much of a start, really. You haven’t had much experience dealing with any Taurus people—a Taurus man, no less, so this would be decidedly new.

He is reliable, persistent, and down-to-earth, with a strong sense of duty and an admirable work ethic; the kind of guy you can always count on in both your personal and professional life. He is not one to make waves or cause drama; he just wants to do his job and go home at the end of the day. A Taurus man is all about practicality, stability, and security. 

He wants nothing more than to provide the protection of his loved ones and create a harmonious home life.

At least that was what the article wrote (ignoring the in-your-face romantic tone. You were looking for a roommate, not a husband), sent by an astrology-fixated Donghyuck who seemed a little too eager providing his insight when asked for his opinion on Jeno and Taurus people in general being acquainted with you.

“A little stability won’t hurt. It’ll be good for you,” Donghyuck had mentioned over the phone after grilling you and your astrological sign, antagonizing you for no reason. It went mostly ignored though, preoccupied with reading a case you were assisting with Dr. Kim tomorrow. “and nothing screams stability more than Jeno’s credit score.”

An excellent credit score, from what Mark had relayed over cheap Chinese takeout and never would you have thought you’d cream your pants from that information, yet here you were. Financial stability was a viable trait you’d consider looking for in someone, so the decision was a no-brainer.

“Oh, before I go.”

You swallowed something down like a scream when Jeno whirled around to face you while digging into his gym bag. 

“Mark probably gave you the rundown about me but—” a folded piece of paper was produced from within the depths of his bag, having you blinking owlishly when he wriggled it for you to take.

Jeno’s palm was warm under the gentle brush of your fingers as you plucked it from his own set, pointedly ignoring the zing that jolted through you.

Arial. Font size twelve. Single spaced and justified, and it wrote what Mark had been yapping about all this time prior to having Jeno in the apartment. His MBTI, a rundown of his personality with all his quirks and habits included (you snorted rather loudly when catching the italicized ‘mild-temperament’). There was his daily routine that heavily emphasized his recreation time such as cycling, working out, gaming and a small pool of sports. His likes and dislikes, and making you laugh the loudest was his disclaimer, something Jeno was rather proud of when you caught his pleased smile.

Disclaimer: Homebody, but will go out with you if you ask nicely. I get lost in gaming a lot so you might have to knock very loudly, or even call my phone. I get sulky very easily. Please be nice to me (.◜◡◝)

The emoticon was just the cherry on top. It looked so much like him—an absolutely precious detail that you had to do a side-by-side comparison, only to find him already gazing at you in wonder.

He cleared his throat, smiling and cheeks glowing with the faintest of color. “I figured you’d want a detailed resumé. He said you’d appreciate it.” Jeno joked with the smile widening into a soft grin that showcased his perfect white teeth, long fingers raking through his dark blue hair, both in a manner that screamed boyish and charming.

He was charming, which came as a belated, mortifying realization. Nano seconds was all it took to picture life sharing everything with a cute-faced gym rat and his equally cute grin you’d have to face every single waking day for fuck knows how long until you went insane.

It could either be the best or the worst thing to come out of this. You’re not sure yet.

Though it’s as if Jeno sensed your mental turmoil because he didn’t even give you a second to rethink, leaning in close enough that you got a whiff of his cologne as he poked a particular spot on the paper a few times, grin dimming into something gentler where his eyes gained this puppy-ish quality to them followed by a head tilt.

“My number is on here,” he stressed with one last poke to his number, ducking his head low enough to catch your gaze. “Call or text me if I make the cut, yeah?”

And as the door shut behind Jeno after flashing you one last dazzling smile, you slumped against the wall with a harsh sigh, mind racing and heart about to fly out of your rib cage with the paper still clutched tightly in between your fingers.

Jesus.

You: I think I just saw a god

Mark (ER): lol? 😆 Mark (ER): how was it with Jeno

You: i literally just said i think i saw a god

Approximately three hours later, you’ve earned yourself a Mark replacement, much to the namesake’s chagrin and stealing a piece of your chicken tenders as a form of retribution.

Approximately a week and half later, Jeno hung his degree and graduation portrait next to yours right above the TV, a detail both of you found hilarious and continued to giggle over even after clearing two greasy boxes of pizza for your first dinner together as roommates. 

Approximately two months or so later, Jeno had unknowingly made an enemy for himself:

You.

II.

“When you go out your way and you don’t see a change.” 

Frankly, being in this sticky situation could have been avoided entirely if you hadn’t let Mark’s flattery towards your roommate lure you into a false sense of security.

Frequent reassurance was an absolute necessity.

It was good to just know about things and your ex-roommate had made Jeno sound promising the handful of times your conversation would segue to him. It was your own hubris in Mark’s reassurance that had led you to this—that, and Mark had perfected the art of persuasion with words.

He’d always been good at spinning the narrative for his own advantage (Jeno’s in this case). Too good, in fact, where everything that flew past his mouth left no room for worry to fester when you’ve not yet lost anything of significance from trusting Mark and his judgment.

That was until you did. Blindsided by soft grins, half-moon eyes and a killer body you’d catch yourself quietly admiring whenever Jeno, oddly enough, took to working out in the living area.

So in conclusion, this was all Mark’s fault.

“This is all your fault.”

“Yo, what?” Mark laughed in that way where you just knew that he knew he fucked up. Forced, awkward, and a little terrified of what was about to come. “What’d I do?” He asked anyway, knowing he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep without finding out just what he did to get accused.

“You shouldn’t have pimped Jeno out to me—“

Mark rolled his eyes. “Not what I did—“

“Pimped Jeno out to me, ‘else I wouldn’t be suffering this much.”

“Hold on—you asked me to help look for a roommate,” he started, voice pitching up in disbelief. “And I spent days helping you sort out every important detail—even the nit-picky ones—for you! Only to ask for someone who wasn’t even listed on the fuckin’ doc. And in the end, you said yes!"

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah. Clearly a mistake on my part."

As he ranted, Mark’s gestures grew more and more frantic in defense of himself, only for his arms to fall back to his sides with a huff when you barely blinked, unimpressed, and then folding them above his chest with a pout before mumbling, “how’d you even find out about the criminal record and the weird fish owner anyway?”

You graced him with a lazy shrug. “Fascinating what you can achieve with technology.”

He stilled, squinting in thought before letting out a resigned sigh. “Donghyuck.”

“Duh? The closest I got to hacking was looking for a cracked Sims 2 copy.” You soon got grounded by Dad when you had infected the family computer with malware, sadly. “Hyuck’s surprisingly useful when wants to be.”

Or greedy. Ten dollars were raised once you goaded Donghyuck into sussing out any deal-breakers with a snide comment or two slipping out about him not being able to find anything that would make you second guess any of the potential roommates. Naturally, Donghyuck took your provocation rather seriously, treating it as the be-all and end-all to prove a point.

Ten minutes later, he was ten dollars richer. Crazy what people would do for money.

“Conflict of interest!” you raised again, loudly, making Mark flinch. “I barely get six hours of sleep now because of your emotional ties with my sworn enemy.”

Sure there were many benefits of being approachable, but you were somewhat of a negative Nancy and all you could think of was how Mark’s painstaking kindness could potentially get taken advantage of by some lurking asshole out there.

Which was exactly what had happened. With you as collateral.

“Uh, not gonna lie, but I think you’re being a little dramatic,” he sniffed, biting roughly into the sandwich you graciously made for him. Biting the hands that fed him, how lovely.

“I’m being dramatic?” you said, incredulous, and then flicked his forehead just to hear him cry out in pain. “Okay—try having Jeno’s headboard slamming against the wall as your lullaby, which—surprise, surprise—won’t help you sleep at all!”

You paused to regulate your breathing because you were getting a little too heated and you didn’t want to traumatize Mark even more by angrily exploding into pieces. Even as a nurse and though rare, he still got a little squeamish.

“I’m just saying, you’d think he’d have some shame and invest in those rubber bumpers, but no—he just had to make sure I know he’s getting way more sex than me.”

And he did. Have way more sex than you, that is, which was kind of insane now that you’ve thought about it. Ego-bruising too when the sounds you desperately tried to drown out still breached through a pair of neon green earplugs stuck deep as they could go into your ear holes. His questionable refractory period kept you up on most nights he had girls over, wondering how short it was that he’s able to bounce back and keep you up until the witching hour with the awful remix of moans, groans, screams and whatever noises one could make during sex. Why was it always the innocent looking ones the freakiest? Why must you suffer through all this?

You made a low noise in your throat, almost like a growl just thinking about what you've gone through the last few weeks. Fucking asshole.

Mark’s eyes widened. Whether it was from your admission, or the almost inhuman sound you made, the simmering rage wasn’t that hard to miss. The moment Mark walked into the apartment, he could visibly tell how wound up you were from your pinched expression while you waited for the bread to toast.

He’s been here for almost two hours and you have yet to relax. Mark’s current concern was what if your face gets permanently stuck scowling like that?

“Huh,” he breathed out, “didn’t know Jeno got bitches that often.”

“Mark.”

Mark immediately backtracked at the edge to your voice. “Uh, I mean—“ he cleared his throat, “fuck Jeno. I hope his dick, like, falls off.”

The beseeching shine of his eyes for your approval would have been something to laugh at if it weren’t for the anger taking full reign of the receptors responsible for regulating your emotions, not letting it process anything but the bottled up frustration from weeks of enduring the extra noises accompanying most of your nights.

So much for creating a harmonious home life with a Taurus man. Fuck that article, fuck whoever wrote it, and fuck Jeno Lee in particular. Seriously.

“You’re more pissed off than usual.”

“Yeah? Hadn’t noticed,” you said dryly.

“Dude, c’mon. Y’know what I mean,” Mark giggled, reaching out to pinch your cheek. You swat his hand away with a whine when he tried to go for the other. “Sorry, sorry—just—I feel like he did more if you—“ he made a vague gesture to the air in front of you “—are this upset.”

“I think keeping me up with the horrendously loud fucking takes the cake.”

“I dunno. You lost your fuckin’ marbles when I ate your food that one time.” He shuddered, knowing fully well how touchy you were with the prepped meals you slaved for hours every Saturday. “Was that what he did? That’s the one thing I told him not to do.”

Being this far into your career, cooking was almost like a chore since you barely had any opportunities to cook actual at-home-meals that required significant amounts of time and patience. You could even say that it was more appropriate to call it a luxury almost as most of your time was dedicated to the hospital—to your patients whose lives were also in your hands, and pre-made food was the only solution to fit three-meals-a-day into your demanding schedule.

The long-lasting effects of when he, out of sheer desperation, snatched your jar of banana chia pudding still lingered when he always made it a point to ask if he could have one bite, or a quick sip after the rather traumatizing verbal lashing you’ve subjected him to.

“No. Jeno knows not to do that at least.”

Like Mark, it’s the one thing you had stressed right when you had Jeno settle in. Not that he minded, sans the obligatory head tilt when he didn’t quite get it until your further explanation. He even offered his help with the meal-prep which kind of—for a fleeting moment—made you feel a little guilty thinking back to the conversation (puppy eyes, full lips jutted out into a thoughtful pout. More puppy eyes and Jeno’s weird, trademarked noises of confusion) until you were violently reminded of his fuckery.

Perhaps the whole golden retriever-like temperament and attentiveness balanced out his newly discovered predilection for whoring himself out.

Mark heaved a heavy sigh as if he was the one with a 24/7 sex noise problem. “Well, what could be worse than Jeno banging some random chick?”

You gave him a grim smile.

See, the thing was, it hadn’t always been like this.

You were no stranger to peace as you did get a generous taste of it with Jeno thrown into the mix. A peaceful coexistence between a surgical nurse and some tech guy.

A routine had been built around having different work hours where you were mostly gone from morning to evening when you weren’t on-call, while Jeno was, more often than not, stationary since he had the choice to either work from home on his elaborate PC set-up, or in the office he’d drive to when needed.

It was relatively normal. Jeno stayed true to the being neat claim and he kept to himself most of the time. He did his set of chores listed on the mini whiteboard stuck to the fridge and proved himself to be quite the efficient handyman also; assembling furniture with ease as well as fixing up superficial problems in the apartment. He was a decent cook too and Jeno generally acted what one would expect from a proper roommate who was here to make a home with you.

It had been normal. It had been peaceful, until you realized you were housing a potential sex fiend. What made this whole thing exponentially worse, though, was that the last girl he had brought home wasn't just some random chick that had fallen victim to Jeno’s charms.

It was Jimin Yu, your work best friend and the only other person who knew of your sleeping problem caused by the root of said problem whom you were starting to believe was sent to you as a divine punishment for fuck knows what. Which was kind of funny to think about considering Mark, his faith and him technically being the catalyst of it all, but you digressed. This was literally a slow-burn epidemic happening in real life, and yet no one else seemed to be alarmed by it.

Jimin Yu. Another promising young woman lost to some fucking loser (see: Jeno). Again. 

How you came to find out that it was your best friend getting her back blown out six ways to fucking Sunday right before a full day of two major operations waiting for you to scrub and assist in was from pure accidental intuition alone.

And anger. 

Especially anger.

There was a self-imposed rule you strictly followed: do not leave your room until you were sure the chosen girl from Jeno’s seemingly never-ending roster left. Saving both you and the poor girl from the embarrassment was the least you could do when you yourself would rather avoid any risks of running into anyone in someone else’s home right after a hook-up.

And, well, there was a reason why the saying ‘rules are meant to be broken’ was popularized, because you broke that one simple rule that had supposedly kept your remaining sanity intact.

Two hours left before your shift started and you were more husk than person from the lack of sleep. All rationale completely consumed by anger, an ever-present emotion that seemed to be the only thing that kept you going—and consequently, what had led you to shoot out of bed once the telltale sounds of Jeno’s door clicking open, followed by the hurried footsteps reached your ears.

You skidded to a stop, stunned.

“You motherfucker.”

This was the ultimate act of betrayal.

“It’s—It’s not what it looks like!” Was Jimin’s immediate defense right when the thunderous twist to your face grew more and more pronounced with each stomp of your feet. Yet her words didn’t exactly help her case when:

There were obvious splashes of reds, blues and purples marking her slender neck.

Her hair was a downright mess, and you knew Jimin harbored some sort of complex for her long luscious locks, so this was new—her not bothering to comb it out, clearly in a rush to leave.

There was a slight limp in her step which just said everything.

And lastly, you caught Jeno sneaking Jimin out of his room and out of the fucking apartment, clearly expecting to not run into you.

“Ah-ah. No,” you interrupted before she could even start groveling. “I’ll deal with you later. Get out.”

Jimin’s shoulders sagged, big wet eyes staring into your very soul and it took you a Herculean amount of strength to keep your gaze ahead and not break under her stare; to keep your gaze set on the main perpetrator who, unlike Jimin, appeared rather contrary to her apparent distress. 

Jeno stood underneath the awning in only—goodness—only a pair of gym shorts where you could clearly make out a hefty looking dick-print, completely at ease and infuriatingly handsome in spite of the disheveled state he was in; matching bruises bloomed on his milky skin, scratches littered his arms, shoulders and back and his hair was left as an artful mess atop his head. 

You wanted to scream.

This was all Jeno’s fault. Not even the hurt pinching Jimin’s normally serene features was enough to lessen the tension wounding up your entire body. Not when you were already neck-deep in your own pool of unfiltered rage to even consider comforting Jimin’s momentary lapse in judgment and decision to have earth-shatteringly loud sex with your mortal enemy that the whole damn apartment complex might as well have heard.

(“I’m surprised Jimin isn’t getting as much heat since she slept with your ‘problem’. On purpose.”

You shrugged. “Men are the root of all evil.”

“Fair enough,” Mark mumbled and took a gargantuan bite of the next sandwich assembled for him. It was really a mystery how he settled down before you).

And—look, you really couldn’t care less if Jeno slept around. It was his life and he had free reign over his own body, and let’s face it, there was no way he didn’t get an obscene amount of matches on Tinder when he embodied a walking wet dream.

Jeno was far from being in your good graces at this current moment, but staying blind to the truth would only get you so far when Jeno had the physical advantages to attest to that, and the same could be said for Jimin. She could hook-up with whoever she pleased—just as easily too. Hell, you’d sleep with her too if you were a little bit interested in her—because who were you to disprove her choices? All of you were adults here, but what the main issue here was Jimin knew you had one-sided beef with your abnormally attractive roommate that fucks too loud no matter how many times you reminded him to try and keep it down, and yet she still pushed on and contributed to the recurring problem.

Truer words had never been said until Mark. You really did hope Jeno’s dick shrivels up and falls off.

Now, preferably.

Right when the door had closed behind Jimin with a soft click (after dragging her feet and sending pleading looks over her shoulder like a sad wet cat) did all the pent-up anger come out in a mess of heated words and frantic gestures.

“What the fuck.”

Each breath you took had been deep and harsh. Your face was bordering on hot to the touch from the sheer amount of rage coursing through your veins and the arduous task of resisting the urge to reach out and subject permanent damage physically, mentally and emotionally by how tightly you had clenched your fists. You could already imagine it, hands stretching towards Jeno’s neck and wringing it like a wet hand towel until it ripped in your hands—

Your roommate reacted then, as if just realizing that this wasn’t you doing a bit. It made you think of how likely it could be that Jeno got away with many things simply for being the very few that had pretty privilege as a crutch to fall onto. As for you, it would be nice to have an actual metal crutch within arm’s reach to hit him with.

He was pretty to look at, sure, but not privileged enough to keep your eye from twitching in irritation when Jeno looked the least bothered by your display, long eyelashes fluttering with each of his confused and owlish blinking.

“What?” Jeno, the village idiot, asked with imploring eyes.

“What? What do you mean ‘what’? are you—“ you cut yourself off with an incredulous, borderline manic laugh at his testosterone-filled audacity. “Are you so desperate for sex that you had to go for Jimin?”

It’s not like he wasn’t allowed to bring his own friends over since you shared the same rotation of friends and acquaintances, but really, Jimin?

“I didn’t know Jimin was off-limits. You never mentioned it.” Jeno blinked slowly with a sheepish smile. “I’ll keep that in mind next time?”

“Are you fucking—were you even listening to me? Not just now, but before too. I told you to keep it down! Many many times! I need to sleep, Jeno!”

He huffed a laugh. “Technically, it’s not really my fault if they can’t keep it down, y’know?” 

You could only stare in disbelief, mouth ajar at the fact that he’s able to act proud during an argument he was likely to lose. Like dicking down someone so loud that it became a public disturbance was some kind of achievement with the way Jeno puffs out his very naked chest in the most subtlest of ways.

He wasn’t finished talking, taking your silence as a prompt to continue with a cloying curl of his mouth. “I could show you why, if you want.”

“Excuse me?”

If Jeno knew what was good for him, he would stop running his mouth right this very second. Though over time, you started to pick up on the very unfortunate fact that he lacked tact at times, and what he had let slip through his lips next proved as much.

“I’m saying,” he dragged out, like he was expecting you to catch on. “Sex reduces stress, right? The endorphin and oxytocin rush—I’ll assume you already knew that, being a nurse and all. Woman in STEM,” Jeno sang a little jingle, the smile widening into a grin that was a touch too suggestive for your liking. “I can see that you’re pent up, and I think fucking it out of you—fucking the uptightness out of you would do both of us good. A win-win situation.”

Whatever was left of the rose-tinted image of the man who had first walked into the apartment donning the sweetest eye-smile you had ever laid eyes on was wiped just like that. His grin that was meant to convey light-hearted teasing became the very image of mockery.

If you weren’t as furious then, you were now.

“Is that how you see me? Just another number to your body count?” 

It would have been funny, watching Jeno’s features twist from surprise to regret at the speed of light almost, but anything he did beyond this point just added to the stockpiled annoyance ready to be spit up again the next time Jeno thought to push his luck. So no, this wasn’t hilarious in the slightest.

“I didn’t say that—”

“You implied it.”

“That’s—I was joking!”

You scoffed, “that’s not surprising. Do you think my job’s a ‘joke’ too?”

This was exhausting. You had already lost a significant amount of sleep you needed to get through work that would start in two hours—well, less now that you’ve taken the time to completely go off the rails until some semblance of remorse showed on Jeno’s person. As satisfying as it was to witness that happen in real-time, asking some time off of work just to process The Confrontation™ was a no-no, given how important your presence was in the OR and it just so happened that you couldn’t stand being in the same room as him.

He should’ve added ‘insatiable horndog’ to his disclaimer.

Jeno made it clear that he had nothing else to follow up on, doing a horrible impression of a fish out of water that you had taken as your cue to leave.

And for the first time in forever, you couldn’t wait to breathe in the antiseptic smell of the hospital.

Being this bothered by your cold indifference was not at all on Jeno’s bingo card.

Jeno was within your visage when you came through the door, yet you paid him no mind as you bee-lined towards your bedroom, like he didn’t exist to you. And, okay, maybe he did deserve that—no, he for sure deserved that after hours of reflecting. He wasn’t sure if you’d appreciate his excuse of not really being aware that the walls were thinner than he had thought.

Jeno winced at the mini play-by-play in his head.

You definitely wouldn’t.

The clock droned on and on with its never-ending ticking. Just a quarter past eight in the evening, Jeno checked, and his heart lurched to his throat, sitting up straighter from his perch at the island counter when you finally emerged from your room. Have you forgiven him? Did this mean you were on talking terms again? Because if he had to be honest, being ignored was a lot worse than you threatening to bite his head off. At least then you were technically talking to him still and not trying to erase his existence with sheer willpower alone.

All hope of making things right, however, was shot down the moment Jeno took a quick look at your change of clothes and the large duffle bag slung over your shoulder.

Panic welled in his chest, causing him to blurt out a garbled, “where are you going?” as you headed straight for the front door.

“Anywhere but here.”

Although there was no heat behind your words from the absence of the anger you had toted around this morning, being hit by your impassive stare has him biting back the haha nice Harry Potter reference. The poorly-timed joke from this morning was the final nail in the coffin and making another one now was a sure-fire way of getting buried six feet under. Alive.

Shortly after, the door closed behind you with a soft click. Much like how Jimin left when you had sent her out, leaving Jeno alone with the deafening silence as his only companion, the pit in his stomach growing when he peeled his gaze from the paneled door to fall onto the pair of steaming cups of coffee.

Mornings for Jeno started with you standing in front of the coffee machine, half-asleep and grumbling threats to the inanimate thing. He’d grown accustomed to the sight of your sleep-ruffled state that it was obvious you had quite the fixation on coffee. At least one cup a day, three at most, you had said with a bashful smile when he caught you pouring your third cup.

Coffee was a necessity in this household. Jeno knew that, knew how you liked to drink yours and he thought making you a cup exactly how you’d like it could melt away the thick walls you had built. A peace offering, or what was supposed to be a peace offering.

Two cups sat on the quartz countertop. One almost empty while the other remained untouched even as Jeno retired for the night.

Jeno walked into an empty kitchen the morning after.

A kitchen devoid of your sleepy form that would be threatening the coffee machine to spit out the liquid bitterness faster, or else. The silence was just as deafening and the cup—your cup—was where he left it the night before in hopes of you coming back home.

You didn’t.

Fuck.

III.

“Prove me wrong by doing it right.”

“And you stayed where? For two weeks?”

“Jaem and Hyuck’s.”

Mark grimaced. “Willingly?”

You gave him a pointed look.

He raised his hands in defense. “I’m just sayin’ you have better options—like Sungchan?” Your face softened, offering a lazy shrug. “Me?”

You wrinkled your nose at the thought. “Yeah, no.”

While you had made plenty of jokes that would last a lifetime consisting of moving in with Mark and ‘the love of his life’, ranging from them becoming your second set of parents, to you being Just There with your best friend married and with kids, the appeal of third wheeling hadn’t increased in the slightest.

“I’ve had enough moaning and groaning haunting my dreams, thanks.” You snorted at the scandalized look on Mark’s face. “and I wouldn’t want to impose on Sungchan and Chenle. Thing One and Thing Two weren’t too bad.”

Although the stay had been surprisingly pleasant, with all things considered, they did poke fun at the situation at first because—duh, men. Regardless, their combined hospitality staved off the possibility of a psychotic break triggered by Jeno’s fuck-up. It would have been better if their third bedroom hadn’t been made into Marie Kondo’s personal nightmare, but the vomit green couch had been a comfortable makeshift bed. Who knew you’d end up loving the product of Jaemin’s horrendous tastes?

Jeno stayed as elusive as ever, too. You came home when you could, only to replenish your clothing and other necessities and much to your relief, you hadn’t run into him yet. Not at the apartment, not at the guys’ place (shockingly) and there was a brief moment where you thought your roommate might turn up at the hospital, what with the onslaught of texts you received, most of them apologizing and begging for you to come home, there was a time where you dreaded going to work in light of the possibility.

(“You’d think Jeno was your boyfriend with the way he’s blowing up your phone,” Donghyuck hollered from the kitchen, in the middle of cooking dinner for everyone. “He’s getting desperate with each text, babe. Even I’m feeling a little sorry for the guy.”

You looked up from the puzzle you were working on the floor with Jaemin to stare at Donghyuck, then to the space where you remembered leaving your phone on its own and now just noticing its disappearance. “How’d you get my phone? How’d you guess my passcode?”

“Zero-zero-zero-zero wasn’t that hard to guess,” Jaemin mumbled. “You’ve always been simpleminded about these things—which reminds me—you still use the same Netflix account since college, right?”).

Jeno was a no-show, thankfully. Causing a scene at work, of all places, would be way beneath you no matter how much he pissed you off.

Still, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t talk your shit from time to time.

“They’re probably faking it,” you concluded with a scoff and then quickly backtracked. “No. I know they’re faking it and it doesn’t even matter if Jeno’s tall, muscular, handsome, capable—” Mark’s eyebrows rose higher and higher, disappearing beneath his bangs as you continued on with your tangent.

“Precious eye smile—definitely a manipulation tactic… it worked on me.”

That one, you mumbled mostly to yourself, but it was audible enough to earn a short laugh from Mark which quickly snapped you out of whatever the hell that was, and then scowled when your ex-roommate, the catalyst for your suffering, tried to keep his face straight. He was doing a terrible job.

Clearing your throat—far too many times than necessary—you ignored the warmth that bloomed on the apples of your cheeks along with Mark’s insufferably knowing smirk. “My point is, there’s no way he’d be good at sex too. Like, you’re telling me Jeno made all those girls cum? Fat fucking chance. I’m sure there’s, like, a statistic disproving that.”

You didn’t even want to think what Jimin went through, especially when you’ve gotten a glimpse of what monster was begging to be freed from Jeno’s gym shorts. But like clockwork, Mark had to ruin that brief fantasy of you being right about Jeno’s possibly (hopefully) weak stroke game.

“Eh, I’d have to disagree on that one.”

How did he even know that?

“How do you even know that?” You groaned, “I’m distressed enough as it is, Mark, please be serious.”

“I am serious! I literally have the facts to back it up!”

“And what, I’m supposed to believe you?” All you were given was a stare, an arch of an eyebrow just begging to be plucked and shaped, and nothing else. “Fine, what are these facts based on?”

“Testimonies. Plenty of them.”

Your features twisted into that of disgust. “Were you there? In the corner watching him get his dick wet? Like some pervert?”

Mark appeared as though he regretted the decision of coming here. You didn’t want to be here in the first place, so it’s only fair that none of you were having a good time. Might as well make Mark your personal verbal punching bag while you were at it.

“Jesus,” he dragged a hand down his face. The perfect image of exasperation. “The mouth on you sometimes.” 

“Sorry,” you quipped, not sorry at all.

This time, Mark let out a groan much similar to yours, obviously not liking where the direction of the already bizarre conversation was heading. This upcoming headache (see: you) was rightfully deserved though since Mark did lend a hand in forcing you into a situation so embarrassing that you’d take instant death over being an unwilling voyeur to Jeno’s many many late night sexcapades.

“Okay, okay, okay—” Mark began as if the rapid-fire speech wasn’t enough to get your attention, or the fact that it was just the two of you hanging out in the kitchen. “You know how my girl hosts girls’ night every two weeks?”

“How could I forget?” you chuckled. “I missed the one two nights ago and your girlfriend’s really good at guilt-tripping.”

“Yeah,” he trailed off with a tender smile. “yeah—uh, she wanted everyone to be there.” Your own smile was knowing, a smidge teasing even and it was enough for Mark’s cheeks to pinken. “Anyways! One of the girls was painting my nails, right?” He wiggled his fingers, showing his mustard yellow painted fingernails with daisy decals, being the girls’ go-to mannequin every girls’ night. “Aeri brought up hooking up with Jeno a few times from like, a year ago, then it became this whole thing of the girls sharing their own experiences—and wow, you girls are just as gross with the details, like, for real—turns out, they all slept with him at some point! Crazy, right?”

“Even your girlfriend?”

Mark smiled, sheepish. Quite the contrast to your horrified expression. “They shared a gen-ed class. College sophomore year. She went to his frat’s party, they hooked up once and never again.”

“Please tell me the girls hated it at least.”

Mark’s jaw closed with a click, lips pressing into a thin line. “Y’know, I don’t think the word ‘hate’ was like, ever thrown around, honestly.”

Good lord—okay, so Jeno was kind of a slut then. A slut that had infiltrated your friend group (and fucked Mark’s girlfriend!) and left them unanimously agreeing that he earned his merit as an absolute god in bed. Go figure. This might as well be some divine force’s way of saying ‘go fuck yourself!’

“So I just have to live with it, is what you’re saying.”

“I mean…” His face twisted into an expression you couldn’t put your finger on and the nonsensical gesticulation didn’t provide any concrete context needed. Either way, you just knew you wouldn’t like whatever he says next. “If it bothers you that much, just find a new place. You’ve been here long enough.”

“In this economy?” you exclaimed. “That’s like asking me to kill myself!”

Not to mention drastic when you had already paid half of this month’s rent along with the other expenses—as did Jeno—and you really couldn’t afford splurging extra to get away from one minor—major inconvenience. Plus, you were pretty attached to the place.

Deciding on that was kind of a tempting solution, however. You had forgotten what it was like living alone after you and Mark thought to rent a place together post-graduation since you both agreed it was cost-effective, but if Jeno was smart enough to repent for his sins of stealing (sleep) from thy neighbor (roommate), you wouldn’t leave him to fend for himself.

“I should have stayed back and talked to Hyuck about this,” you droned, narrowing your eyes when all Mark did was snort at both your joke and your bias for Thing Number Two (Donghyuck). “He would at least agree that Jeno’s dick’s bigger than his brain.”

Which was farthest from the truth, actually.

Painful as it was to admit, the certificate of Jeno graduating from a joint program of Computer Science and Cyber Security as Magna Cum Laude was tangible proof that Jeno Lee’s brain was wired properly to some extent that It made your own certificate of graduating Cum Laude from your nursing program a bit lackluster. It was an inside joke you both shared; where your degrees and graduation portraits weren’t all that useless as they had been perfect for decoration.

All that’s left now was a sour reminder that Jeno got more bitches than you did every time you glanced up at the immortalized version of him. Looming above the flat screen TV with the effortless sweep of his hair and the sweet, canned smile he flashed at the camera.

While you spent hours to at least make it seem like you hadn’t been trampled on from the harrowing events of final exams, back-to-back practicals and soul-sucking internships, Jeno hardly looked like he had put in any effort—like an in-the-making supermodel taking his head-shots. His hair was in its natural shade of black, longer too with a subtle mullet going. Jeno looked younger, untouched by the trials and tribulations adult life granted anyone breaching that point and less like the sex fiend you would hiss at as a knee-jerk reaction.

The Jeno now fitted the latter description to a tee. This rugged look he’s got going on for him screamed trouble. He embodied what sex on legs meant as well as being the guy a god-fearing father would tell you to stay away from. 

Having said all that, you still thought that even hot people deserved to be humbled. Ever the one to talk shit about someone that had wronged you behind their back yourself, and Donghyuck was always a great shit-talking partner.

“Nice to know you still don’t listen to me. It’s like I’ve never moved out at all.”

“Maybe if you gave actual sound advice, I would.”

“Advice,” Mark parroted, following that up with a short laugh of disbelief. “you want advice? Okay, here’s one—avoiding Jeno won’t put a stop to this. Maybe all of this—whatever this is—could be resolved if you would just, oh, I don’t know, talk to him? Talk like proper adults would? Lay some ground rules or some shit, I don’t know.”

“I already did that! Many times, if you recall what we just talked about, and look where it got me.” 

Temporarily living off of the vomit green couch in exchange for better quality of sleep? Yeah, this was definitely a new low for you.

“Would you bail me out if I was charged for man-slaughter? I’ll pay you back… in a few years.”

“No,” was Mark’s immediate answer. “I’m being serious, babe. Just… talk it out, yeah? Jeno’s worried, texting me and all.”

Huh. Never would you have thought that ‘Jeno’ and ‘worried’ could be mentioned in the same sentence when you sampled just how much Jeno couldn’t give less of a fuck towards the deep lines you had repeatedly drawn, crossing it multiple times, but you supposed there’s always a first time for everything; like how this was a first for you not putting blind faith into Mark’s words.

“I find that hard to believe,” you groused.

Mark’s whole face then twisted into the very expression he’d wear when he’s about to deliver a mean lecture. Unfortunately for you, you had never been an exception to them and you were his best friend! It defeated the whole purpose of the label and the privileges that came with it and as you braced yourself for his god-given right of bitching at you, the sound of the keypad’s beeping made both of you freeze, the fight visible on Mark’s person gone once the automatic lock clicked in place as your faces blenched.

Not one of you dared to move as you listened to Jeno skulking around the foyer with bated breaths.

You could hear a pin drop when your roommate’s shuffling came to an abrupt stop. Then came the sharp gasp, the heavy rushed footsteps and there Jeno was in all his muscled glory; again, in athleisure and panting as if he ran a marathon just to see if his hunch was right.

“Talk to him,” Mark gritted before his face brightened with a capitalistic grin that would usually fool almost everyone and whirled around to greet Jeno with a dialed up amount of enthusiasm. “Hey, buddy! What’s up?”

Jeno was nonplussed by this, his gaze still stuck on you which granted a sinking feeling in your stomach when he didn’t do anything else. No smile, no nothing and Mark didn’t seem to pick up on the growing tension. That, or he simply just chose not to acknowledge it, making nice out of self-preservation.

“You look great!” It was kind of painful watching Mark acting as the buffer, yet unknowingly stall Jeno and the impending doom of talking to him. “Strong! You look strong—” as Mark said this, he gave Jeno’s bicep a friendly slap, only for him to reel it back almost a half second later with wide eyes. “Uh, well! I was just leaving—girlfriend’s looking for me so… bye!”

And there he went, leaving you to fend for yourself, but not before giving you a pointed look over Jeno’s shoulder that clearly said ‘fix this, or else’.

Or else, you huffed, Mark Lee couldn’t even hurt a fly—

“You’re home,” Jeno said, tone soft as ever despite the clear ire that was starting to bubble up to the surface from the way you caught his jaw clench. That didn’t stop your pettiness from taking over, however, making a sour face as you turned away from him to grab your favorite mug out of the cupboard.

“What an amazing observation,” you said with the same amount of excitement a school teacher would have if they were to be condescending. “Would you like a gold star?”

“I was worried,” and Jeno, ever the one to not rise to the bait shamelessly dangling right in front of his face, kept his voice even. “You left my texts on read. You didn’t return any of my calls.”

“Wow! It’s almost like I don’t want to talk to you,” you snapped, “‘worried’ my ass. You know damn well I left because of you, so you don’t get to act like I’m in the wrong when—“

Jeno cuts you off with a stern call of your name, like he’s had enough. Of what, exactly? As far as you knew, you were simply telling him the truth of the matter: he drove you away because one stubborn part of Jeno Lee refused to listen and admit that he was in the wrong.

Slowly, you twisted your neck to hit Jeno with the most chilling look known to man-kind as the familiar sensation of anger caused each of your muscles to stiffen. The one thing that kept you from tackling him to the ground was the abashed furrow of Jeno’s eyebrows and his downturned lips. He genuinely looked guilty. As guilty as a man could be from getting as much action as a blunt getting passed around a frat-party, but sadly for him, peace was never an option.

He could cry for forgiveness all he wanted and you’d only think of ways to make him cry even harder.

“Look,” Jeno began, eyes fluttering closed and breathing out a heavy sigh. “I just don’t understand why you had to go this far? Avoiding me for two weeks straight—I was worried,” he reiterated, eyes opening just for them to narrow accusingly. “I didn’t know where you were. Mark refused to tell me since ‘it wasn’t his business’—“ and honestly, if this were any other situation, you would have laughed at Jeno’s piss-poor imitation of Mark and the exaggerated air quotes. “—and I had to find out from Donghyuck, of all people, that you were staying with them!”

This was a first. Jeno was never one to completely lose his cool. Always the milder one between you both who knew how to keep his temper in check. Jeno was calm in every sense of the word, with placid smiles and solemn nods—composed even in the most dire of situations where tensions were high. A stark contrast to how you weren’t afraid of baring your teeth to let people know how you felt, swinging your emotions around as if they were a weapon.

Clearly, the Jeno that stood in front of you bore none of that. He was visibly upset—by what could be considered as ghosting him for two weeks straight, which would have been longer if Jeno had come later in the evening. You were starting to believe that the universe simply hated you to the point of cutting the streak.

You stayed quiet, letting your scowl do all the talking.

Jeno pinched his nose bridge. “I’m sorry I slept with Jimin, alright? It’ll never happen again if that’s what you want.”

“Oh my God,” you exclaimed as you shut the cupboard harsher than intended, moving to head for the coffee machine. He still didn’t get it and you’ll need the extra caffeine in your system for this.

“This is not about you sleeping with Jimin! This is about you crossing lines I specifically told you not to cross! How about you try having someone’s life in your hands? My job isn’t a walk in the park, Jeno. I need to be alert. I need to have my head set on straight, but clearly, I can’t have any of that because I have to hear you fucking the next person who looks at you! If any of my patients die, it’s on you. If I lose my job because I let a patient die, it’s on you—why won’t this fucking thing work!”

Your last straw might as well be the shitty coffee machine proving, once again, how shitty it was. You were half-tempted to unplug the thing and chuck it at his head.

God, you were so fucking angry. The two weeks away from home was the semblance of peace you had desperately needed after almost jeopardizing an angioplasty case with Dr. Jung when you caught yourself handing the wrong type of suture he asked for. It was only luck that you were stuck with one of the more approachable surgeons from cardio, letting you off with a lighthearted ‘wake up’ as Dr. Jung gestured for the right one.

Jeno reached over, pressing down on a button while tilting his head. “Are you done?” He said along the low whir of the coffee machine, evidently trying not to laugh.

The minty waft of his breath hit your face and it was then did you notice how close he had gotten. Your toes almost touching as you blinked up to meet his eyes, confused at how fucking fast he got all up in your space while you ranted.

You scowled harder. “Yeah,” and wow, you knew Jeno was one of the few lucky ones who grew to be tall. Height was one of the obvious physical advantages he had, but when put into perspective, having him like this—almost chest to chest—made a huge difference. You felt so small underneath Jeno’s imposing dead-eyed stare as if he was gauging his prey; a silent dare for you to make one sudden move knowing he’d catch you in the end after playing with you for a little, one way or another. “Yeah, I’m done.”

A small smile tugged on his lips. “Less work for me then.”

“Huh?”

Jeno dipped his head so quickly that it took you a second or two to register his lips pressing against yours.

Jeno Lee. The very same Jeno Lee you imagined exploding in your head too many times to the point you grew bored of the gory image enough to consider telepathically saying I hope you get chlamydia I hope you get chlamydia I hope you get chlamydia until it takes and manifests in real life, was kissing you. This was far from the initial possible outcome you would expect in light of the cold war wedging a gap between you that the backasswards had all higher functions of your brain—and possibly the one that had telepathy locked away forever—shut down when he angled his head to press deeper, as if to coax you into becoming an active participant.

The only options left for you to consider were: a.) kiss him back b.) kiss him back since it became crystal clear that whatever method of psychological warfare Jeno waged wasn’t worth stopping. For reference, option b was the obvious choice. The emphasis, the drama of it all complemented your own flair for dramatics and you would rather drop dead than let Jeno have the upper hand. And maybe because you were insane, choosing anything but resolving the issue with a proper talk, and good lord can the man kiss.

It’s his lips, you thought bitterly, lips of plump and petal-pink goodness melding against your own slightly chapped pair that rendered you uncharacteristically pliant.

Normally, you were anything but, though it was a little rewarding to know that Jeno was losing it just as much; the finesse to his methods gradually chipping away along the push and pull of your mouths with the delicious burden of his weight pressing you against the counter to have more than just a taste. A small window was open for some lucidity to seep in, that being Jeno’s forethought of wriggling a hand in between the edge of the counter top and your back so it wouldn’t jab at your spine as the other cupped your jaw, shuddering when his pinky brushed along a sensitive spot behind your ear.

Jeno smiled at this. You felt him smile at this, but you were still stuck on the oddly sweet gesture that you thought to show some gratitude by returning the same level of eagerness Jeno had, suckling and biting down on his bottom lip. At his whine, you promptly soothed the spot with a languid swipe of your tongue and did it all over again. Not that he minded. You could practically tell just how excited he was; all bricked up and prodding the softness of your belly, and he didn’t seem to be embarrassed by it at all. You didn’t think he would be when he had quite the package. 

“I’ve always wanted to do that.”

There’s a wry grin tugging at his lips when you both parted for some air. “All I could think about was shutting you up every single time you bitch at me.” He regained the closeness just to brush his lips against your cheek, sighing almost in a dreamy-like manner that you were half-tempted to back out. “You’re so cute when you’re angry.”

“Don’t piss me off,” you settled on saying instead as a warning, yet let Jeno—taking it as a cue—lift you up and place you on top of the counter without any struggle that you didn’t even try to hide the fact that the display of Jeno’s raw strength was doing it for you. An infuriatingly attractive feat and you supposed your thought on the matter translated on your face well enough if Jeno’s cheeky grin was anything to go by.

Still, the spread of your legs was no less inviting, something Jeno found funny as he snickered to himself before taking the space in between them for you to wind your arms around his sturdy shoulders and pull him down for another kiss. Mostly to shut him up. Yes, definitely to shut him up.

Jeno parted from you again with an audible smack, his thumbs rubbing slow circles on your waist. “Personally—”

You groaned, “oh here we go.”

“Personally,” Jeno tried again, ignoring your yelp when he gave a playful pinch to your skin. “I still think that you’re so pent up that everything annoys you—like me having a healthy sex-life, for example.”

This was it. This was definitely rock-bottom. You were finally in the trenches that you’re entertaining an actual conversation relating to Jeno’s fixation of sticking his dick into willing holes more times than you could count. Oh, and the fact that you were starting to become a little self-conscious from not getting any forms of sex on the regular unlike mister casanova over here.

You hit him with a dubious look. “Where are you even going with this?”

Jeno let out a low hum in lieu of an actual answer and pulled you forward as if he wasn’t already up in your space, the tip of his strong nose gently grazing yours, his lips doing pretty much the same thing too: a gentle brush against your own twitchy pair when he murmured, “don’t you want to let off a little steam? I can help. I want to help.”

And that rightfully stumped you. Not because it was the second time he propositioned you, with the first being more of a joke than anything, but how Jeno actually came off genuine this time around. Not a trace of the smugness could be found either. Just unbridled zeal that being scrutinized by the darkness of Jeno’s gaze birthed a familiar simmering of—horrifyingly enough—want beneath your navel.

There was an argument that could be made here. Where the stubborn part of you could simply claim that it was your curiosity coming into play—wanting to see for yourself if what Mark (and the girls) had said about Jeno was true; that there was a reason why Jeno’s roster was seemingly never ending. You could do that. Though, if anyone were to walk in right now, you didn’t think the compromising position would help in any way when you were quite literally entangled with each other.

Likewise, It didn’t really help that the wretched gremlin burrowing in the debased parts of your brain wanted Jeno Lee so much that you damn near salivated when the man bared more of his neck as a silent ‘go ahead’ for you to ravage the smooth skin with reds, blues and purples with your teeth. You’ve come to terms with the fact that you were attracted to Jeno that it honestly made you stupid enough to have a taste once the chance presented itself, surprisingly, without wishing an aneurysm upon yourself. 

But you weren’t going to give in that easily. You could just raise that having first hand experience with whatever Jeno had to offer was all for the sake of research and to prove your point.

That’s all that it was. That’s all that it will be; a case study for you. Nothing more, nothing less.

Jeno squeaked out his confusion when you ended up having his cheeks squished between your fingers and thumb right when he tried going in for another kiss, causing his lips to pucker out even more.

“What makes you think I’ll let you fuck me?” 

You dug your fingers into his skin harder as a warning when he tested his luck again.

It’s almost comical watching Jeno stiffen in your hold, making a show of gathering enough distance for him to look right into your eyes.

Then Jeno smiled something placid, yet the glimmer in his eyes told you otherwise. You felt so seen that you wanted to curl into yourself so he wouldn’t have to pick you apart with his steely gaze alone. In that moment, you were prey at the mercy of an apex predator just waiting to strike.

“Is that a challenge?” Jeno asked, even-tempered, irritatingly enough.

“And what if it is?” your fingers tangled themselves in the smooth dark blue strands and tugged gently. “Scared that you’ll lose?”

Jeno’s smile widened.

If there was one thing to take away from all of this, it was to never test the limits of a Taurus man’s patience.

Or else you’d end up in a position where your strength—or lack thereof—would be tested; or else you’d end up restless in between Jeno’s spread legs, one of his arms slung down the length of your torso as a seat belt and anchoring you down to his chest while three of his nimble fingers pistoned in and out of your sopping cunt. It was a fight with an obvious outcome of you losing by a landslide with his death grip around you, but you couldn’t help but squirm when he was so good at making you feel delirious just from his fingers making a mess of where you ached the most.

Fingers that were longer and thicker, reaching deeper than yours ever could. With Jeno, it took him no time at all to have you crying out from his digits nudging that sensitive spot within your silken walls, and the same fingers decidedly pulled out without any warning with an impossibly wet sound just for Jeno to switch his attention towards your clit, fingers flicking sideways in quick succession. This urged an immediate reaction, you letting out a shuddering cry as one of your hands shot out to lock tightly around his wrist.

Your head spun at Jeno’s gentle hushing as you twitched in his embrace. Tender words easily slipping past his full lips in conjunction with his almost rough treatment had your body wounding tighter and tighter as the divide between pleasure and pain gradually flattened to gossamer thin with each pass of Jeno’s fingers across your clit. 

He played you like a fiddle, like he knew exactly what to do in drawing out a pleasure filled song from within you until the barrier ripped, sobbing wetly into the air as you and your resolve shattered into pieces with Jeno’s constricting hold around your quivering form kept you from breaking completely.

When you came to, Jeno’s voice was the first thing you latched onto, bringing you back to full lucidity; gentle as he talked you through what was probably the most intense, toe-curling orgasm from being finger-banged on the couch, of all places.

Jeno breathed out a mixed noise of surprise and amazement. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

And it was when you felt the familiar warm and wet trickle from your pussy down to your ass did you finally let the humiliation set it: you’ve let Jeno finger you on the couch, soaking his shorts and the couch as evidence.

You wanted to die.

“Yeah, well, It’s not like I tell everybody I can,” you panted, hissing when Jeno’s hand curiously trailed down to assess the mess, middle and ring finger slipping between your vulva then dipping shallowly into you and rewarding himself with a whine. Uncomfortable as it was to move your neck at this angle, you wouldn’t miss the chance to glare at him. “like—‘hi! I’m this and that, and I can squirt!—do you know how deranged that sounds?”

“I dunno, I know I‘d be impressed. Intrigued. Maybe even ask for a demo—”

“Jeno.”

“Kidding! I’m kidding,” Jeno snickered as he retracted his fingers, only to stick them into his mouth with a pleased hum, like it was the tastiest thing he’s ever had in his life. “What?” He asked, muffled from suckling on his fingers still, when he caught you gawking at him, completely mortified by the shameless sweep of his tongue around his digits.

You wanted to cry. “You’re a fucking freak.”

“Oh princess, this is nothing,” Jeno finally freed is mouth of the visual torture, a broad grin stretching spit-slick lips when he, again, took in your visceral reaction towards being called princess. He’s so annoying. You verbalized the thought and the fucker just laughed. “Call me a freak again when I ask you to soak my face,” he said, voice sweet, wincing slightly when he held your cheeks, with damp fingers and all. Freak. “Or would you like it better if I beg instead? I’m flexible. I’ll do anything you want.”

Never mind, that was much much worse. Holy fuck. The visual in your head did nothing but spur you on even further no matter the aftermath of a thigh shaking release taking its effects now.

“Stop talking,” you groaned. “please, just shut up.”

“Okay.” Jeno giggled. Giggled, like he wasn’t an insane person delighting himself to your bodily fluids just a few seconds ago. Then to add insult to injury, he pressed a tender kiss to your temple. “Think you can go another round?” 

So he made you cum once—squirt, for that matter, but that’s, like, whatever when you were capable of doing that on your own. You had plenty of time figuring out what you liked best in this realm of preferences and for all you knew, Mark was simply fucking with you—just like the other girls probably were—as some sick elaborate joke, and Jeno was simply overcompensating for the sake of his ego with their help.

“Just… give me a few. I’m starting to go deaf.” Well, not really. It felt more like there was cotton stuffed into your ears, your own voice sounding muffled and faraway. Although you weren’t new to the feeling, it wasn’t common either and it was especially new that another person was able to render you into this sluggish version of yourself.

He sucked in a breath. “Was it that good that you’ve gone temporarily deaf?”

Other than that, then came the numbing of your scalp. You’ve read about this once, a product from genuine curiosity after a little moment of freaking the fuck out, thinking you were about to die from cumming too hard to the point of losing circulation up there in your brain. And—no you weren’t dying, though it would be an interesting way to go.

You followed up with this just as the blunt edges of his fingernails lightly scratched at your scalp. “I literally can’t feel that except a slight pressure—and don’t get too cocky. This happens to me when I get myself off too.”

Jeno didn’t get even a second of gloating before you started rambling about the possibilities of why this happens with a basic rundown of the nervous system (rapid increase in heart rate and blood pressure) and completely disregarding the stiff outline of Jeno’s pride pressing snugly into the cleft of your bare ass cheeks.

He felt just as hard as he was when you sucked faces in the kitchen. Warm. Big, that you had no idea if the shakes you were getting now was out of fear for Jeno’s cock potentially rearranging your guts to the point of no return, or out of anticipation from that possibly happening. Though what was more shocking was Jeno maintaining some sort of chivalrous streak, staying where he was and putting your pleasure first before his own when he could pretty much turn the tides and have his way with you.

But like a dog being told to stay for a promised treat, Jeno doesn’t do anything, besides soothing you with absentminded caresses here and there while he listened.

At least that’s how you thought this slip in judgment was going to end right until Jeno picked you up in one fell swoop, abruptly—and rudely—cutting you off from the build up towards a detailed spiel of a hypothesis to instead let out an undignified yelp of surprise. He hauled you up without any visible struggle and it was doing horrible horrible things to your psyche.

“Seriously, Jeno,” you exclaimed, grunting when he wrangled you onto your knees, your chest pressed down onto the coffee table as if you were nothing but a doll he gets to twist and bend for his own entertainment. “Were you even listening?”

“Uh huh—something about the temporary effects of an orgasm to the nervous system,” he trailed off at the same time his fingers grazed your skin while rucking up your pullover, just high enough that you shivered against the cool glass surface. “I’ll be honest with you, Human Biology wasn’t exactly interesting to me, but the little science session was cute.”

The glass was doing wonders in cooling down your cheek.

This was the second time he has called you cute. So casually too that you started to think that maybe Jeno had a thing for embarrassing you, see you squirm, whine, make a fool out of yourself—overall, make your life more difficult than it already was.

“Dick,” you quipped, all too weak to actually mean it and Jeno seemed to get the memo, offering a short laugh. “do I have to fit a certain criteria to do this in your bedroom?” you followed, mustering up some strength to glare at him over your shoulder, only to falter when you found Jeno was rather preoccupied with something else.

It’s no secret that Jeno was simply born with a resting face so sweet and unassuming that there was this perceived notion of him not having a mean bone inside that clean-cut body of his. That Jeno wasn’t capable of dishing out noteworthy comebacks aimed at the ego. 

Sure, he could be unaware at times (as per his loud sex problem), but you couldn’t deny the simple truth that Jeno could be nice—is nice. So nice. Sweet even, that the expression crossing his face was just as honeyed and becoming more so the longer he stayed kneeling there, raking his eyes over your half-naked form bent to compliance. It wasn’t the blatant leering that got to you though, but more of how Jeno looked doing it. Who knew the mole smack dab in the middle of your back could be adored this much?

There’s a faint smile tugging on his lips. Miniscule, barely there—still a smile, nonetheless, as he traced the length of your back with his eyes, his large hands essentially doing the same: mapping the entirety of your torso for his own indulgence until he got his fill; warm palms gluing to the soft dips of your waist, all the while his face twisted where it gave the impression he was seeing what was front of him for the very first time.

You looked away, face hotter than it was before.

Whatever that was seemed too private of a moment to witness. It felt intimate—the way his eyes drank in your body—too intimate for a ‘one and done’ thing that you seriously couldn’t wait to get fucked and put an end to this hands-on case study of Jeno’s whore-ish tendencies.

“So no bedroom, then,” you said, hoping it would snap Jeno out of it.

“Sorry, princess.” And, to be fair, Jeno did sound apologetic for a man that was about to get his dick wet for the umpteenth time. You gave him points for trying, then docked off some because princess. Really? “I don’t think I can make the trip to my bedroom. Need to fuck you now or else my dick will fall off.”

You closed your eyes, dropping your chin forward far enough that your forehead met the glass surface with a dull thunk.

So much for thinking he was sweet during a moment. It’s like the more he opened his mouth, the more he inched away from the polite friend-of-a-friend gym-bro who probably helped grandmas cross the street.

“Ugh—fuck you.”

“Mm, yeah.” You stopped counting the last time you had fallen into bed with someone else, and you were starting to think that it has probably been a while; if the brush of spandex against your skin from Jeno fumbling behind to drag his shorts just low enough for his cock to spring free has you completely losing it. Jesus, this was embarrassing. “You’re about to.”

You scoffed, “corny.”

Jeno didn’t deign the cattiness with an answer and instead let his growing impatience speak for itself, kneeing your thighs further apart and shuffling closer until your sharp intake of breath pierced through the once still air when the sticky head of his cock prodded at your hole.

“Any time now.”

Trying to sound unaffected was truly a Sisyphean task. You couldn’t help it, really. Being snarky came natural to you, though if Jeno could tell you were just talking your shit to cover up your impatience, he did nothing about it and went about with teasing you, dragging his length back and forth against your slit.

“I’m literally becoming dryer the longer you keep this up.”

That got a reaction out of him this time, letting out an incredulous laugh, “there’s no way of shutting you up, is there?”

“I don’t know, you can try hard—” whatever else that was supposed to follow immediately died at the tip of your tongue, gasping at the sudden intrusion.

“Oh! Well that’s one way.”

Another version of Jeno in your head just died of spontaneous combustion. You could literally hear him smile. Smiley bastard.

It was intense for sure. As intense as it could be after a stupidly long dry spell that you genuinely felt as though you were reborn a fucking virgin and made the mistake of picking the very guy with a third leg for a dick to pop your cherry. If the head of his cock breaching your pussy had you this frenzied, who knew what the actual thing could do to your actively deteriorating sanity? And—well, you were about to find out, weren’t you?

The reality of it all hit you like a freight train, the groan Jeno breathed out sounded so loud even over the mechanical drone of the air conditioner when he pushed deeper into you.

“Jen—oh my God—wait—” You reached behind to grab onto Jeno’s ass cheek at breakneck speed. A grave mistake, really, because in what you would hope could have stopped Jeno from basically splitting you into two, you unintentionally helped him plug you up. Your nails dug into his flesh as a result.

“Careful with the claws,” he hissed. “They actually hurt.”

“Yeah?” He yelped when you squeezed his ass tighter, his own hand holding onto yours to stop you from doing actual damage. “Try getting impaled by a dick, dickhead.”

Jeno went rigid. “You’ve had sex before, right?”

“Yes?” You looked at him like he was stupid over your shoulder and—all gods above. He already looked fucked out. Cheeks pink, skin shining with sweat (when did he take his shirt off?) and eyes darker from how blown out his pupils were—you know, maybe you weren’t too far off from the thought. “But unlike you, I don’t fuck the next thing that breathes my way.”

“Wow,” Jeno huffed. “Clearly I’m doing something wrong if you’re still running your mouth.”

You had a long history of letting your mouth run before your brain could even decipher if what you had to say would be ideal for the situation. To get out of it, though, was a completely different story and with how things are unfolding, yeah, maybe you bit off more than you could chew.

“No, no—shh, it’s okay. You're okay,” Jeno soothed just as you squirmed, trying to relax. “You're doing so good for me. Just breathe, yeah? Jus’ a little more—oh, fuck.” The guttural groan coincided with the squeak you let out once Jeno shoved himself balls deep into you with a faint slap of skin, clenching around him.

Out of all the men you’ve been with in the past, it took you the longest to adjust around Jeno’s girth. Not only because you simply did not have the time to fuck around, but he really was huge in the sense that he was somehow hitting places that you didn’t even know were there. He truly was the biggest you’ve taken in a while and it was a relief that you had the day off tomorrow and the day after; plenty of time to recover. The thought of having to explain getting railed over your coffee table to the point you were walking funny was mortifying enough as it is.

“This is so much better than hearing you bitch and moan, seriously. Sometimes I start thinking you just want me to hate you.” Jeno didn’t look like he was capable of hating anything if he tried, though with the way his hips drilled mercilessly into you, maybe a tiny part of him could. If pushed right. “And you complain so damn much about the noise when you’re no better. Can you hear how fuckin’ loud you are now?”

You didn’t even realize Jeno was still holding onto the hand that seemed to permanently glue itself onto his barely-there ass cheek until he took your joined hands—fingers laced and all—to migrate beside your head. Right in front of your face and, somehow, it felt like an insult.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you, Jeno Lee,” you moaned and squeezed his hand at a particularly hard thrust jostling you forward. “Fuck you and your useless big dick.”

Jeno snickered. You still called him big, so he’ll take that as a win. “My dick is one of those things and it’s not useless.”

Jeno didn’t really mind how loud you actually were. In fact, he liked it. A lot. Liked hearing how good he was making you feel with each drag of his cock within your warm and slick insides. Liked knowing that he was the reason why you were so lost in your own song of pleasure as you fucked back onto him with all you’ve got when he stopped all his movements to see what you would do and goodness, were you a sight for sore eyes. And Jeno was glad to witness all of this.

You were truly a fantasy come to life. Something he’d never would expect to touch, to mold and to feel in his own hands.

Watching you take what you wanted with no complaints was not an expected outcome—hell, having sex with you wasn’t what Jeno was hoping to get from tonight at all. Talking would have been just fine, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Of course not. Not when you were putting up a show, fueled by your own greed for pleasure, for him and him alone and he could tell all that pent-up stress was starting to seep out the more the back of your thighs met his.

Jeno was a patient man for sure. He was known for it at work. When it came to his diligent daily visits to the gym just two blocks away. When it came to living life in general; yet somehow, you were part of the minute collective that was able to test that until there was nothing left of it and as much as Jeno loved seeing you like this; desperate enough for cock that doing all the work was no problem, he quickly grew bored being a spectator.

There was also you threatening the safety of his skull if he didn’t get a move on to fuck you harder. Jeno only let out an amused snort at this, thinking it was cute and leaned forward so you were chest to back.

“I hoped for a second you’d be begging,” he mumbled into your nape. “you’re something else, aren’t you?”

“Fuck me, or I’ll make sure you’ll never get to fuck anyone else ever again.”

Well.

You did make a compelling argument, and just like how this all went, Jeno followed and delivered.

It was made very clear to you that his muscles weren’t just for show because unlike you, he possessed an insane amount of core strength that it barely dented his stamina when he lifted you up a couple of inches above the coffee table. Your joined hands came in clutch for balance while his free hand acted like a necklace loosely wrapped around your throat so Jeno could kiss you as his hips regained momentum.

Kissing gradually became less of a thing and more of just you both breathing into each other’s mouths, completely taken over by the sheer pleasure of it all. Normally, you’d avoid his eyes if you could, but you were so far gone that you didn’t mind staring into the endless pits of Jeno’s hooded stare. His thrusts slowed down, yet they were more deliberate than ever that it took all of your leftover energy to not say anything stupid like how this change in angle and pace had Jeno plunging in so deep that you could almost feel him in your throat.

“‘m close,” he rasped, hand on your neck tightening a smidge as his movements steadily increased in speed. “How about another one from you, huh? On my cock this time?”

You could only sound a shaky hum and that was enough of an answer for him.

Heated and damp skin met the glass surface once more and Jeno’s cock snugly fit inside of you again with little to no resistance. It was almost the same as how you started out. The only difference was your navel pressing firmly against the table by your still joined hands pushing down onto your back.

Time wasn’t wasted at all and that change alone fully intensified the sensation of Jeno’s girth drilling into you like he was trying so hard to carve a space that he could only fill, even more so when you wriggled and squared your hips to take him in better. It made so much of a difference that your eyes rolled back into your skull as mindless pleasured noises spilled past your lips, your grip around his fingers growing tighter that it hurt your own.

The second wave of your orgasm encroached at a dangerously fast pace from the oversensitivity earlier and the consistency of Jeno’s perfectly timed jackhammering thrusts hitting the tender spot within you, forcing out tinny ah ah ahs out of you as you clenched around him from how mind-numbingly amazing this was, being underneath Jeno’s weight.

It’s been too fucking long that the delirious part of your brain, completely compromised by the rush of dopamine and oxytocin from cumming for the second time entertained the idea of keeping Jeno buried in you long enough until your insides molded around each ridge and vein of Jeno’s cock for the perfect fit. You’ve never felt this full in your life. Even the frantic pistoning of Jeno’s hips aided by the wet gush of slick didn’t shatter the illusion. The feeling of cotton stuffed into your ears came back tenfold.

“Close,” Jeno rasped. “Where—where?”

“Pull out,” you said, all too winded to add that you were on the pill, but you didn’t want to take your chances. Apparently the tension was that bad that none of you had the forethought of using a condom. Your minds were so clouded that critical thinking was impossible, but what’s done was done.

Jeno pulled out with a slick sound, followed by a shaky moan that grew louder and louder with each stroke of his cock, leaving you to whine from the loss (wow, you were so out of it). Warm cum splattered onto the sweat-damp skin of your back and for once, you didn’t have the heart or energy to complain about the sticky mess

Click.

Your eyes shot open. “Did you just take a photo of me?”

“Yeah,” Jeno said. “You look good like this. Pretty. Wanted to have something to jerk off too.”

He could have just stopped at pretty. “You’re gross. You aren’t going to show that to anybody else, are you?” 

“Don’t worry, I don’t like sharing and I actually value my life.”

You could only groan in response, sagging more against the now moist surface of the glass as if you were trying to merge yourself with it, feeling the after effects of Jeno trying to fuck the life out of you.

“I think I’m going to die.”

Jeno responded in kind with a sweet laugh, letting go of your hand. It didn’t even register that you still had your fingers intertwined up until he let go, and tempted as you were to lift yourself up and see what kind of face he was making now that he left his mark on you, you were genuinely too exhausted to do that.

“That good, huh?” His hands returned to your hips, squeezing them gently. “I told you so.”

With the last bit of your strength, you kicked at his thigh.

“Okay, let’s get you up.” He swiped his discarded shirt up from the floor to wipe away the cum before lifting you up by the armpits so you’re on your knees, settling your weight onto your calves as he watched your pullover delicately fall into place and cover up most of your skin. Your own name on his tongue sounded so far away to you. “—hey. You still with me?”

There’s a hum as a response and that’s it. Not only did he end up fucking all the stress and tension out of you, there goes half of your life, too. Gravity took over and you fell right into his chest with your head cushioned by his bare shoulder, eyes glazed over.

“How does a bath sound?”

You nodded, letting your eyes slip closed as Jeno adjusted your slumped form to carry you.

Jeno almost jumped out of his skin when your phone rang.

“Hello?” Jeno said quietly after scrambling for it on your side of his bed, looking over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t woken you up. He didn’t think you had granted him the perk to simply barge into your room just yet, so he had you clothed in one of his sleep shirts and a pair of new boxer shorts as you dozed away.

“Jeno? Why do you have her phone? Did you kill her before she killed you?”

“No.” That made him worry. How often did you tell anyone who’d happily lend an ear that you’d murder him in cold blood? Whatever, hopefully after tonight, things will smoothen out. “She’s asleep right now. She won’t be heading back over there tonight.” Or ever, he thought.

“Oh?” Jaemin sounded excited for a second, then turned suspicious. “Why? Did she forgive you yet?”

Jeno let the question marinate for a moment, weighing the benefits of letting one of the nosiest people he knew in on his business. A loud snort followed by some mumbling startled him and Jeno craned his neck to find you now facing his side of the bed, still asleep with your mouth parted in a darling little ‘o’. There’s drool at the corner of your mouth. You’ve never looked cuter.

“Define… forgive.”

For once, Jaemin, surprisingly, was rather quick on the uptake “Oho? You two fucked it out, didn’t you?” When Jeno didn’t answer right away, Jaemin gasped. “Jeno, you dog!”

His cackling caused Jeno’s cheeks to flush an impossible red. “Don’t make it weird!”

“You made it weird the second you decide to sleep with her. Besides, we’re all adults here! I promise I won’t tell my third unofficial roommate“—Jeno wished he could reach through the phone right now and choke the life out of him—“that you told me. Tell me everything. Down to the nastiest detail—Hyuck! Oh my God, you’re home just in time. Guess what—“

“I’m coming by and getting the rest of her stuff in a bit.” The whining fell deaf onto Jeno’s ears. “Goodbye, Jaemin.”

He hung up, gently sliding your phone underneath the pillow you’re using. Actually, maybe you'd let him in your good graces if he went to fetch your charger.

Just when he thought peace and quiet had finally been attained, his own phone started buzzing from an onslaught of messages.

Hyuck: U GUYS FUCKED????? Hyuck: WITHOUT ME??? Hyuck: NO FAIR 😭😭😭😭

Jaemin: OR ME??? Jaemin: spare coochie plz 🥺🤲🏼

Hyuck: was there a tape at least 😔

Jaemin: 👀

Jeno: I hope she kills you both when I show her these.

Jeno set his phone to ‘Do Not Disturb’ and tossed it carelessly onto his nightstand.

This was not your room.

With each toss and turn, it still smelt like man, which wasn’t completely awful. It’s a rather pleasant scent; fresh, not too overwhelming on the citrus notes and something woodsy and floral binding everything together. A little too summery when it was currently in the middle of autumn, but you supposed you were in no position to judge when you’ve been using the same perfume since high school.

All in all, it was still nice. If not a little off-putting, not waking up entangled in your linen sheets which was starkly different from how your usual mornings went, yet the exhaustion was what kept you from making a huge fuss. At least Jeno's room didn't harbor the aesthetics of anything from the r/malelivingspace subreddit. Jeno's room was rather nice. Clean. Neat. Evident that a man lived here.

Apart from the abrupt change, there was also the bone-deep soreness serving as a heavy reminder of the aftermath of your decision to sleep with the very same person who took it from you.

And how ironic that he was also the reason why you slept so well last night too.

What a way to end your so-called case study with you as the punchline, really and—fine, maybe Jeno did have the room to boast his admittedly exceptional stroke game. Maybe Jeno knew how to make people cum and it was a fluke that he made you, too. Twice. Maybe Jeno earned his merit of being an expert in the field of sex then.

Your lips wobbled, frowning at Jeno’s ceiling.

This was literally the worst discovery of your life. Being a test subject yourself to see if Jeno’s reputation had preceded him didn’t make it any less horrifying. How could you return to normalcy after this?

You buried your face into one of Jeno’s many pillows and screamed.

Luckily, he hadn’t caught wind of your morning breakdown.

After freshening up in the bathroom, you quietly made your way towards the spacious kitchen, assuming it’s where Jeno was, albeit slowly as each step you took made the ache in between your thighs more pronounced. He had his back to you, bare of anything besides the tight boxer briefs and the frilly pink apron shielding his torso from the splattering oil cinched around his waist.

Jeno Lee painted the very picture of temptation in this current moment. Jacked all to hell, complementing his god-like proportions that showed off his slutty waist women alike would die to have and a striking face that could start wars. But out of everything, your gaze lingered on his barely-there ass wondering if your nails did leave any stinging marks that Jeno would feel for days.

“Oh, hey. You’re up—were you staring at my ass?”

From his behind, you immediately stuck your eyes onto something else less suspicious—like the geometric light fixture just above his head you once hoped would knock him out one day.

“No I wasn’t,” you said, keeping your voice even. “Can’t stare at anything that isn’t even there.”

“Hey!” Jeno whined. “I do have an ass!”

“And I have a dick,” you shot right back and made your way towards where the shitty coffee machine was. Just a few paces away from where Jeno stood. “See how easy it is to lie?”

He sighed. “How come you have an answer for everything?”

You cracked your first smile of the morning. Smug, if anything, but a smile nonetheless. “You just make it so easy.”

“Damn, so even the sex wasn’t enough,” Jeno muttered as he flipped a pancake with an effortless flick of the wrist. “How many rounds will it take for you to forgive me?”

“Zero.” If looks could kill, Jeno would have burst into flames by now. “Is sex all you think about?”

“I can think of other things…” he trailed off, giving you a quick glance with a sweet moue on his lips. “most of my thoughts are of you, so…” Jeno turned to you fully, his eyes gaining a hopeful shine.

That shocked a short laugh out of you in spite of yourself, shaking your head as you marched for the cupboard. “Nice try, big guy—and the sex?” You shot him a quick glance over your shoulder. “You can forget about it.”

“Okay.”

You looked at him again. Jeno was now frying eggs with his face devoid of everything but concentration.

“I still hate you,” you added, loudly.

The sunny side-up eggs slipped cleanly onto a large plate. “Mhm.”

“It was a one time thing.” Somehow his lack of a reaction was slowly getting to you. “It’s not happening again. Ever. I’m not having sex with you again. Ever.”

“Yeah, I got you the first time.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Perfect.” You harrumped, making a quick grab for your favorite mug before coming face-to-face with your stupid ass coffee machine.

This was not your stupid ass coffee machine.

What sat in place of the old piece of junk Granny had given you as a housewarming gift (after expressing her concern for your possible caffeine addiction) was a newer model you were pretty sure most, if not all, lifestyle influencers had displayed in their meticulously curated coffee corner. This was built mostly for convenience and to fit into the current trend of aesthetics, no wonder you couldn’t get it to work last night. Muscle memory had you pressing the wrong button.

Slowly, you pried your trembling eyes from the brand-spanking-new replacement to watch your roommate in his element, completely unaware of you currently going through the greatest shock of your life, and back.

You looked closer. There was a Post-It stuck onto the side.

I’m sorry (.◜ᯅ◝) — your asshole roommate.

Jeno bought you a new coffee machine.

“Hey Jen?” you called softly after a full minute of inner deliberation.

Jeno hummed his acknowledgement. He even fried the bacon just how you liked it. There’s no way you couldn’t forgive him now. You were mean, sure, but you weren’t evil. Why did he have to be so nice?

“Can you show me how the coffee machine works?” Then, just as quietly, you added: “please?”

He turned to look at you with the most brilliant smile as he killed the fire.

“Yeah. Of course.”

Mark (ER): so did you two talk yet Mark (ER): ..hellooooo Mark (ER): did you kill him 😟

You: no? tf

Mark (ER): so u guys r good now or

You: 👍🏼👍🏼

Mark (ER): omg TWO thumbs ups 😀 Mark (ER): are u bffs now ??? Mark (ER): i was here first btw

You: go bother ur gf omg??????

a/n: *taps mic* ...hello is this thing on? First things first, thank you so much for reading until the end! Originally, this was supposed to come out as a full one-shot, but life has been all sorts of crazy that I simply haven't had enough time to work on this fic as much as I would have liked to. And upon realized it has been so fucking long since I've posted the teaser, I decided to just split it into two parts to get something out, so I truly apologize for the very long wait! I do hope you enjoyed the read and please please let me know your thoughts on it <3

bonus of me going thru it in our chat lovingly named 'en-ct':

TAGLIST: @jaylaxies @hoondrop @justalildumpling @dammit-jjk @learnthisfeeling @90s-belladonna @rjreins @pinknjm @kshynj @dorkyji @notevenheretbh1 @everytimeicrymytearsdonteverdry @iscocohere @seulkikiii @wintahh @peachesmilk @rxnexxi @rum-gone-why @bluedbliss @tiramisubox @jinxxdreamz @minkyuncutie @txnml @yawnzshit @suhwife @carelessshootanonymous @sanctify-mp3 @haechansbbg @dreamiestay @ryuvrsie @derywinkle @byungbyungbaek @surrealxox

[admiringlove]

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

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

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

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

➵ word count. 14.7k.

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

➵ navigation. previous, masterlist, next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Truly,” he repeats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll see you soon,” you say.

“You better,” Hagrid replies, and though his voice is light, there’s something in it—something thick and raw—that makes you pause.

You look back at him. At the fire glowing behind him, the shelves cluttered with jars and strange creatures, the quiet weight of seven years spent growing up beneath this roof in ways you never could have predicted.

And you nod. Once. Firmly.

“Always,” you say.

Then you turn toward the path, with Twig riding your shoulder like a sentinel until he makes his way to your pocket. And you make your way back toward the castle, where the rest of your life is waiting.

The castle glows golden in the lull of the evening, light slipping through the stained-glass windows in streaks of honey and crimson, the stone corridors drowsy with the hum of last-minute preparations. You move slowly, fingers grazing the cool stone banister of the staircase as you ascend, mind half-lost in thoughts of the night ahead—of charmed candlelight, the faint rustle of silk, the delicate clink of glass on glass. You imagine Gojo waiting by the ballroom archway, his grin just a little too confident, his tie knotted too tightly around his throat, a nervous twitch at the edge of his mouth he’ll pretend isn’t there. You imagine how it will feel to dance with him in front of everyone—for once, not hiding, not pretending to be anything less than what you are to one another.

Then you hear your name.

“[Y/N]!”

It’s Shoko’s voice—ragged, out of breath—and it slices through the quiet like a spell gone sideways.

You stop midway up the steps, your shoes scuffing gently against the worn stone, heart instantly ticking faster beneath your ribs. Shoko is below you, hurrying with a letter crumpled in her grasp, her usually calm features drawn tight with something that’s not quite panic—but close. When she finally reaches you, two steps down, she’s panting, chest rising and falling beneath the open collar of her school shirt.

Your breath catches.

“It’s Gojo,” she says, and her voice trembles slightly, like she’s trying not to sound as worried as she is. “His father sent him a letter a-and—”

“And?” you echo, already swallowing around the stone that’s lodged in your throat. “Is he alright? He was supposed to see me before the ball. I thought everything was fine—he told me the Auror application went through, that he passed the first round without issue.”

You’re speaking too fast, voice pitched slightly higher than you’d like. You hate that it gives you away.

Shoko holds the letter out to you. You take it with hesitant fingers, the parchment already creased from where she’s been clutching it too tightly. Your eyes skim over the elegant handwriting, all too familiar—the kind of neat, clipped penmanship only pureblood patriarchs seem to possess. And there it is, halfway down the page: “urgent matter of utmost importance.” And then further down, the words that make your chest seize.

Fraternizing with Muggle-borns.

You blink once, twice, as if that might change what you’ve read. But the words stay, still and unrelenting.

You look up at her slowly. “D’you think... his father found out? About us?” you ask, your voice quiet. Not out of secrecy. Out of fear.

Shoko exhales, her lips thinning into a flat, tired line. “I wouldn’t put it past that man,” she says, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “One whole year since everything happened, and he still hasn’t let Gojo forget that he didn’t graduate early like he wanted him to. Still breathing down his neck like he’s trying to drag him into some war that hasn't even started yet.”

You stare back down at the letter in your hand, its ink glinting slightly in the candlelight. Your fingers curl tighter around it.

“He found a place of his own,” you murmur, half to yourself. “He moved out. He doesn’t even go home anymore unless it's a holiday.”

“And thank Merlin for that,” Shoko mutters. “At least he doesn’t have to listen to his bastard father's cribbing every summer now.”

The silence stretches for a moment. Your shoulders feel heavier, as if the worry is slowly trickling down your spine, weighing every step forward.

Then you ask, still staring at the letter, “You think he’ll show?”

“To the ball?” Shoko replies, taking the last two steps up so she’s level with you now. She rests a hand on your shoulder, firm but warm, grounding you. “Of course he will.”

You turn your face toward her slowly, eyes searching.

She offers you a small, half-smile. “Gojo might be an asshole, especially to his father, but he’s never disappointed you. Not once. You know that. Besides, he’s Head Boy. You’re Head Girl. You’ve got responsibilities tonight. He won’t miss it. Not for the world.”

You want to believe her. And somewhere deep down, maybe you already do.

Still, you clutch the letter in your hand like it might disappear. Like if you keep holding it, you can somehow protect him from the weight of it. The threat it contains. The things it implies.

“I’ll see you in the ballroom,” she says, gently patting your shoulder before turning back toward the corridor.

You nod, watching her descend, the letter still pressed tightly in your fingers, the words now carved into your bones. And when she’s gone, you stand there a moment longer, alone in the soft hush of the staircase, the castle rustling with anticipation around you.

You give the Fat Lady the password, voice meekly small. She nods regally and swings open with a theatrical sigh, as if she too knows what's coming. What you're walking into.

The Common Room is quieter than you’ve ever known it to be. The fire burns low, a gentle, crackling murmur that lulls the room into a hush, its golden light stretching long and soft across the stone walls and the cardinal red of the area. The worn rugs underfoot muffle the weight of your steps, the kind of rugs whose fibers hold decades of laughter and sobs and spilled pumpkin juice and firewhiskey. It all feels more like a memory than a place—like something that's already begun to drift into the past even as you're standing inside it.

You pass the scattered armchairs and study desks—most now empty, abandoned in the scramble for ball preparations—and make your way up the stairs, past dormitories where someone is already trying to charm the wrinkles out of their dress robes, past windows flooded with early evening light. The castle is still. And your heart, for a moment, is too.

Your hand closes around the handle of your door—your door, because you’re Head Girl now, and that comes with a private room and a thousand quiet responsibilities. You step inside, and the door clicks shut behind you.

And you stop.

There’s something in the air. A stillness, or perhaps a silence so full it feels like a held breath. Like the castle is waiting, too.

The room is warm, and it smells faintly of parchment and pine and the perfumes you'd tested with Shoko earlier. The fire is already lit in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across your desk, where two unopened letters sit—neatly arranged in their placement. You recognize the handwriting immediately. One in neat, tidy strokes: Utahime. The other, messier, slanted, too rushed to be formal but unmistakably Toji.

You don’t open them. Not yet. You cross the room slowly, tracing a finger over the windowsill, where condensation beads against the glass. Outside, the sky has begun to shift—blue deepening into plum, gold melting into violet. It’s the kind of dusk that makes the world feel like it’s made of wax and dreams.

You should be getting ready. But you can’t stop thinking of him.

You turn around, pressing your back gently to the door. Letting yourself feel the weight of it. Letting the moment settle around you like snowfall. Your eyes drift to the bed, where your dress for the ball is laid out carefully—a sliver of midnight silk and stitched stars. You’d planned to get ready slowly, maybe with Shoko braiding your hair and teasing you about how smitten you are, maybe with Gojo sneaking in late and trying to peek before the night even begins. You were going to laugh. To twirl for him. To kiss him at midnight, just to be cliché.

But now? Now you clutch the letter Shoko handed you and read it again, its words already etched behind your eyes. His father. That damned man.

An urgent matter of utmost importance. Fraternizing with muggle-borns. Fraternizing with you.

You swallow. The words feel like smoke in your lungs.

You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to rip the letter in half and cast it into the fire, to pretend like the last year hasn't all led to this: to watching him leave, again, with no guarantee he’ll come back untouched.

Your breath trembles in your chest. Is he okay? You wonder if he's cold. If he's bleeding again. If his father raised his wand or his voice or both. But then you remember how he changed.

Because in the past year—since everything fell apart and everything else was rebuilt from scratch—he found his voice again. You gave it to him. Or maybe, he found it for you.

Dumbledore had destroyed the locket Horcrux with a basilisk fang that none of you ever asked too much about. (“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” he’d said with that twinkle in his eye.) The Ministry had sounded the alarm soon after—declaring an official state of war. The hunt for Sukuna’s Horcruxes began. A race against time, and what lingers in shadows.

The tomb had been sealed—by the Japanese Ministry of Magic, no less. Locked under layer after layer of spell-work and secrecy. But it wasn’t enough. Because dark things had begun to stir again. And the Ministries watched. Investigated. Every wizard who even whispered in the wrong direction was now under scrutiny.

It was exhausting, what survival had turned into. But somehow, you’d all endured.

Gojo, now one step closer to becoming an Auror. Geto, less distant lately, but closer to chasing creatures across the globe very soon. Shoko, her steady hands set on healing, already halfway to St. Mungo’s. Utahime and Toji—letters mostly consistent—training together under war-hardened instructors, sending back tales of dueling sessions and coded jokes that only made sense to you three.

And you, still in the thick of it. Still waiting. For what, you’re not sure. Maybe for tonight.

You walk to your desk and sit, finally exhaling. Your fingers trail across the letters, but you don't open them. Not yet. You press a hand to your chest instead, grounding yourself.

He’ll come. Gojo might be late. He might be arrogant, or reckless, or infuriating. But he is never untrue. He shows up. Especially for you.

Still, the thought persists. What if he doesn’t? What if this is the night you lose him because his father doesn't want him 'fraternizing' with a muggle-born?

You close your eyes. The ache that swells in your chest is too vast to name. But you feel it soften, just slightly, when you remember his voice—bright and laughing and untouchable. When you remember how he kissed you, the night after everything, and told you he was tired of pretending.

You remember the way he held you as if the world might end. And then, how it didn’t.

You press your forehead to the edge of the desk. Breathe. Let the night begin, at least.

You press your lips into a thin line, slow and contemplative, trying to hold the shape of your worry in your mouth. It's a poor disguise. It bleeds through anyway, out of the corners of your expression and into the rest of your posture, coiled in the way your shoulders hunch forward, in the slow, reluctant way you rise from your seat.

The dress waits for you, draped carefully over the foot of your bed like it’s been watching this whole time. Midnight blue, charmed to shimmer faintly under candlelight, the hem stitched with tiny embroidered stars that catch on your fingers when you touch it. It’s beautiful. Or it would be, if you weren’t sick with dread.

You remember how your mother dragged you to the tailor’s over Christmas break—how she’d insisted, waving a hand like an accusation when you said you didn’t care what you wore. “No daughter of mine, especially one who’s Head Girl, is going to turn up to a ball looking like she rolled out of bed in the evening.”

You hadn’t argued. You’d let her fuss and scold and order six rounds of fittings, and then later, back home, you’d watched her fold the dress into tissue paper with a kind of patience you didn’t understand.

Now, you step into it like you’re stepping into armor. The silk slips up your skin like an incantation, weightless but final. You don’t look at yourself in the mirror yet. You can’t—not when your chest is still tight with worry, when Gojo’s name feels like it’s etched into the inside of your ribs.

Your fingers work automatically, muscle memory guiding them as you gather your hair. Shoko taught you how to do this one—a loose twist at the nape of your neck, a few strands left out to soften your face. She’d always been better at this kind of thing, had always rolled her eyes at your inability to charm your curls into anything that didn’t resemble a bird’s nest. She said she’d help you tonight. Promised she would.

But you don’t want to call for her now. You imagine her rushing through the corridors just to get that damned letter into your hands, hair a mess, still in her old sweater and skirt from classes, and you can’t ask her for anything more. Not when she’s already done so much. Not when you’re the one who’d ruin her night with your sour mood if she were here.

So you do it yourself. Slowly. With fingers that tremble more than they should.

In the mirror, your reflection blinks back at you—pale, drawn, unsmiling. You swipe a smear of rouge onto your lips, then your cheeks, the way Shoko showed you. It doesn’t feel right. The color is too warm, too lively for the cold knot in your stomach, but you leave it. It makes you look less like someone who’s worried that the boy she loves is bleeding out alone in a place no one can reach.

Your thoughts don’t leave him. Not for a second.

You imagine him standing in front of his father again. That house—Gojo Manor—isn’t a home with his father around. It’s like a tomb. All glass and cold and silence. And his father’s voice, sharp like knives honed for generations. What did he say this time? What did he do to him?

You try not to picture it, but the images come anyway. Satoru with his hands clenched at his sides, back rigid. Satoru with his voice raised, finally—too late. Satoru, proud and alone and never asking for help even when he needs it most.

You know him. You know how deeply he hides the hurt. How easily he can bury it under a smirk. But not from you. Never from you.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides.

You slip into your shoes without grace, tugging them on more out of habit than care. They match your dress exactly—your mother’s insistence again—and the heel adds an inch, maybe two, to your height. You hate how dainty they feel tonight. How flimsy.

You step away from the mirror. You don’t give yourself more than a glance.

Because what does it matter, really, how you look, when the person you’re doting on might not come? When there’s a part of your chest that won’t stop bracing for the worst?

He’s supposed to be here. He’s supposed to walk in, all windblown charm and stupid jokes about how long it took you to get ready. He’s supposed to grin and twirl you and tell you that you’re a vision. He’s supposed to remind you, just by existing, that there is still something good and bright and absurd in the world.

But the mirror offers no answers. And the silence in the room has only grown thicker.

You stand still in the middle of it all, your breath shallow, your shoulders squared as if preparing for battle instead of a ball. And in the mirror, behind the rouge and the hair and the dress stitched just for you, is a girl who cannot stop worrying.

And loves him, more than she can say.

You leave the room feeling like a corpse dressed in silk.

The moment the door clicks shut behind you, the warmth of your private quarters slips away like a dream at dawn. The stone corridor greets you with cool stillness, and each step downward feels like gravity is working harder than usual to keep you tethered to the earth.

Your dress whispers with every movement, brushing softly against your ankles, but it might as well be funeral robes for the way you feel. Beautiful. Hollow. Like someone has scooped the heart out of your chest and replaced it with wet, heavy cloth. You're walking, yes, descending the familiar staircases of Gryffindor Tower with practiced grace, but you feel detached from it all—as if you're watching someone else from the corner of the ceiling, a girl in satin trying not to cry.

This night is supposed to be different. It's supposed to be a celebration, the last grand thing before the end. The ball, a Hogwarts tradition, meant to give the seventh-years something to hold onto, something to remember that isn’t sadness or nostalgia. As Head Girl, you’re meant to be the first to arrive, the first to dance with your date. And Gojo—Gojo, your date, your partner, your person—he’s supposed to be there too, grinning like a fool, offering his hand with dramatic flourish, like you’re in one of those fairy tales your mother used to read when you were little.

But instead, all you can imagine is a version of this night where he never comes at all.

Or worse, where he does show up late, bruised and bleeding and battered, the edge of his father’s fury carved into his skin. It’s happened before—fights you weren’t meant to witness, scars he never wanted to explain. And now, with the war stirring in every corner of the wizarding world, with his Auror applications, with the weight of his family name shadowing every step he takes—it feels too possible.

The corridor is quiet. Too quiet for the hour. There’s still half an hour before the ball begins, and the halls reflect it. Most students are elsewhere—meeting their dates in the Courtyard under the soft lilac glow of spring dusk, giggling outside Common Rooms, fumbling with corsages and breath mints. There’s laughter, faint and far-off, but it doesn’t reach you here. Only your own footsteps, soft against the stone. One more turn and a short flight of stairs, and you’ll be at the Great Hall.

You’re not really looking where you’re going anymore. Your thoughts are heavy, your limbs heavier. You think about the letter again, how official it had looked, how cold. You think about the words written there—fraternizing with muggle-borns—and your stomach tightens.

Then—

“Looking a little blue there, Fawkes. What, your date didn’t show?”

The voice is casual, almost teasing. But it slices through the haze in your mind like sunlight through fog.

You stop. Dead in your tracks. Breath catching like a snare. Your head snaps up. No one’s there.

Your brows knit, breath held, heart stammering in your chest like a bird against glass. You stand very still. You know that voice as if it were the very breath you take.

“Satoru,” you say quietly, voice trembling around the edges, “Take the bloody cloak off.”

And just like that—he’s there. As if the world exhales.

He peels the Invisibility Cloak away with a dramatic flourish, letting it pool in one hand. And it’s him. It’s really him. Gojo Satoru, standing in front of you in dress robes dyed the same deep, endless blue as yours, the color of sky between dusk and midnight. The velvet catches the candlelight in waves, rich and soft and utterly regal. The collar is high, the fit perfect. His bowtie’s a little crooked. His hair, though clearly combed, is already mussed again, messed somehow beautifully by the cloak. But he’s here. He’s whole.

And just like that, the pieces of you begin to knit themselves back together.

You don’t wait. You don’t think. You throw yourself into him with all the force of someone who has lived the last hour in fear, in grief, in panic. Your arms fly around his neck, face pressing against the warm skin of his nape, your whole body lifting off the floor as he catches you. He holds you effortlessly, arms anchoring you to him like the tide never left.

You breathe him in—pinewood and sugar and the strange, subtle scent of old spellbooks and late-night fires. Your feet dangle a few inches above the ground. You never want to move again.

“I thought you weren’t going to come,” you whisper into his throat. The words are broken, splintered with emotion. “I-I thought you went back home to see your father—”

He pulls you back just enough to look at you, his hands still firm on your waist as your feet touch the ground again.

“Fawkes,” he murmurs, soft, wry, “Do you really think I’d miss this for that sick man?”

Your brows lift, lips part, the words not quite forming.

“I didn’t bother going,” he continues, brushing a piece of hair out of your face with an absent, familiar touch. “Suguru saw the letter. Gave it to Shoko. I’m guessing they both panicked. I, however, was frolicking around in the Room of Requirement. Didn't know until twenty minutes ago that the letter got to you.”

He smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. But it’s a real smile. One only you get to see.

And you—you look at him, really look at him, and you feel the glassy sheen rising in your eyes. You almost say it. All of it. All the nightmares, all the fears, all the things you felt in your bones when you thought he was gone. But instead—

Instead, you just hold onto him, tighter this time, until the world feels safe again.

“I thought I’d have to watch you bleed again,” you whisper, the words trembling, fragile. “And heal you in the Room of Requirement well after the ball is over.”

The memory is too fresh—blood on your hands, the shakiness of your hands as you tried to see the wound Dobby stitched unevenly, Satoru's jaw clenched to stop the shaking. The Room had shifted itself countless times into something solemn, with a basin of clean water, a jar of dittany, and enough silence between you to drown in as you healed him multiple times throughout the past year and a half.

But now, his hand cups your face like he’s anchoring himself too, like the feel of your skin beneath his fingers is the only thing tethering him to this moment. “Trust me,” he says, voice low, steady, the kind of serious he only gets when he’s making promises you know he’ll die to keep. “You’re never doing that again. I’ll make sure of it.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, your breaths meeting in the narrow space between you. You close your eyes. His fingers drift to the nape of your neck, warm and careful, and for a moment the world outside falls away. There’s no letter, no father, no war. Just this: his breath against your lips, his heartbeat pressed against yours.

“Let’s give these boneheads the greatest waltz they’ll ever see, yeah?”

You huff a breath, a half-laugh slipping out before you can stop it, the corners of your mouth curling despite yourself. “Only you would think ballroom dancing is as serious as that.”

“Fawkes,” he says, grinning as he leans back just enough to meet your eyes properly, thumb tracing the soft curve beneath your cheekbone, “This is a battlefield. And I always win. Lucky for you, we’re finally on the same side. No more sulking over Quidditch cups that I stole from you. You get to win, too.”

And gods help you—you believe him.

When Satoru’s hand settles at your waist—familiar, warm, like it belongs there—and your fingers find their place on his shoulder, it hits you. This is real. This is happening. You let your other hand slip into his, and when the music begins, the two of you begin to move, steady and relaxed, under the soft golden light of the chandeliers. Everyone is watching. The entire school. Professors, classmates, ghosts drifting by the arches. They all see it now—what was once quiet and private and hidden away in stolen moments is now etched into the center of the Great Hall.

Over everyone's heads, just past the tall windows, you catch sight of the lawn outside—transfigured into something out of a dream. An entire section of grass just before the castle has been transformed into a glowing grotto, thick with charmed rosebushes, their blossoms heavy and luminous. Dozens—no, hundreds—of actual living fairies flit among the petals, their wings scattering delicate light with every movement. The soft glow of their bodies flickers like stars among the blooms.

It’s beautiful. All of it. But none of it matters, not really—not when you're looking up at him like that.

And with the way he looks back at you, it must be obvious. There’s no masking the softness in his gaze, the subtle smile tugging at the corners of his lips, the way his grip steadies you like he’s terrified of letting go.

Your heart beats loud in your ears, almost louder than the music, louder than the polite clapping from the edges of the room. You think of all the times you stepped on his toes while practicing in the Room of Requirement—your face burning with embarrassment, his laughter echoing in the enchanted space like he didn’t mind one bit. You think of McGonagall’s exasperated sighs as she called your entire year a “babbling, bumbling band of baboons” while trying to teach you the basics of the waltz. You remember the unfortunate Hufflepuff who got picked to dance with her—how the whole room had whistled and laughed, and how Satoru and Suguru, being their insufferable selves, had spent minutes trying (and failing) to say “babbling, bumbling band of baboons” five times fast, until you glared at them from across the room hard enough to make even Satoru fall quiet.

And now, here you are. Dancing perfectly in step with him. No missteps, no laughter, no nerves. Just the two of you, like you’ve always been meant to be.

"You're doing great," he murmurs, voice low, warm breath ghosting just beneath your ear as he guides you across the ballroom floor. "No toes being sacrificed tonight. I remain miraculously unmaimed. Truly, a historic feat."

"You’re such a twat," you reply, lips twitching despite yourself, barely managing to keep your grin at bay. "I practiced."

"Mm, by waging an all-out assault on my foot bones," he says, tilting his head with that infuriating smugness that makes you want to both kiss him and hex him. You sigh, leaning in just slightly, the motion subtle enough to go unnoticed by the onlookers, but not by him. He feels it—your weight, your warmth—as he spins you gently, hand returning to your waist with the same familiarity it always has, like he knows exactly where you’re meant to be.

"And to think," he continues, tone suddenly lighter but tinged with real curiosity, "you actually took my mother up on her offer. You're going to work under her soon. Still can't wrap my head around it."

"Well, it felt right when I said yes," you murmur, blinking up at him as he pulls you a little closer. He looks radiant like this—dressed in midnight-blue, surrounded by golden candlelight, the chandeliers overhead catching in his eyes and turning them bluer, brighter, something not quite of this world. You wonder how anyone could be so breathtaking. You wonder if he knows. You wonder if he knows that he’s always been your safest place, your most stubborn choice, the loudest part of your quietest hopes.

"It still feels right," you add.

"Really?" he arches a perfectly groomed brow, pulling back just enough for the two of you to separate, hands still clasped, before the music has you stepping back into his space again, movements smooth. Practiced. Perfect. "Because I don’t recall it ever sounding right."

“Satoru,” you sigh, exasperated in the way that only he can draw out of you. There’s a softness behind the exhaustion, though, a curl at the edge of your mouth that betrays your affection. He hears it in your voice, feels it in the way you say his name—not just as a word, but as a knowing. His grip on your waist tightens, barely, like he can’t help it.

“I think,” you say, voice low now, quieter just for him, “I was chasing St. Mungo’s because it was the most impossible thing I could think of. And for a while, I thought I had to do the impossible. I thought I had to be the best.”

"Classic you,” he mutters, half a smile tugging at his lips. “Always sprinting toward the hardest thing in the room, just to prove you can survive it.”

You huff a short laugh against his shoulder. He tilts his head again, and this time, the smirk is genuine.

“But you do realize,” he says, and his tone shifts into something drier, more amused, “that working under my mother is going to be way harder than becoming a bloody Healer, right?”

“She intimidates you, doesn’t she?” you tease, brow raised.

“She terrifies me, with how brilliant she is,” he says flatly, then spins you again, laughing under his breath. “And now you’re choosing to spend your days with her. That’s bold, even for you.”

“And yet,” you hum, resting your cheek briefly against his shoulder as the music swells around you, “I’ve survived you. Can she really be that much worse?”

“Oh, love,” he grins, the glint in his eyes unmistakable as he pulls you closer by a breath, so close now you can see the flecks of silver and storm in that impossible blue, “you have no idea what she’s like when she’s working. You remember the woman with the research on consciousness transference? The one you told, posing as my mother, that you'd read her paper?”

You blink, head tilting slightly. “Of course. She was sweet. And had cute glasses.”

“She transferred to Paris,” he says grimly. “Voluntarily. Mid-project. Didn’t even say goodbye. Packed her bags and left an owl to my mother saying something along the lines of being sorry that she wasn't capable enough.”

Your lips part, brows lifting. “Oh.”

He lifts a hand, runs it through his hair in mock despair. “You’re going to be at the Department of Mysteries, Fawkes. Mysteries. That alone sounds like a threat. Unspeakables will report to you. You’ll be the intern to the Head of Magical Research at the Ministry of Magic.” His voice lowers, more to himself now. “Everything will change.”

And then he glances away, jaw clenched, eyes flicking to where the flickering candlelight dances along the polished floor of the Great Hall.

“You might become,” he says, quieter, like it’s something he’s been choking on for weeks, “too busy, even for me.”

You don’t say anything at first.

Because suddenly, it all clicks. His dramatics. The jokes, the subtle jabs at your new position. The casual sighs, the "oh great, my mother gets you and I get none of you" comments. His pouting. All the mock-complaints about how your schedule would be “as bad as Dumbledore’s.” The way he’d avoid talking about the future whenever it involved separate buildings, separate lives.

You soften. You melt. And when the music comes to an end, and the two of you slow to a stop in the middle of the floor—still in each other’s arms, surrounded by the fading echoes of strings—your hands are already moving. One rises to his face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye, anchoring him in place.

“Satoru,” you whisper, gently.

He doesn’t look at you at first, not fully. Not until you say it again, firmer this time, with a voice like certainty.

“I’d always find you.”

His eyes meet yours, and in them you see every doubt and fear he’s been hiding beneath that endless bravado. The vulnerability behind the jokes. The ache behind the grin.

“I’m never going to be too busy for you,” you say, and it’s not a promise. It’s a truth. Steady. Inarguable.

And in that moment, for all his words and his wit, Gojo Satoru is quiet.

There is a beat of silence—thin and luminous—held delicately in the air like the last exhale before sleep. And then, softly, like feathers drifting to the floor, the Great Hall fills with polite applause.

You and Satoru step back from the center of the floor. The world resumes in pieces—violin strings beginning anew, voices humming softly, footsteps shuffling as other students prepare to follow in your stead.

You glance at the floor as it begins to fill again, this time with familiar faces: the Prefects and their dates, moving in careful synchrony to the tempo Professor Flitwick conducts with his wand from the orchestra pit. You watch Suguru, his hair neatly tied back, his expression oddly solemn, as he walks forward with Shoko, whose hand is looped through his arm with practiced ease.

There had been a quiet resistance in Suguru, when Satoru, after being made Head Boy, had offered him the Slytherin Prefect badge in his stead. He had accepted it reluctantly, with a quiet grumble and a narrowed gaze, muttering something about not wanting to be anyone’s replacement. But he had done it anyway, for Satoru, and maybe for Shoko too, though he’d never admit it aloud.

Satoru is quiet beside you, his body humming with some unreadable emotion, his hand still loosely brushing yours as you both observe the dance floor. His voice, when it comes, is hushed—barely audible beneath the murmurs of conversation and the soft waltz of the orchestra.

“I don’t want to share you tonight.”

The words slip from his mouth like a secret. A confession not born of insecurity but of need, of tenderness so quiet it trembles in the open air.

You turn to look at him, fully now, the folds of your dress brushing softly against his robes. There is something in your gaze that you’re certain only he understands—a soft, solemn knowing. You reach for his hand, and without needing to think, your pinkie finds his.

A hook. A promise. A quiet entanglement.

“Then don’t,” you whisper, your voice like warm parchment. And he hears what you don’t say. He always has.

Then comes the look.

That look—the one you’ve exchanged a hundred times over the years, across candlelit corridors and beneath star-drenched ceilings, behind pillars and under Invisibility Cloaks, in classrooms long after curfew and kitchens with stolen pastries between you. That look that had once meant Are you thinking what I’m thinking? or Meet me at the Room of Requirement.

But this one—this one is heavier. Older. It has gravity now.

It carries the weight of battles survived and time bent around shared laughter and unbearable pain. It speaks of nights in the Room of Requirement when you healed him, quietly, when he wouldn’t go to the Hospital Wing. It speaks of hands held during morning meetings, of letters shared across months apart, of grief and rage and becoming something softer in the aftermath of an incoming war.

There is no longer mischief in the look.

Now, there is something sacred.

“I told you he’d show up,” Shoko says once she’s off the dance floor—well, what was once a dance floor. Now it’s a crowded, chaotic mosh pit of sweaty seventh years bouncing along to some wizarding band you don’t even know the name of. The music they’re playing sounds like a cross between a banshee’s wail and a goblin’s wedding. It’s ungodly. And sort of brilliant.

You’re stationed near one of the snack tables, chewing on a Puffskein-shaped puff that you now realize is filled with mushrooms. You nod mid-bite. “Forgive me for assuming my boyfriend might get his ass handed to him for fraternizing with a muggle-born. Which, as you know, is yours truly.”

Shoko rolls her eyes and reaches over, swiping a thumb along the corner of your mouth to wipe off a stray crumb. You grin. “Look at you. Such a gentleman.”

“This is what I have to do when Gojo’s not around. Merlin help me,” she mutters, thoroughly unimpressed.

You laugh, turning your gaze toward the pit where Satoru and Suguru are making absolute fools of themselves. They’re both jumping around like the floor is lava, limbs flailing, sweat-damp dress shirts slowly untucking. It’s exactly what McGonagall predicted: a pair of babbling, bumbling band of baboons. And it’s glorious.

You’re about to reach for a cup of punch when Shoko grabs your wrist.

“I spiked it,” she murmurs. “Snuck into the kitchens earlier. Firewhiskey.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I thought you liked it when I drank.”

“I do,” she says. “But you’re probably going to sneak off with Gojo and do some unspeakably filthy things, and I want that to be a sober decision.”

“You’re abhorrent,” you say, smacking her arm gently. Maybe too gently.

She just shrugs, already reaching for the punch herself. “If the goblet fits.”

You huff, and then glance back at Satoru—who is definitely not dancing anymore. Not really. He’s just standing there, barely pretending to bop to the music, eyes flicking over to you every few seconds like he’s trying not to drown in the wait.

Shoko follows your gaze. “You should go.”

“It’s too soon, isn’t it?” you say, lips pulling into a frown. “What’ll it look like if both the Head Boy and Head Girl vanish halfway through the Graduation Ball?”

“It’ll look like two people who’ve done their part and finally let themselves breathe,” she says, no hesitation. “You danced. McGonagall’s satisfied. The Hall didn’t burn down. You upheld all your ceremonial duties. Go.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then—

“Go,” she says again, softer this time, and her smile is all fondness and approval, like she’s handing you a hall pass you never had to ask for.

You look at her one last time before turning to find him. And, of course, Satoru’s already making his way through the crowd toward you, loose-limbed and glinting with mischief.

“Thank you, Shoko,” Satoru says in that ridiculous sing-song voice of his as he grabs your arm and starts tugging you away.

“Next round of butterbeer and firewhiskey is on you when we all go to Hogsmeade after graduation!” she shouts after you.

You glance over your shoulder just in time to catch her smirking, and you throw her a grateful smile—soft, glowing. Then you’re gone, swept up in Gojo’s momentum, your sapphire-blue dress catching the candlelight and scattering it in gleaming shards across the corridor as the two of you break into a half-giddy run.

Laughter spills out of you like it’s been waiting all night. The halls are quiet this far from the Great Hall, echoing with your footsteps and the rustle of your dress, and for a moment it feels like you’ve slipped into some hidden pocket of the castle—just the two of you, weightless and breathless.

“Where are we going?” he asks, voice light with laughter. “We both have our own rooms now, you know. Or, if you’re feeling fancy and flexible, we’ve got the Room of Requirement.”

“Well,” you say, a little breathless, smiling at him like you’re both eighteen and eighty, like you’ve known this version of happiness your whole life, “Room of Requirement. Might be our last chance to be in it before we leave.”

Something shifts in his expression when you say leave—not sadness exactly. He nods once, solemn beneath all the playfulness, and squeezes your hand.

“Then let’s make it count.”

When the Room reveals itself to you, it is exactly the same. Of course it is. This place has always known what you needed.

The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, muffling the last echoes of laughter from the corridor, and suddenly the air is still—warm, quiet, nostalgic. As if the castle itself is holding its breath.

The olive green sofas are where they’ve always been, clustered in a loose semicircle around the wide hearth. The fire crackles low in the grate, casting honeyed shadows along the deep grain of the floor. Your heels sink slightly into the worn rug as you step forward, and the scent of ash and old books meets you like an old friend. To the right, the longtable still stands—its wood marked with ink stains and scorch marks and the faint carved initials of a boy who thought no one would notice. Beside it, the pinboard remains half-empty: a few leftover parchment notices from earlier in the year, the last of the Marauders’ requests curling at the corners. A weathered stack of Ministry reports lies untouched at the end.

You glance at Gojo, who walks just behind you, his steps strangely soft for someone usually so loud. He doesn’t say anything anymore, even though you'd been joking around in the corridor. You can't stay anything, either.

And that’s the part that feels strange—off, even. The silence. Not the comfortable kind that used to sit between you while you worked side by side on homework or dueling strategies, but something more brittle. Like if either of you speaks too loudly, the air itself might crack.

Because of course this place is the same.

But you aren’t.

Your eyes drift toward the far wall, where the training dummies still stand. The dueling space is cleared, polished, almost sad in its emptiness. Weirdly, it reminds you of the night in the catacombs, wand drawn and heart pounding, watching Satoru dodge curse after curse like it was nothing. You remember the moment he faltered. The way the air had gone cold and strange, like something ancient had stirred.

You remember what followed.

And of course Gojo had refused to stay quiet after everything unfolded. You don’t blame him. He’d done everything he could to protect Suguru from the Ministry’s wrath—stepped in front of him when his mother came, argued in closed-door meetings, written statement after statement on classified documents until his hands cramped from holding the quill.

Mirai hadn’t been pleased. That was putting it lightly.

Neither had Gojo’s father. You still remember the way his voice reverberated through the spiral staircase at the end of sixth year, bouncing against the stone like some cold echo of judgment. You remember standing there—hidden, as Gojo spoke to Mirai and Dumbledore after his father had angrily stomped off—when the story was told, in full, for the first time.

Six, or actually seven, students. A hidden map. A sealed tomb.

The tomb.

The tomb of Ryomen Sukuna.

Mirai had been furious. She’d kept her voice even—of course, she had—but you could feel her anger radiating like heat from her skin. That her son had been dragged into this. That you had. That all of you had gone on what should have been a suicide mission and returned with only a few scars, one bleeding boy and a story no one else would believe. She was furious. And yet, she was surprised, too. Not by what you had done, but that you’d survived it.

She had called it recklessness. Naivety. Arrogance. Maybe it was all of those things. But still, she hadn’t let the Ministry touch you.

You wrote her a letter that summer. Formal, cautious, lined with genuine thanks. You hadn’t expected a reply.

But she had sent one. With it, came the offer to work under her as an intern.

A position that felt impossible to say no to. A clear path ahead paved for you.

Your gaze lingers on the longtable again—on the pieces of parchment still scattered there. Most of it is Ministry related now. Over the course of the year, Gojo had turned the Room into something else. Less a hideout, more a headquarters for whatever your friend group was. When Mirai refused to let him officially meddle in Ministry affairs, he simply found ways around her. He had opinions. And influence. And just enough charm to make himself impossible to ignore.

You don’t doubt it was his doing—the final seal on Sukuna’s tomb in Japan. You’ve never asked, and he’s never confirmed it, but the silence in his voice when you brought it up said enough.

Mirai still doesn’t trust Dumbledore. That much hasn’t changed. She’d said as much to his face in his office—stern, composed, her voice low and razor-sharp. But even then, she'd stopped in front of you in the staircase before she left, rested a hand lightly on your shoulder, and said, Thank you. Quietly. Like it cost her something. Like it mattered.

Now, standing here in the room that’s held all of that—your joy, your exhaustion, your worst nights and best ones—it feels like the past is echoing in every corner. The walls remember. The floor does, too.

Gojo breaks the silence first. But only barely. Just a small, tired sigh as he crosses toward the fire and drops onto the couch like a stone sinking into deep water. He tilts his head back, lets his eyes close.

You sit beside him, your hands resting on your lap. Neither of you speaks yet. Neither of you has to.

"It's weird, isn't it?" he murmurs, his voice soft enough to barely ripple the air. He glances back at the longtable again, the corners of his mouth twitching in some wistful, unreadable expression. “Being here like this. I felt like it would never end.”

His gaze drifts across the Room like he’s trying to memorize it—every line of the bookshelves, every flicker of firelight, every worn groove in the wooden floorboards. The Room looks back at him, steady and unchanged. As if it will keep this moment safe for him, just in case.

You lean your head against the back of the sofa, your gaze following the shape of his profile. His collar is slightly crooked. There’s a smudge of glitter—when did he get glitter on him?—still clinging to the edge of his jaw, probably from the ball. You let out a soft sigh.

“I didn’t want it to,” you admit. The words slip out too easily. “I’m sad that it did.”

Gojo doesn’t answer at first. Just breathes, slow and deep, before reaching up and tugging off his glasses. The blue of his eyes hits you like it always does—blinding and too honest, all the more startling in the low light of the Room. You grin despite yourself.

“What?” he says, already catching your expression.

“You were using the Six Eyes on me.”

“I wasn’t,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “How many times do I have to explain this? It’s not like I stare into your soul with it every time I take my glasses off.”

You raise an eyebrow. “But you could.”

“Okay, yes, I could—but I don’t have to right now. It’s just magic-sensing, energy-tracking. Down to the last atom, if I want.”

He leans over then, and he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him. He cups your face, thumb brushing along your cheek so gently it still makes your breath catch. His palm is warm. Familiar. Home.

For once, he isn’t smirking. Isn’t teasing.

“You thought I wouldn’t make it today,” he says. Quiet. Certain. It isn’t an accusation. Just fact. Just something he knows because he knows you.

You blink slowly, heart thudding too loud in your chest, as if it wants to answer for you.

And maybe it does. So you nod.

"Why is that?" he asks, voice quiet, as though afraid to scare the moment away.

His brows furrow, and he shifts closer—just slightly, but enough to draw your breath short. You’re impossibly near now. Your head remains nestled in the pillow, but your temple brushes his shoulder. When he looks down, you're already looking up, eyes searching his face.

“I got scared,” you murmur.

He doesn't interrupt. Just waits.

“Of what?” he asks, softer still.

You shrug, but it’s a brittle thing. “Everything,” you say, voice thin. “Your father. I read the letter, you know. It said ‘fraternizing with muggle-borns’ like it was some kind of disease. Like it was wrong to even speak to someone like me.”

His face darkens, jaw twitching.

You continue, gentler now. “I remember him. That day in Dumbledore’s office. The way he looked at me, like I was filth. Like I was taking something from him. H-he huffed in my face, like I wasn’t worth breathing the same air. Then he stormed out, before you even had the chance to explain everything to your mother.”

Gojo’s hand tightens slightly on the sofa cushion, but he doesn’t speak.

“And even that night,” you go on, more quietly, “when we snuck into the Ministry. When we used the Polyjuice. You... you were acting like someone I didn’t know. You didn’t feel like you. You breathed like him. Walked like him. You were him. I know it was part of the plan, but—Merlin, it scared me. I couldn't believe it. You acted just like the man who hurt you.”

He doesn’t say anything.

For a second, you wonder if you’ve gone too far. If you’ve dredged up something too heavy, too sharp-edged to hold in this soft, sacred space between you.

But then, he grins.

A wide, wolfish thing. That stupid, boyish smile you’ve seen on him since you were thirteen and he hexed a suit of armor to sing Utahime.

And you sit up, affronted.

“Satoru,” you start, indignant. “Stop smiling! Do you even understand how scared I was? I thought... I thought you’d show up all bloodied and bruised and I’d have to heal you, you stupid, stupid man! Why am I even with you—”

But then he’s grabbing you.

His hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling you in so fast you lose your words to the kiss. It’s warm and full of teeth, he nips your lower lip like he wants to anchor you here, in this moment, in him. His grin presses into your mouth, lopsided and shameless.

A sound slips out of him—half a hum, half a whimper—and when you pull away, breathless, his eyes are still smiling even if his lips aren’t.

“Satoru,” you whine, swatting his chest. “Why can’t you be serious for once?”

His grin softens. Fades, just a little, like morning mist.

“I am serious,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “That’s why I kissed you.”

"You're kissing me because you like kissing me," you fire back, eyes narrowing just slightly. “That’s different. I don’t like seeing blood on you, come on—”

“Fawkes,” he interrupts.

“No, you need to listen to me!” you barrel on, breath hitching a little. “You said it yourself. Everything’s going to change once we leave Hogwarts. Everything. You’ll be in danger all the time as an Auror. Your mother will be watching me and you, and your father—God knows he already keeps an eye on you, I swear he's got someone tailing you in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade—”

“Fawkes.”

“God knows what’ll happen if you make the slightest mistake. God knows how many more times I’ll have to sit you down and put you back together and pretend it doesn’t tear me apart, Satoru, because—”

“Do you ever shut up?” he asks, and though his words could be sharp, they’re not. His brow furrows, but there’s a flicker of fondness in his voice, like he can’t help it. “No, really. I love it when you talk, but don’t you think…”

He shifts again, closing the last inch between you, his hand splayed warm over your waist, thumb grazing the fabric of your dress like he can pick it apart, thread-by-thread, in seconds.

“…that we came here to be alone?” His voice drops, soft, low enough that it curls in your chest like a whispered spell. “And now you’re just arguing with me?”

You blink. He’s so close it’s dizzying.

And the worst part is—you are arguing. Which you hadn’t realized until he said it.

“…You’re deflecting,” you say, but it comes out breathier than intended.

“And you’re beautiful when you worry,” he murmurs, dipping his head so your noses brush again. “But I don’t want to spend, what could be, our last night here talking about my father.”

His lips hover above yours, waiting.

“Or blood.”

Your breath catches.

“Or what might happen if I lose you,” he finishes, quiet, sincere now. “Because I won’t.”

You don’t reply. You don’t have to. Because he’s on you already—pressing into your space, his hands anchoring you by the hips, his mouth seeking yours like you’re the only source of something vital. He kisses you like you are the last remaining piece of something long-lost. As if you are the thing that keeps him upright, keeps him whole. As if you’re the air he’s been holding out for all year. He kisses you like you make his lungs work properly. Like the war will never touch either of you and yet you’re the only balm for the wounds it left behind, as if it already passed.

And Merlin, the way he says your name when he pulls back, just barely, is holy. Sacrilegious, even. His breath is warm against your cheek. He’s looking at you like you hung the bloody stars.

“You,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours with the ghost of a grin, “need to stop worrying about me all the time.”

You blink, still trying to come back to earth. You exhale slowly, chest rising beneath your dress, your hands still tangled in the collar of his shirt like you’ll fall if you let go.

“That’s my job,” you whisper, looking up at him through your lashes, voice trembling with something raw and too soft to name. “You can’t just tell me to stop worrying when I love you.”

The words hang there. The moment after them is too still. His eyes widen slightly, but not with surprise—just the sharp, quiet kind of awe that only someone like him can wear so sincerely.

Your own eyes go wide a beat later, too late, when you realize what you’ve said. “Wait. You didn’t hear that.”

“Oh, Fawkes,” he grins, and it’s devastating—mischief curling at the edge of his mouth like he’s seventeen and untouchable and invincible all over again. “I heard that very clearly. Every syllable. Can you believe this is the first time you’ve said it?”

“No, stop,” you groan, eyes shutting fast as you collapse into him, hiding your face in the warm press of his chest. His robes smell faintly like cedarwood and the musky scent that’s been following him around since the ball began. You fist the fabric there, burying yourself like maybe if you concentrate hard enough, you can disappear into the weave of his shirt.

You squeeze your eyes shut, as if it might reverse time. A sharp breath rushes out of your nose and catches against his skin. He doesn’t laugh. He just wraps an arm tighter around you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through the soft strands of your hair with infuriating tenderness.

“Hey,” he whispers, coaxing. “Come on. Look at me.”

You don’t. So he cheats.

His hand glides down slowly, deliberately, tracing the edge of your neckline. He finds the strap of your dress with two fingers and pulls it gently aside—it slips from your shoulder, falling with a whisper of silk to rest against your collarbone and arm. He pauses, hand splayed over the bare skin there like he’s feeling for a heartbeat. Like he’s memorizing something important.

You look up then, finally. Your brows furrow, the soft crease between them deepening as you try to figure out what this expression on his face means. It’s not teasing anymore. It’s not pride, or smugness, or victory.

It’s something else. It’s something quieter.

“Satoru,” you say, and his name catches in your throat.

And he smiles—not the cheeky one, not the too-wide grin that spells trouble. No, this is the other one. The one reserved just for you. The one that’s all soft corners and unspoken history. The one that reaches his eyes like starlight hitting the surface of still water.

“I love you more,” he says, so easily it steals the breath from your lungs. His voice is low. Certain. It feels like it’s always been true.

He leans forward, forehead brushing yours.

“Way back since fourth year,” he continues, lips grazing your cheek now, “when you came to find me, and found this place with me in it.”

The Room hums around you, warmly familiar, as if it remembers that night just as clearly. As if it’s bearing witness again, watching from its walls like it always has. The fire flickers gently, casting shadows over the bookshelves and long-forgotten Marauder parchments tacked to the pinboard, and for a second—for one small, suspended second—it feels like you have all the time in the world.

“Satoru,” you whisper, breath catching against the space between your bodies, where the warmth of him lingers. “Don’t say things like that so lightly.”

The light dances across his face as he pulls back just enough to see you, to watch you—his grin lingering like a secret held between his teeth. His eyes, those impossible things, gleam like polished gemstones in the flickering glow, blue catching gold, catching silver, like moonlight bent through glass.

“You just professed your love to me,” he says, and the incredulity in his voice is somehow boyish and dazzling all at once, threaded with the kind of wonder that can’t be faked. “And that’s what you say when I do it in return?”

His fingers trace a slow line across your jaw, tilting your face just slightly toward his, like he needs to read every shift in your expression. You don’t resist. You never really do—not when he’s like this. Soft and unguarded and looking at you like you’re something preciously irreplaceable.

“We’ve done worse things than confess our love for one another,” he says, leaning in, so close now his nose brushes yours. The air between you is charged, delicate, trembling like a spider’s web in the wind. “More sinful, if you know what I mean.”

Your breath hitches. Your pulse stumbles.

“Satoru,” you say again, this time with a tone meant to scold—but your voice betrays you, quiet and flustered and full of something that unravels under his touch. He grins wider. That infuriating grin that you’ve loved since the moment you first saw it—back in fourth year, in this very room, when you found him before he could ask anyone else for help.

Because the things he says do something to you. They make the blood in your veins rush straight to your cheeks like it’s been summoned, like it’s something ancient and bound by spellcraft. They make your heart thud loud in your chest, a rhythm faster than any incantation can measure. And your eyes—Merlin, your eyes burn, hot and heavy, with a glossed-over sheen of something you don’t have the words for.

Maybe it's magic. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s something even older than either.

But you’re here, with him, and his hand is still on your bare shoulder, and his thumb is brushing the hollow of your collarbone like a prayer. And maybe he doesn’t say things lightly. Maybe he says them exactly when you need to hear them most.

“We can’t,” you whisper, voice breathy, a plea trembling between reluctance and longing. It comes out high and soft, the sound of someone losing a battle they’re not sure they want to win. “Not here.”

“Not here?” he echoes, and his eyebrow lifts, that stupidly wicked glint dancing behind his lashes. “You didn’t say that last time, love. When it was three in the morning and Nanami, Shoko and Suguru had gone back to their dorms—d’you remember that? You were on me like second skin.”

You groan, half-mortified, half-thrilled, and slap a hand over his mouth before he can keep going. “Satoru,” you hiss, your eyes squeezed shut, voice colored with exasperation—but your fingers tremble against his lips. You press a soft kiss to the back of your hand, resting it over his mouth like you’re trying to physically trap the memory between your palms.

He doesn't resist. He only smiles beneath your touch, slow and amused and unbearably fond, before gently peeling your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything. And then he moves.

It happens in quiet, deliberate motions. The kind that steal your breath without asking permission. One moment you’re sitting side by side, and the next, he’s guiding you down, the velvet-soft cushions of the Room’s conjured sofa cradling your spine as you lay there. The second strap of your dress slips down without resistance, catching against your upper arm, exposing your bare shoulders to the warm hush of firelight. You’re glowing under him, bathed in gold and shadow.

He leans over you, hands braced on either side, his breath warm against the hollow of your throat. “Don’t do things you know will have an effect on me,” he murmurs, the words curling like smoke into your skin. Then his lips—his maddening, knowing lips—graze just beneath your ear, pressing a kiss there, slow and deliberately sloppy. The kind meant to make you shiver.

And you do. A shudder works through you like a wave of mystique, pooling in your belly. Your hands find his back, curling into the folds of his shirt like you’re anchoring yourself.

But he’s already pulling away just enough to undo his coat—shrugging it off with the grace of someone who’s done this a hundred times, but who only ever wants to do it again with you. He tosses it to the floor like it doesn’t matter, like the whole world could be on fire and this is the only moment worth salvaging.

“Satoru,” you breathe, into the curve of his neck. It’s not a warning. It’s not permission either. It’s something else—need, maybe, or surrender.

He hears it. Of course he does. His hands are already moving again, mapping your body with the quiet devotion of someone who’s memorized a sacred text. He knows the places that make you arch into him, that make your mouth fall open, gasping. His palms slide along your waist, firm, grounding, and he squeezes your hips like he’s trying to remind himself you’re here. That you’re his.

And then—slowly, carefully—he reaches up to your hair. He doesn’t rush. He never does. His fingers brush over your scalp, undoing the pins or the tie holding your hair up, loosening each strand with an almost maddening gentleness. It falls around your shoulders in soft waves, catching the firelight like a halo, and he exhales, like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

His mouth finds your collarbone next. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just… deliberate. He kisses along the ridge of bone, slow, like he’s following a trail only he can see. His lips part as he works lower—kissing just under the hollow, down the line between your collar and chest. His nose brushes your skin as he lingers there, warm breath fanning just above the skin of your sternum.

And you feel like you’re going to unravel.

“Fuck’s sake, Fawkes,” he gasps, and a whimper hitches in your throat as he glances up at you through his lashes. There’s something wild in his gaze now. A storm you recognize. You’ve seen it before—in battle, in moments of anger, in the quiet seconds just before he kisses you like he might never get to again.

“If you look at me like that—”

“Like what?” he murmurs, pressing another kiss, just below where your dress dips. His voice is velvet and sin and honey. “Like I love you?”

And the best part is, he means it. You know he does Every word. Every look. Every kiss.

“You are everything, do you hear me?” he whispers, voice low and urgent, rough in that way it gets when emotion’s pressed so tightly into his throat it barely fits. He says it like it’s a confession, like he's in a trance, like if he doesn’t speak it aloud, it won’t be real. His hands slide beneath you, palms warm and searching, fingers grazing the small of your back, the dip of your spine, the soft place where your body gives way to trust.

You gasp—just a little, just enough. Your back arches in surprise, lips parted as your eyes fly open. “Satoru,” you hiss, not even hiding the disbelief in your voice, “are you.. are you reaching for my zipper?”

You don’t need to see him to know he’s grinning. That boyish, infuriating grin again that always comes just before he does something completely stupid or completely charming—often both. You do glance down though, and yes, there it is: that lopsided smirk, the one that dares you to stop him.

Before you can say anything else, you feel it—the brush of fingers, the slow tug of fabric. He’s not careless with it, not rushed. Your dress shifts down, slipping from your shoulders like silk being unraveled, and he watches it fall as if it’s sacred. As if the very act of undressing you is something he’ll remember all his life.

The cold air bites gently at your newly bare skin, but his eyes are warmer than fire. They catch the firelight, reflect it back in dizzying shades of crystal and ocean and sky, but when they meet yours—when he sees you, like this—they darken. Not with lust alone, but with something far weightier. Reverence. Awe. Wonder.

And then he kisses you again. Like he’s grateful. Like he’s starved.

His hands find you again—this time, bare. The slope of your waist, the soft lines of your ribs, the delicate edge of your hipbone. His palms are warm, but the heat that spreads through you starts far deeper. There’s no rush in him, only hunger in the form of patience. Like he wants to memorize this with his hands, his mouth, the weight of his body pressed against yours.

He leans back just slightly, long enough to look at you properly. His breath hitches, and he exhales in a soft puff that sounds like disbelief. He looks like someone watching a miracle unfold in front of him.

“You’re beautiful. And I want every part of you to know how much I love you,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Your breath catches on instinct. The words settle into your chest and stir something fragile—something that wants to bloom. Heat pools low in your stomach, curling like smoke, like magic. You feel the spell of the moment tightening around you, slowly, impossibly. You know this is the kind of memory that lives forever.

Then his lips find your throat, trailing kisses along the warm curve there, soft and maddening. His hands glide down your sides with the steady confidence of someone who knows your body already, who still wants to learn every new version of it again and again. They settle on your hips, anchoring you, grounding you, like he’s afraid you might disappear.

“W–wait,” you breathe, barely audible, your fingers reaching up to touch his chest as your legs shift beneath him. You try to sit, try to pull away—not because you want to stop, but because it’s too much, too fast, too tender. The kind of intimacy that stings, even in its sweetness. “Satoru…”

But he doesn’t let you move far. He kisses you again—your neck, the underside of your jaw—until you’re whimpering, trembling, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing holding you together.

“What?” he murmurs into your ear, and then his teeth find your earlobe, tugging gently. You let out a soft, broken sound, the kind that lives only in this kind of moment. The kind that makes you feel like you're being pulled apart and held together all at once.

You grab his tie. It’s instinctual, desperate. You pull at it with shaking fingers, and he stills, eyes meeting yours as he pulls back just slightly to watch. Your breath is shallow now, fluttering against your ribs, chest rising and falling like waves crashing to shore. You tug the knot loose and begin to undo the buttons of his dress shirt one by one—slow, deliberate, hands trembling slightly with each one.

He watches the whole thing like he’s under a trance. When you finally push the last button free, he exhales again, sharp and ragged, as if you’ve taken something from him and he doesn’t want it back.

“You always want even, don’t you?” he murmurs, voice hoarse with astonishment, with affection, with something just on the edge of ruin. That grin returns—crooked and dazzling—but there’s something soft behind it now, something that flickers like candlelight in a dark room.

And all you can do is stare at him—his hair messy from your fingers, shirt open, firelight painting shadows down his torso—and wonder how love could ever feel like this. How this is so much more. How the word ‘love’ doesn't even begin to describe this.

“I want you,” you whisper. The words escape you like an invocation, fragile and full of wanting.

He swallows hard—throat tightening as though your voice has caught there, lodged somewhere behind his tongue—and stares at you, really looks at you. The expression on his face shifts; the grin softens, melts away into something earnest and deep and tender. You see the flicker of disbelief cross his features, the way he breathes like he’s bracing himself for a truth too big to carry.

Then, slowly, reverently, he peels his unbuttoned shirt off, fingers unhurried. The fabric slips from his frame and lands somewhere near the coat he tossed aside earlier, but you don’t watch it fall. Your eyes are on him, and his are on you.

He leans down again, impossibly gentle now, as though every inch of you is divine. His mouth traces a path along your sternum, lingering there as if trying to memorize the shape of your heartbeat. He presses a kiss at the center of your chest, then another, just a little lower, and your hands move instinctively—to his back, to his arms, to anything solid enough to anchor you. His mouth ghosts over the peaks of your breasts, a breath more than a kiss, and you feel yourself tremble beneath him.

When he lowers himself to your stomach, you suck in a quiet breath, one hand finding its way into his hair. His grip tightens gently on your hips, grounding you in place as his lips graze the soft skin just above your waistband.

“S-Satoru—” your voice hitches, the syllables half-formed, like a spell slipping out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“Stay still, yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth against your skin, so quiet you almost wonder if you imagined it.

The warmth from the fire crackles softly in the background, casting ribbons of gold over the floor, over the green sofas, over the dark polish of the table and empty pinboard, over the bare skin of your shoulders and collarbone. You should feel warm. The room is warm. But there’s a shiver blooming down your spine as he hooks one finger beneath the delicate band of your cotton underwear.

You gasp, breath catching—more at the intimacy of the gesture than the gesture itself—and your mouth opens to say something, anything, his name maybe, but nothing comes. Just sound. Just air. Just the stunned silence of being wanted so wholly.

He looks up at you, pupils blown wide, lashes shadowing his cheekbones. The corner of his mouth lifts as he leans forward, nuzzling gently into the softness of your thigh, his fingers splayed out along your skin.

“Let me show you,” he says softly, “how much I love you.”

His fingers trail up the inside of your thigh, coaxing, tender. “Come on, love,” he whispers, “spread.”

And you do. Not because you’re told to. But because it’s him asking.

Because it’s always been him.

“Satoru,” you whisper, breath trembling as it leaves your lips, and your thighs part like the slow, deliberate blooming of a flower coaxed by morning light. It is an offering—an act of trust, of surrender.

He grins, with slight arrogance, but also with something deeper. Like he’s won not just a moment, but a battle. The sharp edges of his teeth catch the firelight, and there’s something feral in him now. But he's still him, still soft, still yours.

He leans down, slow as moonlight spilling across a windowsill, and his lips find the tender inside of your thigh. The kiss is gentle. Lingering. A benediction more than a conquest. You shiver, breath hitching, and your fingers slip into his hair, winding there like ivy drawn to the warmth of stone.

He doesn’t speak, not yet. But his hands are steady on your hips, and the air between you hums with something electric—sacred, almost. Like the quiet before a storm.

And in that moment, you know: you’ve never been seen like this before. Not just bare, but beheld.

The way his tongue drags across your folds—it's deliberate. Languid. Soft. Warm. It washes over you like a spell cast in slow motion, like you’ve stepped into the inevitable. There’s no start or end to it—just the overwhelming sense that this, whatever this is, was always meant to happen. Like gravity pulling two stars into orbit.

You don’t even notice when your eyes slip shut, lids fluttering like the wings of a moth drawn to flame. Your body gives in without resistance, melting into the cushions beneath you as if they, too, recognize the sanctity of the moment.

His hands never leave you. One anchors you gently, fingers curled firm but careful on your hip, as if to keep you tethered to something real while the rest of you begins to drift. You can feel it in the steadiness of his grip—a promise, unspoken but unmistakable. You're not going anywhere. Not now. Not while he's holding you like this.

Impossibly, he presses a kiss to your bud. Pleasure climbs your spine like fire racing through dry brush—hungry, wild, unstoppable. It licks at your nerves and curls low in your stomach, where warmth builds and blooms like some type of sin. You gasp unguardedly, as your fingers tangle deeper into his hair, holding on as though you're bracing against the tide. Your chest rises, breath stuttering, as your stomach tightens with the slow, overwhelming ache of it all, like something luminous unraveling you from the inside out.

He grins, and you can feel it. That wicked curve of his mouth against your skin, smug and devastating. The warmth of it settles like a brand on the most sensitive part of you, just before he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your thigh, impious and maddening all at once. Then, with agonizing patience, he returns to the rhythm that’s already undoing you, piece by piece, as if he’s rewriting you with every touch.

“Give in, come on,” he whispers, voice hushed and coaxing, as if he’s asking you to fall into a dream he’s carefully woven just for you. Then he’s back on you, diving into you with a hunger that borders on worship, his mouth finding that one place—that place—and the world splits open behind your eyes. You cry out, hips bucking, the sensation cresting like a wave too big to bear, and all you can do is cling to him, to the moment, to the heat building unbearably in your chest. Every kiss is weight, every touch is gravity, and you feel yourself starting to fall.

And you do. You give in, not gently, but all at once—like a dam breaking, like magic unraveling at the core. Everything inside you comes undone in a rush of heat and sensation, and it’s him—his arms holding your hips steady, his mouth coaxing the storm from you, his presence anchoring you in a moment that feels impossibly vast. It’s everything, everywhere, all at once: the weight of love and longing, of fear and safety, of joy so sharp it borders on ache.

You cry out, voice cracking on his name, moaning it like a prayer, like a spell only he knows the answer to. Again and again, you call for him—as if in naming him, you can ground yourself, tether yourself to the only constant you’ve ever truly known. And he stays there, with you, through it all. Through the trembling and the clenching, through the sob of pleasure that escapes your throat as if it’s been waiting to be set free for years.

Then, slowly, he rises, his touch lingering, his presence wrapping around you like warmth pulled from the fire. His face hovers just above yours, eyes searching—glowing with a smile gentler than mischief, something far more intimate than victory. And when he smiles, it’s not the cocky, sharp-edged grin you’re used to. It’s not playful, not teasing. It’s soft. Earnest. Stripped bare of pretense.

Like he’s looking at you and seeing something sanctified.

He leans in, brushing his lips to yours with exquisite tenderness. You taste yourself on him, warm and sweet like honey left too long in the sun. His kiss is patient, steady, as if he’s in no rush to leave this moment behind. As if this moment is enough to fill lifetimes.

When he pulls away, just enough to breathe the words against your lips, his voice is quiet. Devout.

“You did so well,” he whispers.

And the way he says it, you know he means it. Your heart stutters. Your lips part.

His fingers, still resting on your hip and waist, draw idle circles into your skin, grounding and tender. He doesn’t rush. He just looks at you—as if he can’t quite believe you’re real, or that you’re his, here, like this. The firelight flickers, casting amber shadows across his cheekbones, catching the pale blue of his eyes in its glow. He leans in again, slower this time, his lips brushing against yours like a promise. And when he kisses you now, it’s deeper. Hungrier. Like he’s asking, Can I? Will you let me?

You kiss him back—just as slow, just as certain.

Your hands move on instinct, rising to his shoulders, trailing along the dips and lines of muscle, fingers finding the hem of his trousers. You feel him shudder. His breath catches. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his voice low and hesitant and shaking with restraint.

“Tell me,” he whispers. “Tell me you want this.”

“I do,” you breathe. “I want you.”

A silence blooms. It’s thick. Golden and full of everything unsaid. Then, he shifts—his body pressing flush to yours, skin on skin, chest on chest. His hands sweeping beneath you, gathering you close as if you’re something to be held with devotion, not haste. You feel the slow roll of his hips, the deliberate way he kisses along your jaw, your throat, your chest—everywhere.

The air smells like firewood and silk and skin. There’s nothing left between you but warmth and breath and the kind of aching, beautiful certainty that only comes once.

And just before he enters you, he cups your face, kisses your cheek, your temple, your lips again. He murmurs something into your skin—three words. Soft and sure.

And then the rest of the night unfolds around you like starlight.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[absolutelyterrifichonestly]

Batteries

Pairing: Kate Lethbridge-Stewart x Reader

Warnings: language, boss/employee

Description: Putting new batteries in the ravens of death isn't as easy as you thought it would be. It's even harder when your hot boss is watching.

(set roughly around The Day of The Doctor)

"Will you just hold still?"

An indignant caw was the response. Clearly, the answer was no. Absolutely not.

Your hand, slick with sweat and viciously pecked, lost its grip of the jet black bird as it flapped furiously across the countertop, screaming all the way.

"For fuck's sake..."

Sluggish. That's what Malcolm had told you - the ravens looked sluggish. This would take half an hour, tops. Just log into the main account, put the ravens on standby, gather them up, pop in new batteries and then job's a goodun. Right now you were supposed to be in the pub. The others were already two pints deep, and they were going to order chips. They kept messaging you asking where you were. And you replied each time: with the bloody ravens.

Because, it would seem, Malcolm had changed the password to the main account and hadn't told you. The ravens remained very much alert and, despite the reported sluggishness, did not take kindly to being rounded up manually.

You'd started the old fashioned way: calling out with honeyed words. When you quickly realised the ravens couldn't give two shits about the research assistant trying to sound upbeat whilst saying "come on, ravens!", you'd changed tactic.

A large net was employed. It didn't catch any ravens, but you did manage to get tangled in it yourself, much to the confusion of an elderly beefeater.

Next up: bread. You salvaged a sad looking ham sandwich from a bin and shuddered as you tore off bits of crust, hoping to tempt a battery operated corvid or two. And it worked. On one raven.

The same raven you continued to wrestle across the table, fingers bleeding, feeling desperately for the off-switch located just under its wing. You resorted to the humiliation of pleading.

"Please stay still...please...I've got five more of you to deal with...just...ouch! Bastard!"

You sucked at the fresh beak-shaped gash in your thumb.

"You shouldn't call him that, L/N."

That voice, from the doorway of the lab. Dark treacle, tinted with amusement under a sheath of severity.

You turned your head towards it, giving the raven it's chance to glide away once again.

"Oh, no!" you groaned, watching it settle atop a fluorescent light, glaring balefully.

"Told you, you shouldn't have called him names. They don't like it. It's disrespectful."

Kate Lethbridge-Stewart strolled into the lab, her usual bundle of unyielding authority and magnolia perfume. You huffed.

"Easier said than done, look at my fingers! I don't..."

She raised an eyebrow and you remembered yourself, blushing.

"I...yes, ma'am."

She cast her eyes to the raven, who was ruffling it's feathers.

"So, Malcolm left you the worst of his to-do list?" she asked lightly, her eyes never leaving the raven.

"Is it some sort of test, ma'am?"

"Hm. Perhaps. Or, most likely, he wanted to get to the pub on time."

She smirked slightly as she spoke, her hand slipping into her coat pocket and clutching what looked like a small remote. She flicked it casually towards the raven.

With a soft thud and a half-hearted caw, it hit the lab floor. Its legs twitched robotically, clawing towards the ceiling.

The pair of you stared at it for a beat, then another. Kate cleared her throat.

"So, new batteries?"

You nodded quickly.

"Right! Right, uh...one second..."

Kate watched you as she leant back against a workbench, a small smile dancing on her lips as you opened drawer after drawer, then a cupboard or two.

"L/N?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

She tapped the box of batteries left on the countertop right behind you.

You shook your head, mumbling something incoherent as you shakily took the box, taking two batteries.

"They need three." said Kate. You nodded, taking another, your fingers clumsy.

When you inspected the immobile raven, you felt Kate behind you, arms folding with expectation. You wet your lips, feeling for the small catch at the back of its neck.

"Bit lower," Kate murmured. "Nope, keep going. Left. Down a bit. There - now, press down."

You pressed, feeling her warmth behind you as she stepped closer.

"Harder, give it some oomph."

You sighed, doing as instructed, and when you heard the mechanical click you couldn't help but grin with relief.

The old batteries were wedged in firmly and you couldn't stop yourself from grimacing. Kate peered over your shoulder, her perfume drifting across in a heady wave that made your stomach flutter. You pushed the sensation away as you managed to remove the batteries, dislodging a feather in the process.

"Oops..."

Kate placed the feather on the counter top with precision, her hand moving back to cover yours. You shivered involuntarily.

"Be careful, L/N. Don't force them out. Just...ease them."

Her hand guided yours with just the right level of pressure. The remaining batteries popped out casually, rolling across the countertop before Kate halted their escape with a manicured finger.

As you slotted the new batteries into place with trembling hands, she watched you thoughtfully.

"I'm not stupid, ma'am, I promise." you mumbled. Her eyes narrowed.

"What on Earth do you mean, L/N?"

"I...I mean...I must look ridiculous. Needing help to change batteries."

Kate was quiet. The silence felt sticky, like the worst of summer. She didn't give you the relief of sympathy, and you scrambled in that sticky silence like a fly in honey.

"I just...I promise I can do things...most things..."

Kate raised an eyebrow. You sighed.

"Even though I look like an idiot right now."

"L/N?"

You looked at her.

"Listen carefully, because I'll be very disappointed if I have to tell you this again. The day you refuse help, even for the most mediocre task, is the day I deem you unfit to work here. Mistakes from pride are the mistakes I won't stand for. Do I make myself clear?"

You swallowed hard.

"Yes, ma'am."

She held your gaze long enough for heat to creep into your cheeks before nodding curtly, pulling out the remote from her pocket again.

"Now, let's see..."

The raven twitched, then fluttered upright in a rustle of feathers and a piercing look. You jumped. Kate smiled.

"Voilà, good as new." she purred. "Now, do that five more times and the Tower won't crumble tonight."

She handed you the remote.

"No more battles with nets, mmm?"

You groaned.

"Ma'am, you saw that?"

"CCTV, L/N. Don't worry, I'll make sure the part where you almost rolled down Tower Green gets mysteriously deleted."

She extended a hand to the raven, who eyed it suspiciously before hopping onto her open palm. You exhaled in delight.

Kate beckoned you to follow her, carrying the raven like it was the most natural thing in the world. When you stepped out of UNIT and into the frosty night, she raised her arm and the raven flew off into the darkness with a replenished caw. She watched it go with a wistful stare.

"They'll be here longer than us, L/N. Respect them. Always."

The lamps of the courtyard painted her with a gentle glow, the cold breeze ruffling her blonde bob and tinting her cheeks peony. Her perfume ensnared you once again and you stifled an appreciative sigh. She turned to you, all at once brisk again.

"By the way, to make the rest of your night even easier: gallifreyrocks42."

"...ma'am?"

"Password for the main account. Malcolm has a rotation."

"Ah," you grinned. "I appreciate it, ma'am."

Kate nodded, turning up the collar of her coat against the cold.

"Are you joining them at the pub, ma'am?"

"Ha! Not tonight. Briefing tomorrow morning, 0700 hours, zygon negotiations are ongoing."

You nodded. As you watched her walk away down the steps, words bubbled up before you could tell them to stop.

"Well, if you ever wanted a drink, we could always..."

She paused and looked back over her shoulder. You opened your mouth to take it back, or carry it on, or admit there and then that you wanted her, when a raven flew over your shoulder at such speed you shrieked. Kate smirked.

"See you in the morning, L/N."

"Goodnight, ma'am." you said weakly, looking back up at the night sky with a shiver, wondering if you could keep the smell of her perfume around you forever.

[ma1dita]

a wish your heart makes

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader prev -> play pretend | next -> star crossing words: 1.4k summary: (established relationship) The one where you share dreams, burn cookies, and it still reminds him of home. You try to do something nice for your boyfriend and everything goes wrong, or so you think. Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader a/n: I thought about May Castellan, alone in her kitchen, baking cookies and making sandwiches for a son who would never come ho—OH FUCK OFF, UNCLE RICK. sidenote this haunted me. (posted 1/26/24 unbetad)

—

Luke’s dreams were always different from yours. 

Both when he’s awake and holding your hand up until sleep finally rips him away from your earthly embrace, he’s always been certain of who he was and what he wants to achieve. To be a hero providing salvation for the needy, to be a half-blood son worth the love of a god, and to be a fierce soldier, leading his troop into battle for glory. These are the thoughts he routinely pounds into his brain, so much so that anyone who knows him knows of his aspirations.

You don’t think you’ve ever met anyone so insistent on wanting to be remembered. Luke wants to leave a legacy worth dying for, worth talking about for millenia to come. And your boy persists, despite the trials of life, the ignorance of his father, and the strings of the Fates.

Your dreams, however, were always much simpler. 

Cuddled under your covers and brushing your lips against Luke’s forehead to quell the growing unease that occupies his brain, you whisper what you deeply wish for.

“We’re getting old,” you mumble, and the breath of his laugh tickles your ear. He lazily runs his nose against the slope of your collarbone, sighing when he finally hears the steady beat of your chest, “We’ve definitely surpassed the average life expectancy of a typical demigod. Look at us…” he jests.

Your breath jumps in amusement as you feel his lips against your sternum, and then your boyfriend is smiling against your heart, using you for comfort as you both pass the time waiting for Hypnos to come calling.

“In a year, we’ll be nineteen…And I know you never wanted to stay here forever, so… What’s next?”

You hold in a bated breath, always unsure of where to place yourself in rank of his priorities. Who were you if not his biggest supporter?

Luke contemplates for a moment in the silence of your bedroom. It’s much easier to think and have more adult… conversations… without the many meddling children of cabin 11 always asking for one more lullaby, one more glass of water, and one more tuck-in goodnight. Here in the privacy of your room, he gets to be a boy void of his responsibilities besides hiding under his girlfriend’s duvet, giving her another shirt of his to wear, and kissing her until Apollo’s rays of light gently help you wake.

“You tell me, Trouble. What does the future have in store for us?”

Us.

He’s sweet to indulge in your fantasies like this, and you stroke your fingers through his curls as you speak, ‘I think it’d be nice to go to college. Made it this far, so maybe being normal won’t be so hard…”

A soft noise leaves his throat, urging you to continue as you bite your lip and smile.

“Maybe someday, we could get a house. One on top of a hill. I don’t need much, something like the Big House, but one we can call home.”

You can feel the teeth of his sleepy grin against your skin as he whispers the next words into your heart.

“We could do that. House with big bay windows, and the smell of my mom’s chocolate chip cookies in the air. Sounds nice, baby.”

And it does.

Luke’s eyes flutter shut shortly after, but your mind is awake with how to make the dream you now share a reality. Perhaps you couldn’t give him glory, or pray hard enough to Hermes so that he’d talk to his son, but you reckon that chocolate chip cookies would be easy enough. 

—

At least, it was supposed to be—until you set off the smoke alarm again.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” 

Clouds of grey are billowing from the communal kitchen oven after your multiple attempts of trying to get this right. The dryads had both partially given up on the havoc you wrecked upon their workspace as well as your increasing frustration towards them. It wasn’t their fault, you knew that—but as a perfectionist who followed the recipe to a t, how was it possible that everything was still going wrong? The first batch, you got too excited and mixed all the ingredients together, making them lumpy and inconsistent. The second batch was over-creamed, and you had to scrape them off the tray, and with this one… well you had the oven setting on a bit too high.

You sigh deeply, pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes as you try to will away the mania creeping up your neck. Being the daughter of the god of insanity was hard, having to consistently control your emotions for the sake of others. Taking a shaky breath, you stare blankly at the darkened cookies, close to being burned to a crisp. The jingle of the windchime against the door rings across the room and you barely hear it until you feel Luke’s hands skate past your waist to go open a window.

“What’d you get into now, Trouble? Been looking for you,” he says, coughing lightly from the smoke.

You groan, trying to cover the mess behind you on the counter and accidentally catching your arm on the hot tray, making you flinch.

“Ow! Ugh, babe, you’re not supposed to be here yet! I thought you were still sparring…”

Your boyfriend approaches you, squeezing your arm to examine if you’ve gotten hurt and tugging you towards him.

“That was an hour ago—how long have you been here, baby?” Luke pulls you into his arms, placing a kiss on your warm wrist, instantly soothing your anxiety until you see his eyes meet your latest failure.

“You bake now?”

“Clearly not, Luke, I’m sorry…I tried but I kept getting it wrong and then I got mad at myself for fucking up something so…” your voice weakens, tears welling in your eyes again thinking you’ve disappointed him.

Luke steps away from you and towards the kitchen counter, warm cookies browned to a crisp. He reaches out to pick one up before you can stop him, crunching down on it, the bittersweet taste filling his mouth as he sniffs.

Just like his mother would make them, through her madness and all.

He’s transported back to a memory of a house with big bay windows, kind of like the one you two dreamt up last night, but he’s nine and sitting at the kitchen table drinking Kool-Aid while his mom makes peanut butter sandwiches. May Castellan forgets the cookies in the oven again, and for a moment, Luke forgets that the last time he saw his mother was a lifetime ago. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels your fingertips brushing away the saltwater from his cheeks.

“Didn’t mean to make you cry, angelface, I’m sorry…” you mumble, but stop speaking when you see him take another bite.

“They’re great.”

“What?”

He chomps on another singed cookie, his lips quirking into a soft smile. Luke’s not going to let you throw the rest of this batch out. Chuckling weakly, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter as he slots himself between your legs, rough hands patting your thighs.

“Well, they’re not great. But they’re perfect. Just the way I remember them,” he smiles, kissing the furrow in your brow. You don’t bother trying to comprehend his statement, happy that you didn’t mess up a memory he holds dear. 

Luke wonders if maybe he’s been blessed by his father after all, to have such extreme luck to exist at the same time as you. He doesn’t answer to the gods, to fate, but he does answer when you call his name, and settles into your arms. Love is an action after all, uncontained by just words, and he knows you tried your best, which makes it more than enough.

“She would’ve loved you, I’m sure of it,” he says rubbing his nose against yours before you can interject again, “I love you, so I know she would’ve too.”

Luke presses a tender kiss against the palm that caresses his jaw, before meeting you in the middle and finding your lips. It’s a dance you two have memorized, sweet and breathless as you meld both of your grins together. To him, you taste like chocolate chips and feel like home.

“I love you too, angelface. Almost burned the kitchen down for you,” your chuckle is cut off when he goes to press against your pout again hungrily, tracing patterns against the soft skin of your thighs as he just eats you up. The sound of your moans escapes between kisses as you wind your legs around his waist and it dampens the sound of the kitchen timer when it goes off. 

(You forcibly have to detach from Luke’s embrace, much to his displeasure so that you don’t burn the next batch too.)

—

"Your name is humming inside my chest. I think this is what it means to love. I think this is what it means to be living." -Emma Bleker

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[galaxy-fleur]

⊹ Bittersweet Memories ⊹

Pairing: post-rev2!Claire/gender-neutral!reader. Summary: You've never really thought about it before, but Claire and Chris were far a normal family. When a fun night of nostalgia abruptly shifts into conflicting reminiscing, things become even more tricky. As it turns out, Claire may need more of your advice on her family matters than you expected. Notes: ~ 2.5k words. Hurt/comfort. Established relationship. I wanted to explore Chris' and Claire's relationship from Claire's pov, considering how we don't really see them being there for one another properly! Credit: dividers by @/saradika-graphics

"-You've been staring at that screen for almost an hour now, you can't be that homesick."

While your remark was humorous, it was laced with sincere care on your part, too. It wasn't unusual for Claire to stay up long into the night, with nothing but her trusty old laptop and a bag of chips to keep her company, a dedication to her vigorous typing that could rival any known journalist.

You've always admired that fiery drive of hers. Tonight wasn't quite the same as that typical routine, though. There was neither a conspiracy nor an extensive report for her to hunch over. She wasn't even busy investigating anything new.

No, tonight, you found her hard at work digitizing her family photos, of all things. Well. The vast majority of those consisted of just her and Chris for obvious reasons, but... A family doesn't have to be a big one to be called that.

It would have been a very sweet deviation from her usual tried-and-true routine, and you honestly wouldn't have minded it one bit if she lost some sleep over a healthy doze of reminiscing.

No, what made you grow worried was that her quiet laughs and fond mumbles of fun times to remember had progressively turned into an almost somber silence. Claire was anything but silent. You have become accustomed to her constant presence right next to you in the night, even if she was not physically present in bed for you to cuddle with. The sounds of her fully engrossed in whatever endeavor at her attention was your soothing lullaby of sorts. It was only natural for you to get perplexed when this unspoken little routine of yours was suddenly broken

And you were right to be worried. From your spot on the bed, it was easy to see that her shoulders were hunched, and her fingers were still on the keyboard as she stared at the screen in silence. This wasn't a normal display from her at all.

So, you climbed out of the covers and joined her without any further questions asked. She leaned in towards you as your shoulders bumped slightly, but still said nothing, only deepening your concern. It seemed that she was staring at the most recent photo she took. Her, and Chris, and you, and Rebecca all packed into one shot. A rare occasion, really. Which is exactly why she decided to take advantage of the opportunity and snag a photo in the first place. On the first glance, there wasn't anything strange about it. Perhaps some sense of awkwardness, but that was normal.

You hummed.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Claire sighed, finally tearing her eyes away from the screen to take off her glasses and pinch the bridge of her nose. If she was just staring like that without giving her eyes some breaks to rest, it was probably pretty uncomfortable by now. But, more than just uncomfortable, she appeared almost distressed. And that was new.

"I wanted to make some postcards with these. We used to do that back when Chris has just joined the force. Haven't done that in a while, though. Figured I'd revive the tradition for old time's sake." She paused, looking back at the photo displayed on the screen. It almost seemed like she had a whole mental storm raging within that head of hers, one that she just wasn't sharing with you yet for whatever reason. "I wanted to use this one because I don't know when we'll get another chance to get together like this, but..."

"-You can just use multiple photos if you're not sure about this one, no? Doesn't have to be just a single photo if you don't want that," you suggested softly, really just prodding her to talk on what was really troubling her here. You doubted this was really just about selecting the appropriate photo for a postcard. No. This had to do with something else.

Claire shook her head with a soft huff, almost frustrated. With you, or with herself, you couldn't really tell.

"No, that doesn't work either."

Stubborn as usual.

You should've guessed she won't be an easy nut to crack. You almost wanted to smile, if it wasn't for her obvious distress at hand.

"Didn't take you for such a perfectionist," you teased her lightly, leaning forward to click through the catalog of photos yourself. It was fascinating to see the Redfield siblings alongside each other over the years. From a scrawny, messy-looking tween Claire clinging to her brothers arm with a huge, toothy grin, to a self-assured young woman sneaking devil horns behind Chris' head unbeknownst to him.

It was cute. A journey through time with two siblings who only had each other to fall back on.

Of course, there were some less than happy photos in there, too. Some grainy shot of them looking far too young and too mature all the same, faces tinged with a melancholy that only a heavy loss could bring. Probably taken at the time when the loss of their parents was still too fresh and raw. Goodbye photos taken at the airport venue shortly before one of them would leave to perform their responsibilities in making this world a better place, their gaze firm yet nervous all the same.

You knew they weren't a typical family. Far from it, really. But they did care for one another fiercely. In some ways, it was both touching and dangerous if you were unlucky enough to get on their bad side.

...You still remembered just how utterly intimidating Chris looked to you the first time you met him as Claire's new partner. Forget scary fathers; Chris made you feel like you were the smallest speck of dust in the room! Granted, he turned out to be a giant teddy bear of a brother-in-law, but still. You knew not to mess with his sister, unless you wanted to find out what it's like to be hunted down by the captain of the BSAA himself.

Now that's a nightmare scenario alright.

Regardless, as you returned back to that faithful photo that put Claire in a sour mood after taking a small trip down their memory lane yourself, you suddenly had a little bit of a feeling about what could be making her act this way.

"Are you... feeling unsure because he doesn't look as happy as you do in that photo, maybe?" You suggested cautiously, sneaking a glance at her side profile. "We haven't talked about it, but... He looks pretty tired here, doesn't he."

That was not necessarily a question on your part. More of a statement. You didn't like meddling in family affairs, but... It's true that Chris has grown more hardened in these past few years, and who could really blame him? You and Claire have dedicated your lives to conservation and helping those who have been already hurt by the foul claws of bioterrorism. But Chris has been fighting right in the middle of its ugly core all this time, never staying long enough to take in the aftermath in all its tragedy and hope alike.

He was a hero. However, stories of heroes were merely a made up fantasy to appease those who sought someone to idolize. In truth, he was a human like any other. With all the human messiness included. You could only imagine how exhausting it was for him. Carrying all that responsibility on his own two shoulders through thick and thin. That appeared to be his way of life since he was all but a young boy, but everyone has their limits.

Perhaps he has just about reached his own.

You knew Claire was worried, too. Even more than you were, probably. But what could she do? Their different paths in life separated them more than they brought them together. They respected each other, but they couldn't follow the same path side by side. She couldn't share Chris' burden even if she wanted to. Perhaps that's why none of you have addressed this elephant in the room, preferring to instead cherish those few happy moments that were there. It was easier to just exist in the moment, not weigh a rare reunion down with talks of loss and strain of the past.

Claire's silence provided all the confirmation you needed. Despite Chris' well-meaning smiles and his warm hugs, none of it has truly reached his eyes the last time you've seen him, and you both knew it. You didn't understand everything, of course. At the end of the day, your intimate relations with Claire or not, you were still more of an outsider. But you did overhear Rebecca briefly speaking with Claire on something that sounded pretty serious, all things considered.

It was part of the job to lose people. But it didn't make it easier.

Especially when the sacrifice was made in your name.

"...He does look tired, doesn't he," Claire finally muttered under her breath, her brows drawing together into a small frown. She bit her lip and glanced down. You haven't seen her this bothered by something in a long while. Claire was typically quite honest about her frustrations, almost to a fault. You loved her for that, but it did make your heart feel heavy to see this quiet turmoil brewing within her head. At last, she went on: "I... Becca told me. About what happened in China. I knew Piers admired him a lot, but... Maybe... I underestimated just how close they were."

Many things were left unsaid during this pause, but you understood most of it without her having to clarify it. You may have been an outsider, but you were nosy, too. What Claire knew, you knew. There were no secrets between you two. Chris might have seemed fine, but that didn't mean he wasn't hurting on the inside. And Claire was starting to feel the entire weight of that possibility settling in on her shoulders.

"Claire-"

She shook her head, cutting you off and emitting a soft laugh. It was hollow, though. A sound that seemed more shaky than happy. It made your heart ache.

"-Some sister I am, eh? Can't even notice when my own brother is having a hard time."

That made you frown. This was quickly getting a tad too heavy for your liking. Letting all this brew and simmer on the inside without voicing it aloud wasn't good, but you didn't want her to start kicking herself for it, either. Without a word, you draped an arm over her shoulders, drawing her close to your side. She was usually the one who went above and beyond to make you feel better and pull you out of the dumps. It was only fair for you to repay the favor.

"Hey now, that's just not true, is it? You've been sitting here mulling over this for hours. I bet Chris' ears are itching like hell by now with how much you've been thinking about him here."

Your words were lighthearted, but they were genuine, too. Sure, maybe Claire may have been a little bit dense, maybe even distant, but she sure as hell wasn't uncaring. If it ever came down to ensuring Chris' safety, she'd have no problem turning the world upside down with her own two hands. That didn't change just because she trusted him to handle himself a bit too much.

And you did manage to pull a weak, sincere laugh from her, so you counted that as a win. She sighed, sinking against you, her chin resting in the crook of your shoulder.

"I know, I know. I just... I feel like I let him down, you know? Again. I wasn't there after Edonia, and it looks like I wasn't there now... either." You hated the way her words just gradually got quiter, fading out into nothing but a faint whisper. The screen of her laptop was dark. But her gaze was still glued to it, refusing to look away, almost like she didn't even need for it to stay on to see the image ingrained into her head. "I know he's strong, but I'm his sister. If there's anyone in this world he doesn't have to be strong for, it should be me."

You massaged her arm softly, a thoughtful murmur emanating from your throat: "Well... Why don't you actually tell him that next time you see him? He should be in the States next month, right?"

"...It's easy to talk about this stuff to you."

You chuckled at her grumble. It was indeed true that you have never seen them engaging in any sort of touchy heart-to-heart with each other. They seemed to communicate through a language only two siblings who grew up together could understand. A way to show they cared that was more special than just a sentimental speech, whether that's a lucky jacket or a signed helmet.

Even if they definitely could benefit from a proper talk every once in a while. But hey, baby steps are just as important. You hoped they'd get there one day. For now, you were more than willing to give her a tiny nudge to help her make that first clumsy step.

"Well, how 'bout you tell him that the Redfield way, then?" It appeared like you had her undivided attention at last when you gave her a gentle prod, her head snapping up to look at you curiously. Smiling, you continued: "You wanted to make some postcards. Do that. If he has a special jacket just for you, I'm sure you can give him a special postcard just for him. Go from there."

Although she still looked somewhat troubled, the sparkle to her blue eyes has steadily returned, much to your relief. You could already practically see all the different ideas flowing through her head, each one more outrageous than the last. But hey, that's Claire Redfield for you. You wouldn't have it any other way, and you knew Chris felt the exact same way.

"...You know I love you, right?"

You grinned, stealing a quick peck from her lips.

"Get to work, cowgirl."

When you climbed back into bed and heard that familiar sound of keys being pressed return, you couldn't help but feel warm on the inside, even if you did end up losing some sleep by having this impromptu conversation with her. It felt nice to know that you helped to ease this burden off her shoulders even a little bit. And you knew she'd put her all into this.

Even if it wouldn't fix all of their problems overnight, every tiny step counts.

[holy-havoc]

He didn’t know much about the holiday. He had never been one to follow conventional tradition. He didn’t see much point in paying attention to a holiday you didn’t participate in.

He had however, spent a lot of time studying it. Not for himself and not for the purpose of simply acknowledging the wisdom, but for the sake of others.

The children at the orphanage— for one. All of whom would find little sacks filled with chocolate and candy. A few small toys. Intricately carved animals and soldiers. A training sword made of wood. A handful of blunted shuriken. A pack of sparklers that would crackle and spark into a dozen different colours when lit.

Kakuzu would get an old book about the art of war written by someone he had probably grown up with. Beautifully bound in leather and inlaid in gold. He had flipped through it and gotten bored one chapter in. It definitely didn’t have enough pictures, but he knew the old fuck liked that kind of shit. His eyes lingering in the window for an unusually long time every time they passed a dusty old shop.

Deidara would get a bag of the finest green and a small bottle of hair oil. Aromatically enhanced with coconut and ylang ylang. Hidan was pretty sure he was gay and just too proud to admit it. Despite the fact he was the last person who gave a fuck about who someone chose to take to their bed when they were lonely.

Konan would get a bottle of perfume. She allowed herself so few luxuries. Perhaps because she felt she didn’t deserve it? Custom made and in a tiny crystal bottle. A neutral scent. Delicate but unique.

Marg would get a new carving knife. The blade forged from obsidian from the Land of Snow. He had been told it was unbreakable and had promised to come back and slit the throat of who had sold it to him, if it ever got even a chip in it.

Sasori would get a bundle of exotic wood. Strong but pliable. Easy to work with and richly coloured. The tree it had come from only grew in one place; on an island not far from Kirigakure.

Itachi would have a box of sweets waiting for him. Chocolates enhanced with every flavour one could imagine. Enough to give even the healthiest person diabetes if they decided to eat the whole box in one sitting.

For Zetsu, he had gotten a tea set. Traditional and beautifully hand painted, with various scenes of torture laid out across each cup. A man’s journey through hell or some shit. A reminder of their own journey taken in front of a campfire.

The real effort however, had been put into a less tangible gift. A small clearing in the middle of the woods where the trees had been strung up with tiny white lights. A bonfire blazing in the middle of it, with a pot of hot cocoa already heating up. One of the trees would stand out against the rest. Various colours twinkled in the branches, just barely illuminating the very shittily hand wrapped box lying underneath it.

Inside was a fresh sketchbook. The pages strong and bleached. A set of charcoals for sketching. Artistic tools that could be easily stored away and carried. Not too much hassle to pull out when on the road and a bout of creativity hit you.

Although Chiari rarely spoke of her family, he knew that they were all dead. They had definitely celebrated the holiday and even though she refused to admit that she missed them, Hidan knew that she must have. If he had one to miss, surely he would. Especially around the time of special occasions.

If only to make things playful and more interesting— the tooth bunny Claus would leave her a map. Crudely drawn and rolled up on the bedside table. Tied with a red and white bow.

Hopefully he didn’t suck so bad that his lack of skills would get her lost and she wouldn’t be able to find it.

@suturedninja

@artisanshinobi

@chiariuchiha

@angelofamegakure

@akasunaa

@jozetsuka

@smilingshxdows

@kiigan

[teatreeoilll]

|| Crush (Gojo Satoru X Reader) ||

(Reposted from my old blog which I don't have access to anymore (thanks Tumblr), if you liked it reblogs or likes would be appreciated to get me back on track since I've lost all my followers and half my work :(

Short one shot, in which Gojo finds out reader has a crush on him. TW: mentions of Alcohol and smoking

"I mean, if you had to choose one of them?" Your hands slipped further on the table, your palm grazing the wood while you fixed your gaze on Shoko's uninterested eyes.

"No," She said calmly.

"But if you really, really had to?" Her eyes darted across the room, her mind in dire need of a change in conversation topic.

"If I really - really, had to," She sighs, "I guess I'd pick Satoru."

Your heart dropped at the mention of his name. I knew it!

"But really," She continued, "I think he makes a horrible team with anyone, it doesn't matter how strong you are if you can't do that, y'know? But those six-eyes are no joke, so if I had to, I guess -" Your confused expression stopped her from talking further.

"Shoko, I meant if you had to pick one to - uh, you know, "

All the confidence you mustered to bring up the topic in the first place had vanished, you slid back into the chair, watching Shoko's face shrink with disgust. "No."

The drink before you emptied quickly as silence took over the room, each time you wanted to say something you felt your throat tense as the drunk haze had begun to clear. Perhaps it really was a bad idea to talk about this.

"I have a feeling this isn't really about me, is it?" She reached to open another canned sake. "I would like to say that you can tell me anything, but I have a feeling I wouldn't want to hear this," She took a long sip, "But I'll play along. Who'd you choose?" She was far too familiar with your mannerisms, knowing you would never admit to it any other way.

For a few months now, she had been brushing off her suspicions as misinterpretations.

"I - I would, hm, maybe, Satoru?" Regret settled deeper in your throat, but you knew it was too late to make up some excuse to leave this conversation. "It's not like I'd do anything about it, you know?" Shoko's eyes widened as you spoke, she tried to utter a few protest words, her hands are signaling you to stop talking.

You felt your face turn red, "I mean, It's just a crush, nothing to be too flustered about, right? What do those last, like a few months at most? Just don't look at those beautiful blue eyes, and that snowy white hair… It'll go away on its own!" Aware that it's too late, Shoko had buried her face in her palms. That's it, the thought passed through your brain, She will never respect me again.

"It really is nothing to be flustered about. Quite understandable - really." A familiar voice came from behind, you could hear the grin in his tone. You desperately stared at Shoko, your eyes begging her to say anything - anything to rescue you from the embarrassment.

Shoko cleared her throat, "It is, very understandable! That you have a crush on this guy, who doesn't even attend Jujutsu High!" Ah, it could have been such a good save.

"Oh yes!" Gojo laughed, kneeling next to your chair with his hand placed firmly on your shoulder, "Such a shame, but it's not like you have to see his beautiful blue eyes and snowy white hair every day," He failed to hold back his laugh, "I'm sure it'll go away on its own."

You focused your eyes on the table - Twelve cans of sake, only seven open. Gojo's hand on your shoulder. Oh god. Ashtray, still smoking. Salty chip packets - 2,3 … no 4, one has fallen off the table. Gojo's hand makes its way to your lower back. How's Kyoto this time of year?

"There's nothing to be shy about." His whisper catches you off guard, his face so close to yours you were sure he could smell the alcohol coming off of each of your heavy breaths. You find the strength to stand up, your chair screeching on the floor. Gojo almost lost his balance.

"It's getting late, Shoko, thank you for the - actually, let's never drink again. I'll see you tomorrow."

You walked the dark corridor, unable to focus on anything other keeping yourself balanced after so many drinks, keeping the thoughts on solving your predicament for a more sober time.

A hand brushed your wrist before gripping it tightly and pulling you in its direction. Even in the dark, you could see the blue of his eyes.

"Listen, I really meant what I said." You uttered, watching his smirk widen. "No smart comebacks now!" You felt your chest heat up, the shame had turned to anger. People have feelings, why does it have to be a joke? His hand loosened its grip on yours.

"We're not children anymore Satoru, It's a crush. It'll be gone just as fast as it came. You don't have to joke about it, just forget it."

Never in his life had he let you finish so many sentences without a snarky remark. You tried to read his face, but the shadows covered his expression.

"Say it again." You felt his body come closer to yours, his lips almost touching yours, you didn't notice yourself stumbling backward until the wood boards on the nearest wall had pressed to your back.

"Say what again?"

"Say you have a crush on me," His voice lower than usual.

Fine, if it's going to be a joke, I guess it's better to go with it. "I have a crush on you, Satoru Gojo." As you tried to rid yourself of your compromising position his hand grabbed the back of your neck, entangling itself in your hair. Tension forms at the pit of your stomach.

"I have the biggest crush on you, Sa-" you mustered the huskiest voice you could find, but he wouldn't let you finish, his tongue already trying to find its place in your mouth.

He freed his hand from your hair just to grab your legs, lifting them up to wrap around him, his fingers digging deep into your thighs. He pauses to catch a breath, his face resting in the crook of your neck, just to huff a few words;

"Well, aren't I lucky?"