Yoonki

Where I write for fun and nothing more.

[yoonkinii]

𝗻𝗮𝘃𝗶 ꩜ .ᐟ

𖦹 contains 18+ content | MDNI

𝘚𝘩𝘦/𝘏𝘦𝘳 | 20𝘴 | 𝘈𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ɢᴏᴊᴏ ʟᴜᴠʀ

𝗺𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗶𝗳𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗺 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝘆 (𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝗼𝗯𝘀𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗯𝗴𝟯 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗷𝗷𝗸) 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘀

𝘮.𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

𝘖𝘰𝘩, 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘰𝘰𝘩 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘐'𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘉𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘐'𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𓍯𓂃 𝗙𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗶𝘁 ༝༚༝༚ 𝗱𝟰𝘃𝗱

©yoonkinii. do not copy my work, translate it, or repost my work on any other platform.

[koogalaxzy]

the veiled prince | j. jungkook

pairing: knight! jungkook x royal! fem. reader

genre: royalty au, smut

wc: 21.4k+

summary: jeon jungkook is anointed as the protector of the kingdom’s future king, but this proves to be a more difficult job when he realizes the crown prince is hiding a big secret.

content warning: explicit sexual content, violence & blood, gender concealment, period-typical sexism, religious themes/sacrilege (blasphemy, sex in sacred space), slight dubcon elements (power imbalance), reference to infant death, mild emotional abuse, parental pressure, alcohol consumption, mentions of prostitution/brothels.

a/n: hiii! *nervous wave* this is my very first jungkook fic, and i’m actually buzzing with nerves rn. i’ve been working on this since last year so i’m rlly excited to finally share it with the world. hope you enjoy! let me know what you guys think in the comments or my inbox <3

The tavern was filled with the sounds of raucous laughter and the scent of ale. The men of the town brigade sat around a big wooden table, their hearty chuckles bouncing off the low ceiling.

“Can’t believe our youngest here’s landed himself a spot in the royal brigade!” Sergeant Lee, a grizzled veteran with a salt-and-pepper beard and a booming voice, clapped Jungkook on the back hard enough to rattle his cup.

Jungkook offered a polite, almost shy smile. “It’s just another post, Sergeant.”

“Just another post, he says!” Lee roared, laughing heartily. “Royal brigade’s not just any post, boy. It’s the post.” He slammed a hand down on the table, the wood groaning under the force. “Best keep that modesty in check, or you’ll make the rest of us look bad.”

“Aye, I remember when he first set foot on the base, half my size, and now look at those arms…” Chuck added, his voice slick with humor. He was a lanky man, with messy blonde hair that hung over his face. His smirk was all charm despite the missing tooth in the front as he tossed a wink at the serving girl who kept casting Jungkook flirtatious glances. “Leave some of the ladies for us, eh?”

“Let’s not celebrate too soon,” Garret muttered, his tone sharp as always. He was stocky, with a broad chest and thick arms, a man whose worn plate armor bore more scratches than anyone here. His gaze flickered to the door, where the wind howled outside, carrying the cold scent of the mountains. “Royal brigade’s no game. You’ll be under different standards from the moment you set foot in that palace.”

Chuck rolled his eyes. “Here we go. You’d think they were sending him to the gallows.”

Garret ignored him. “I’m just saying… there’s more to that post than guarding a door. And there’s him to deal with.”

Jungkook arched a brow. “Him?”

“The crown Prince,” Jack chimed in, setting his mug down with a loud thud. He was younger than most soldiers but sharp-eyed, his dark hair messy and unkempt, his leather jerkin a little too tight from years of fieldwork. He leaned forward with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Haven’t you heard the whispers? Thought you kept your ears as clean as your boots, Jeon.”

“You know I don’t care about gossip,” Jungkook replied calmly but with a hint of curiosity. it’s true that he didn’t care about rumors, but there was something about this conversation that caught his attention.

Jack leaned forward, his grin widening. “Then you’ve missed the best one. His highness isn’t… like other men. There’s a reason they call him The Veiled Prince.”

Jungkook tilted his head, brow furrowing. “The Veiled Prince? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chuck chuckled, the firelight catching in his eyes as he adjusted his cloak, its deep blue fabric embroidered with the insignia of the kingdom. He didn’t meet Jungkook’s gaze, instead turning his attention to the wooden rafters above. Garret exchanged a glance with Jack before shrugging.

“It means what it sounds like,” Garret said, almost whispering as if the walls themselves might be listening. “He’s not what he seems.”

Jack tapped a finger on the table. “Just take one close look at him and you’ll know somethin’ ain't right. He’s too… delicate. His face, his voice—hell, even his body.”

Jungkook squinted at him, confused but half-amused. “Maybe there’s something you’ve discovered about yourself, Jack… being that interested in how the prince looks,” he joked, nudging Jack with his elbow. 

The table erupted in laughter and Jack leaned back, a sly grin creeping across his face. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough, won’t ya? Spend enough time close to him, and you’ll know exactly what I’m talkin’ about.” He raised his mug “Here’s to Jeon Jungkook, the youngest royal guard! May he survive court life without losing his mind.”

The morning of Jungkook’s inauguration into the royal brigade arrived faster than he’d expected. He woke before dawn and pulled on his boots for the long walk to the palace. The soft clack of his steps echoed down the narrow stone path, the world around him still shrouded in that gray hush before sunrise.

Something felt off, though. He couldn’t shake the conversation from last night. Jack’s words about the Prince looping through his mind, stubborn and persistent.

Jungkook had always kept to himself, learned early on to steer clear of gossip and mindless chatter. The other men in the brigade thrived on rumor and speculation, their voices filling every corner with wild stories, but he’d never had the patience for it. It was easier, safer, to stay silent.

Since he’d arrived in this town at the age of seventeen, he had devoted himself entirely to the regimented life of a soldier. There was no room for distractions. No time for the petty squabbles of royalty or the whisperings of court politics. His focus had been on training and on earning his place among the fiercest warriors the kingdom had to offer.

And yet, here he was, on the morning of what was supposed to be the culmination of many years of hard work, and his mind was anything but clear. The royal brigade, the very one most soldiers dreamed of joining, was now within his reach—and yet, his thoughts kept returning to the prince. The Veiled Prince. The very rumors that he'd managed to ignore til now seemed to be clawing at him now, demanding attention. 

Jungkook gritted his teeth as he approached the entrance of the palace. His duty had never been about men of the royal family. It had always been about the honor of serving the kingdom, about proving himself worthy of the rank he’d earned. The others called him a quiet one, distant even, but that had only served him well. The younger recruits often found it difficult to match his drive and focus, and the older soldiers admired his ability to keep his head down and do what was asked of him, no matter the cost. And he meant to keep it that way.

His thoughts drifted back to the prince, but not the rumors this time. He thought of the responsibility the crown prince bore, a burden Jungkook had always respected from afar. His place at court, his family, the weight of an entire kingdom’s future hanging on his shoulders. Jungkook could scarcely imagine it. 

He approached the palace gates, boots scuffing softly against the clean stone path, only to be stopped by two royal guards standing tall in polished armor. Their eyes locked on him immediately—one looked him up and down, the other stepped into his path, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“State your business,” the taller one barked. His tone wasn’t hostile, but it was firm, clearly not his first time turning away overeager boys from the city.

“Jeon Jungkook. I’ve been newly assigned to the royal brigade,” Jungkook replied calmly, though his heart ticked a little faster.

The second guard squinted. “You’re the new brigade recruit?” he repeated slowly. “You sure you’re not here to deliver someone’s breakfast?”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed, but he kept his tone leveled. “Captain Toren is expecting me.”

They exchanged a glance. One of them huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re barely out of your training boots.”

“And pretty enough to be a court musician, not a guard,” the other added under his breath, though not softly enough.

Before Jungkook could respond, another figure stepped out from inside the main doors—an older guard with sharp eyes and a clipped voice. “Is there a reason you’re delaying the newest escort?”

The two guards stiffened immediately, their mockery vanishing. “No, sir!” they echoed.

Jungkook walked past them without a word, though he felt their eyes on his back the whole way.

Before he could step further inside, the older guard who’d reprimanded the others approached him with a slow, assessing gait. He was tall and lean, his silver-streaked beard trimmed to regulation, and his armor bore the faint scuffs of long service.

“You’re Jeon, then?” he asked, voice gravelly but not unkind.

“Yes, sir.”

The man gave a small grunt. “I’m Wrenhart. Lieutenant of the East Wing. Been in this place longer than some of the stonework.” He nodded toward the interior hall. “I’ll escort you to Captain Toren.”

Jungkook gave a sharp nod, falling into step beside him.

As they walked through the tall archways and polished corridors, Wrenhart cast a sideways glance at him. “You’re younger than I expected,” he said plainly. “They’ve got plenty of sharp-eyed recruits, but it’s rare to send one straight to the Prince.”

Jungkook didn’t take the bait. “I go where I’m ordered.”

Wrenhart gave a low chuckle. “Good answer. Just keep that mouth closed and your sword ready. The palace has fewer blades, but more ways to bleed.”

His boots echoed against the pristine stone floor of the main hall, and he instinctively straightened his posture. The space was immaculate, the air tinged with the faint scent of oiled leather. 

A few men were already inside, their movements precise as they adjusted their uniforms or inspected their weapons. Unlike the lively, chaotic energy of his old comrades, the men of the royal brigade seemed quiet and focused.

It was all so… different.

Jungkook felt a twinge of unease as he stepped further into the hall. He’d spent years thriving in the rugged environment of the town’s brigade, where banter and brotherhood masked the grueling demands of their work. Here, the men seemed distant, their camaraderie subdued by formality.

Even their uniforms were different. Much more crisp and tailored, a sharp contrast to the well-worn gear Jungkook was wearing now. He caught his reflection in a polished shield hanging on the wall and suddenly felt out of place. His hair, still slightly disheveled from the early morning wind, and his roughened boots stood out against the pristine order of this place.

Would he fit in?

“Jeon,” a voice called, breaking through his thoughts. He turned sharply to see a tall, broad-shouldered man approaching him, he could guess just by his looks that he was an important man. His expression was calm but piercing as his eyes swept over Jungkook. “I’m Captain Toren. You’re early,” he said, his tone neither harsh nor warm, just efficient. 

“Yes, sir, nice to meet you sir.” Jungkook replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

“Good,” Toren said with a curt nod. “Punctuality is expected here, as is discipline. You’ll find things are different from what you’re used to in the town brigade.” He glanced at Jungkook’s boots, and though he said nothing, the slight raise of his brow made Jungkook acutely aware of the scuffed leather. “But you’ll adapt.”

“Yes, sir!” Jungkook repeated, though he wasn’t so sure.

As Toren turned and began talking to Wrenhart, Jungkook exhaled slowly, his gaze wandering across the room again. 

As he observed the soldiers around him, a thought struck him. Their restraint, their unwavering discipline, it wasn’t unlike the way he approached his own duties. He had always been more reserved than his mates. Perhaps, in time, he could find his place here. These men didn’t waste words, and neither did he. 

“Jeon, I trust you’ve been thoroughly debriefed on your assignment here by the recruiter,” Captain Toren began, his tone brisk as his boots clapped in a quick pace. “Due to the importance of your post, we can’t spare time to show you around the castle. I expect you to learn as you go.”

Jungkook hurried after him, the captain’s long strides forcing him to half-jog just to keep up. The deeper they moved into the palace, the quieter it got, as though the very stones carried the weight of centuries of secrets. 

“Sir,” Jungkook began, his voicd edged with hesitation, “I was told my post was with the royal guards... to protect the palace and accompany the King during his out-of-town duties.”

Toren didn’t break stride, his sharp gaze fixed ahead. “You’ve been misinformed,” he said curtly. “Your assignment is to protect the crown Prince directly.”

Jungkook nearly stumbled as his mind raced to process the statement. The crown Prince? How could that be his post? He was new and clearly untested at this level. 

“What?” Jungkook blurted out, his voice louder than he’d intended. The captain turned his head slightly, his expression neutral save for the raised eyebrow that conveyed mild disapproval.

“Is there a problem, Jeon?” Toren asked, his voice calm but cool.

“No, sir!” Jungkook replied quickly, his pulse quickening. “I just… Excuse my intrusion, but how can I already be assigned to directly serve someone under the line of succession? I’ve yet to familiarize myself with the royal court.”

Toren stopped abruptly, and Jungkook came to an awkward halt behind him, straightening instinctively. The captain turned, his keen eyes locking on Jungkook’s with an intensity that felt like being measured and weighed.

“Your skills and conduct at the town brigade earned you this position,” Toren said evenly, though there was a faint shift in his tone, a note that hinted at something beyond the words. “We’ve heard great things about you, Jeon. There’s a clear reason why you were the only recruit from your brigade. Your discipline, your ability to focus on the task at hand without distraction—that is what we need.”

Jungkook frowned slightly, unsure if he should respond. There was something in the captain’s choice of words, the way he spoke of focus and distraction, that felt strange. It wasn’t the kind of praise he was used to. Back in the barracks, it was your strength, your swordsmanship, or your guts that got you recognized.

“The crown Prince requires a certain kind of discretion,” Toren continued, his tone neutral but purposeful. “And not everyone is suited for that role. If you feel you aren’t, now is the time to say so.”

The air between them seemed to tighten. Jungkook knew better than to ask what the captain meant, but his curiosity stirred. Discretion? Was that just a polite way of saying he needed to keep his head down and mouth shut? The gossip about the Prince drifted back into his mind, but he shoved them aside. Speculation wasn’t his place.

“No, sir,” Jungkook said firmly, straightening his back. “I will fulfill my duty to the crown Prince.”

Toren’s eyes stayed on him for a moment longer before he nodded once. “Good. Then follow me.”

Jungkook followed him up the staircase. The flight seemed endless, spiraling upward like it reached the heavens themselves. Each landing revealed another stretch of steps, their polished white marble gleaming faintly in the soft light filtering through narrow stained-glass windows.

When they finally stopped, Captain Toren gestured toward a pair of imposing black doors, their surfaces adorned with subtle carvings of intricate vines and heraldic symbols. 

“The Prince is currently in a meeting with the King and the court,” Toren explained as he stood in front of the doors. “We’ll wait here until he’s done. Once introduced, you’ll accompany him to his duties for the day.”

“Understood,” Jungkook replied as calmly as he could.

He couldn’t help but feel a mounting sense of unease—no, not unease. Awe, perhaps. The sheer weight of the role he was about to step into, was almost suffocating. It wasn’t every day that a common soldier was thrust so close to the royal family, and certainly not so soon after arriving at the brigade.

The Captain’s reasoning earlier had been logical, but incomplete. There was more to this assignment than his discipline or skills, though it wasn’t his place to question further. Still, the doubt gnawed at him. Why only him? Why now?

His thoughts churned as they waited, time seeming to stretch and warp in the cavernous silence of the hall. The muted murmur of voices behind the heavy doors was barely audible. Jungkook adjusted his stance, willing his nerves to still. Whatever his assignment entailed, he had to appear composed. 

After what felt like an eternity, the great black doors creaked open, revealing a flood of richly dressed courtiers spilling out into the corridor. Their fine silks and embroidered velvets brushed past him as they moved in hushed conversations, their faces a mixture of poise and exhaustion. Jungkook stood at attention, his eyes fixed forward, though he couldn’t help but feel out of place amid such finery.

Then, from the back of the group, a figure emerged.

The King.

The man’s presence filled the space effortlessly, his broad shoulders draped in a robe of deep blue trimmed with gold. His expression was calm, yet commanding, the kind of look that left no room for doubt about his authority. As the king passed, Jungkook bowed slightly.

But it wasn’t the King who held Jungkook’s attention when he straightened back.

Behind him, moving with a quieter grace, was the Prince.

Jungkook’s breath caught. He had seen the Prince before but it was mostly glimpses from afar during public ceremonies or images in portraits hung in the barracks. But this was different. Up close, the rumors that had once seemed exaggerated now felt startlingly real.

The Prince was petite, his frame almost fragile under the soft folds of his ceremonial attire. His features were striking in a way that defied conventional expectations of masculinity: high cheekbones, a finely sculpted nose, and full lips that looked so soft. But it was his eyes that drew Jungkook in. They were wide, framed with dark, long lashes, and impossibly expressive.

For a moment, their gazes locked. The Prince’s eyes flicked up to Jungkook’s, studying him with curiosity. It wasn’t scrutiny, but more like a fleeting assessment, a glance that seemed to measure him without judgment. Jungkook felt rooted to the spot, caught in the subtle pull of that gaze.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this.

The Prince’s beauty wasn’t just unusual, it was disarming. It made sense now, why the court whispered, why the people gossiped. Standing before him, Jungkook could almost understand how someone might mistake him for something other than what he was.

Jungkook swallowed hard, breaking the spell. His jaw tightened as he schooled his features into neutrality, reminding himself that this was no time to indulge in those thoughts. 

“Jeon!” the Captain said sharply, motioning him forward. Jungkook nodded, stepping forward with purposeful strides.

Toren addressed the King and Prince with a bow so fluid it seemed rehearsed to perfection. “Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” he began, his tone deferential. “This is Jeon Jungkook, the newest recruit of the royal brigade. He will be serving Your Highness directly. Despite his youth, he has been highly decorated for his exemplary skills on the battlefield—”

The king raised a hand, a simple gesture that silenced Toren mid-sentence. 

“I am already acquainted with his reputation,” the King said, his gaze sharp as it settled on Jungkook. “You are the one who aided in reclaiming the Lowlands, are you not? Yes… I recall the reports. Remarkable work for one so young.”

Jungkook bowed low, his heart pounding in his chest. “Your Majesty, it was an honor to serve.”

The King’s expression softened just enough to show a flicker of approval. “And now, you are entrusted with the protection of the crown Prince. A task of no small consequence. See to it that you are equal to the duty.”

Before Jungkook could utter a reply, the King turned with the unhurried grace of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question. His robe swept across the floor as he walked away, speaking over his shoulder. “Toren, you are dismissed. The Prince will brief him further.”

Captain Toren bowed deeply. “As you will, Your Majesty.” Straightening, he added, “Your Highness, I shall leave you in capable hands.”

The Captain gave a curt nod before following the King. Jungkook stood there, momentarily frozen, feeling the vastness of the hall closing in around him. He clenched his fists lightly, willing himself to focus. 

He dared to glance at the Prince, who stood observing him without a word. The Prince’s bearing was every bit as regal as one might expect, but there was an inscrutable quality that made him seem untouchable. His attire, rich in dark blues and silvers, was impeccably tailored, but it only enhanced the delicacy of his frame and the fine structure of his face.

The Prince’s gaze lingered on Jungkook for a moment longer before he hummed softly, a sound neither dismissive nor approving, and then turned.

Jungkook followed obediently, falling into step just behind him. 

“What is your name?” the Prince asked, breaking the silence. The sound of his voice startled Jungkook slightly. It was softer and lighter than he’d imagined.

Jungkook hesitated for a second. “Jeon, Your Royal Highness.”

The Prince stopped abruptly, glancing over his shoulder with a look of mild reproach. “No,” he said, his tone almost indulgent, as though correcting a child.  “Your given name. What is it?”

Jungkook stiffened slightly, caught off guard by the question. “It’s Jungkook, Your Highness.”

The Prince turned fully, his expression softening into something faintly amused. “Jungkook…” he repeated, almost as though testing the sound of it. His lips curved into a faint smile that made Jungkook’s stomach tighten unexpectedly. “Very well. You shall address me as ‘Your Highness’ when required, but you needn’t do so with every sentence. I have no need for overdone pleasantries.”

Jungkook blinked, unsure how to respond. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said anyway, earning a slight chuckle from the Prince.

As they continued down the hallway, Jungkook followed closely, his eyes occasionally drifting to the Prince’s profile. There was something almost ethereal about him, a lightness that seemed at odds with the gravitas of his station. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, and Jungkook wondered if it was coming from the Prince or the castle itself. 

The day stretched on endlessly into a slow and languid rhythm that Jungkook hadn’t expected. His first glimpse into royal life had been eye-opening, though not in the way he expected. For all the grandeur and prestige, the day’s proceedings were mind-numbingly dull.

By mid-day, Jungkook found himself struggling to keep his focus from wandering. The halls, while beautiful, began to blur together in their sameness with its gold inlays and towering arches. The endless meetings, each one echoing the last, left him yearning for the brisk efficiency of the town brigade.

The Prince, however, seemed unfazed by the monotony. He carried out his duties with a serene elegance that both impressed and baffled Jungkook. There was a calmness in the way the Prince moved through the day, as though he were immune to the weariness that tugged at everyone else. His voice remained patient even during the most repetitive discussions, addressing each advisor with the same respect.

It wasn’t until the afternoon meeting with the townspeople that the day took on a semblance of life. The grand chamber was transformed, its imposing walls softened by the presence of ordinary villagers who had come to voice their concerns. Jungkook stood behind the Prince, his posture rigid, but his focus sharpened by the shift in energy.

The Prince’s demeanor also changed subtly as the first villager stepped forward. His previously restrained expression softened, his dark eyes warming with an attentiveness that felt genuine. For the first time that day, Jungkook saw a spark of life in him.

When a farmer approached, bowing low as he spoke of the Prince’s help with irrigation for the season’s crops, the monarch’s entire face lit up.

“Your efforts have been tireless, Your Highness,” the farmer said, his voice tinged with gratitude. “We’ve never seen such bountiful yields. My family and I can’t thank you enough.”

The Prince inclined his head gracefully. “The success of your fields speaks to your diligence as much as the Palace’s aid,” he replied, his tone light but earnest. “Still, it gladdens me to know that we’ve been of some help to you.”

Jungkook couldn’t help but notice the way the Prince’s shoulders relaxed with each expression of thanks, as if the villagers’ words were a balm against the otherwise dull repetition of his duties. The praise seemed to energize him in a way no formal meeting or courtly discussion could.

Another villager—a young woman clutching a small child—stepped forward. Her voice trembled as she thanked the Prince for providing medical supplies during a recent outbreak of illness in her village. The Prince listened intently, nodding with quiet encouragement as she spoke.

“We are fortunate to have such a compassionate leader,” she finished, bowing deeply.

Jungkook observed the Prince, taking in the quiet pride in his expression, the way he lingered just a moment longer as he assured the woman her thanks was unnecessary. It was subtle, but Jungkook felt something about the Prince’s connection to these people was different from the polished indifference he showed in the court meetings.

When one elderly woman clasped her hands and tearfully thanked him for providing seed grain during the last drought, Jungkook caught the faintest flicker of a smile on the Prince’s lips. It was quick but genuine, and it lit his delicate features in a way that momentarily silenced the soldier’s restless thoughts.

By the end of the day, it was Jungkook’s duty to escort the Prince safely to his chambers. As part of his routine, he was to stand watch outside until another member of the royal brigade relieved him for the night. Come morning, he would resume his post as the Prince’s shadow.

The corridors were quiet at this hour, their stillness broken only by their footsteps. Dim sconces cast flickering shadows against the walls, lending the space an almost eerie air. Jungkook kept his pace only a step behind the Prince, who moved with his usual grace… at least at first.

He noticed something peculiar then. The Prince’s gait, which had been smooth the whole day, was off. His steps were uneven and his shoulders sagged as though carrying an invisible weight. As Jungkook drew closer, he caught the faint sound of labored breathing.  

“Your Highness, are you well?” Jungkook asked.  

“Yes, perfectly fine,” the Prince replied sharply, though the strain in his voice betrayed the words. He quickened his pace, forcing Jungkook to keep up. “Let’s hurry,” he added, his tone clipped but tinged with urgency.  

Jungkook frowned, his instincts flaring. Something wasn’t right. The prince’s complexion appeared pale, almost ashen. His breathing grew more ragged with every step, and for a moment, Jungkook thought the Prince might collapse before they reached the chamber doors.  

When they arrived, the Prince pushed the heavy wooden doors open and disappeared inside without so much as a backward glance. Jungkook hesitated outside. He wasn’t sure if he should remain at his post or wait for further instruction.

Just as he was debating, the door creaked open again. The Prince reappeared, his face now alarmingly pale, almost bluish, and his breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Find Lady Evra,” he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. Without waiting for a response, the Prince closed the door once more, leaving a confused Jungkook staring at the polished wood.  

He cursed inwardly. He had no idea who Lady Evra was or where to find her.  

With no better option, Jungkook set off down the corridor. His eyes scanned for any sign of staff, his mind racing through every scrap of information he’d gathered about the palace since his arrival. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spotted a young servant carrying a tray of linens.  

“You—wait!” Jungkook called out, his tone urgent but controlled. The servant froze, wide-eyed as Jungkook approached “The Prince has requested someone named Lady Evra. Do you know where I can find her?”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll fetch her right away,” she said before hurrying off in the opposite direction, the linens swaying precariously in her arms.

Jungkook retraced his steps to the Prince’s chambers, resuming his post by the door. He hesitated for a moment before raising his voice just enough to be heard through the thick wood. “Your Highness, I’ve sent someone to call for Lady Evra. She should arrive shortly.”

There was no response from inside, only the faint sound of movement. Jungkook stood stiffly at attention, his sharp eyes fixed on the door. His hand rested instinctively on the hilt of his sword.

After a few minutes, Jungkook saw a group of servants approaching hurriedly. Leading them was a woman who exuded an air of authority. She was dressed in what resembled a maid's attire, but hers was of a richer fabric and a distinct color. From the way she carried herself, Jungkook could only assume she was the head of the royal attendants.

When her sharp gaze fell on him, she slowed her stride, clearing her throat. Her eyes locked onto his with a look of immediate distrust.  

“And who might you be?” she asked warily.

“I’m the Prince’s new charge, ma’am,” Jungkook replied evenly. “I began my post today.”  

Lady Evra’s brow arched in suspicion. “New charge, you say? Strange. I was not informed of such a change.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t dwell on it. “Regardless, you are dismissed. The night watch will take over from here.”  

“With all due respect, ma’am,” Jungkook said carefully, “protocol dictates that I remain until the next guard arrives. Leaving now would mean leaving His Highness unprotected.”  

Her expression hardened, and she stepped closer, her voice dropping into a sharp whisper. “I can assure you the Prince will be fine in my care. Now, do as you’re told.”  

Without waiting for his reply, she brushed past him, her shoulder nearly grazing his. As she entered the chamber, Jungkook caught a fleeting glimpse inside. The Prince was hunched over on the bed, his face obscured. Then the door shut firmly in his face.  

Jungkook stood there for a moment, jaw tightening. He reminded himself why he was chosen for this position: his ability to follow orders without prying. He exhaled slowly, shaking off his unease. Whatever was happening in that room was not his concern.  

Inside the room, the air was tense as Lady Evra worked deftly, her fingers unlacing the corset that had tormented the Prince all day.  

“I’ve said this countless times, this wretched contraption no longer fits!”  you hissed, your voice strained as you finally freed yourself from the suffocating garment. “I’ve been wearing the same corset since I was sixteen. I cannot endure it any longer.”  

Lady Evra’s expression remained composed. “Your Highness, you know you must wear it. I’ll do my best to have it adjusted.”

“It’s useless,” you countered, exhaling deeply. “My mother won’t allow you to leave any room for my natural shape to show. How does she expect me to fulfill my duties when I can’t even take a full breath?”

You moved toward the tall mirrors lining the chamber wall, your gaze sharp as you scrutinized your reflection. Each year, your form became more pronounced, and with it, the corset grew more punishing.  

“And what of this new knight?” you said, turning away from the mirror. “Why replace Sir Alric? And with this boy from the town, no less. He probably now thinks the Prince is sickly and will soon share whatever nonsense he concocts with his mates.” You sighed, letting the maids step in to prepare you for the evening’s rest.  

“If I may, Your Highness,” one of the younger maids ventured as she led you to the waiting bath. The warm, perfumed water enveloped you, the milky lather soothing your strained muscles. You gave a slight nod, allowing her to continue.  

“There are whispers among the palace staff,” she said cautiously, her tone respectful but firm. “The new guard, they say, is no ordinary recruit. He is highly decorated, despite his age. He’s also not bred here, and, according to what I’ve gathered, he’s a man of few words”

Lady Evra, clicked her tongue. “He was standing outside like a watchdog! Refused to leave even after I dismissed him. Stubborn as a mule.” She crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “I’ll be keeping a close eye on him. If he’s strange, I’ll speak to Toren and have him out of here in less than a day.”

You sighed, sinking deeper into the warm water, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. “Do as you see fit, Evra. Just ensure he keeps his mouth shut and stays out of my way.”

The days following the corset incident were nothing short of exhausting. Every interaction with Jungkook felt like walking a tightrope—your irritation simmering just beneath the surface, and his calm, dutiful presence only served to fuel your frustration. It was unbearable. Everywhere you turned, there he was standing guard by your door, shadowing your steps through the halls, his eyes always watchful. You hated it. You hated him—or so you kept telling yourself.

"Must you always hover?" You snapped one afternoon as you walked through the palace gardens. "I can breathe without you monitoring every step I take, you know."

Jungkook, walking a respectful distance behind you, replied smoothly. "It’s my duty to ensure your safety, Your Highness."

You spun on your heel, glaring at him. "My safety? From what, exactly? The murderous rose bushes? The treacherous cobblestones? Or are you afraid I’ll trip over my own feet and die?"

His face remained impassive, though his jaw tightened ever so slightly. "I take my role seriously, Your Highness. If my presence offends you, I’ll adjust my distance."

You huffed, crossing your arms. "It’s not your distance… it’s your attitude. You act as if I’m some fragile doll that’ll shatter at the slightest inconvenience. I survived before you came along. I’ll survive after you’re gone."

For a moment, he said nothing, simply watching you with those wide, unreadable eyes. Then, with a slight bow of his head, he replied, "I don’t doubt your strength, Your Highness. But even the strongest need someone to watch their back."

The calmness in his voice only irritated you more. You turned sharply, continuing down the garden path, your footsteps quick and uneven. "I don’t need you to watch my back. I need you to stay out of my way."

His response was quiet but firm. "Understood."

The weight of his simple reply settled over you, making your anger feel misplaced, almost childish. But your stubbornness wouldn’t allow you to back down. You marched ahead, determined to ignore the strange tightening in your chest, the inexplicable guilt gnawing at your resolve.

This tension became a constant, simmering beneath every exchange. Every glance Jungkook cast in your direction felt scrutinizing, even though he never once said anything out of line. And every time you snapped, he took it with that maddening calmness, never rising to your provocations.

Until one day, he didn’t.

The great hall buzzed with murmurs as townspeople filled the space for another people’s meeting, their faces lined with worry and frustration. You sat on the elevated dais, your gaze steady as the villagers came forward to air their grievances. It was a familiar scene, mostly complaints about taxes, disputes over land, requests for aid. You nodded, offering solutions where you could.  

But then, a middle-aged man stepped forward, his expression twisted with anger. His clothes were worn, his hands calloused from hard labor. "Your Highness," he began, his voice shaking with barely restrained fury, "the crime in the city is out of control. Our streets are no longer safe!”

You leaned forward slightly. "We are aware of the issue, and I assure you, measures are being taken—"  

"Measures?" he interrupted, his voice rising. "The only measures your soldiers seem to take are the ones that lead them to the bottom of an ale tankard! They’re useless, wasting our coin while we fend for ourselves."  

The crowd muttered in agreement, their voices a low rumble of discontent.  

You raised a hand to calm them. "I understand your frustration. The crown does not take this lightly, and I will personally ensure—"  

"You?" The man’s voice broke, his hand trembling as he reached into his coat. "All you do is sit on your throne safely while we suffer!"  

Before you could react, the flash of a blade caught the light as he pulled a knife from his cloak. Gasps filled the hall, and everything seemed to slow for a moment.  

But Jungkook was faster. In a single, fluid motion, he stepped in front of you, his sword drawn and leveled at the man’s throat. "Drop it," Jungkook commanded, unwavering.  

The villager’s eyes widened, his hand faltering as the tip of Jungkook’s blade pressed against his skin. "I—I didn’t mean to—" he stammered, his anger now mixed with fear.  

"Drop the knife!" Jungkook repeated, and this time, the man obeyed, the weapon clattering to the stone floor.  

Captain Toren and the other guards quickly moved in, seizing the man and leading him away. The tension in the hall was palpable, the murmurs of the crowd now hushed whispers.  

The meeting was promptly dismissed, the townspeople ushered out under by the guards. You rose from your seat, heart still pounding, and marched out of the hall without a word.  

Jungkook followed close behind.  

Once you reached the privacy of a secluded courtyard, you whirled around to face him. "What in the world was that?" you snapped, your voice sharp with anger.  

Jungkook stood firm, his arms crossed. "I was doing my job, Your Highness" he replied evenly.  

"Your job?" you repeated, incredulous. "Your job is not to scare my people!"  

He frowned, his eyes narrowing. "With all due respect, Your Highness, my job is to keep you alive. That man could’ve killed you."  

"He was desperate, he was not going to harm me!" you countered, your voice rising. "He needed help, not a blade at his throat."  

Jungkook took a step closer, his tone hardening. "Desperation makes people dangerous. If I hadn’t acted, you could’ve been seriously hurt or worse."  

You glared at him, hands clenched at your sides. "You made me look weak, Jeon. In front of everyone. How am I supposed to lead when my own guard undermines me?"  

His composure slipped, frustration evident in his voice. "And how am I supposed to do my duty when you refuse to see the risks around you?"  

There was a moment of silence. Finally, Jungkook exhaled. "I’m not your enemy, Your Highness. I’m trying to protect you, even if you dislike me for it."  

You looked away, the anger still simmering but now mixed with an uncomfortable realization that he might be right. Without another word, you turned and walked away. But the tension between you lingered as a crackling undercurrent that neither of you could ignore.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into a full month of the same dull duties. The Prince hadn’t experienced any further incidents, and since he rarely left the castle, Jungkook’s duties felt more ceremonial than protective. Inside the palace walls, the biggest threats were mundane like slipping on the stairs or burning yourself on a stray candle.

Still, one thing did unsettle him and that was the maids. It felt as though they were constantly watching him. But more scrutinizing was Lady Evra, whose sharp glances and curt words made it clear she didn’t think highly of him. Jungkook couldn’t quite pinpoint why, but he suspected she was just waiting for him to slip up.

Today, however, promised a break from routine. The kingdom was hosting dignitaries from neighboring states to celebrate the success of this year’s crops. The festivities included a hunting game, and the Prince would be participating.

Jungkook found himself looking forward to the day’s events. He had never been hunting before. The reason being that this activity was largely reserved for nobles and royals. For Jungkook, weapons had only ever been tools of war, used against enemies of the kingdom. 

As he waited for the Prince to emerge from his chambers, Jungkook couldn’t help but notice how long it always took him. He’d observed plenty of men prepare for the day, from fellow soldiers to high-ranking officers, and their routines were straightforward: a quick wash, a shave, clothes thrown on with minimal fuss. Even royals, he assumed, wouldn’t stray far from that. But the prince? His routine was far more elaborate.  

It wasn’t just the time he took but also the constant presence of maids—never a single male servant. Jungkook found this unusual. Nobles might have personal attendants, but it was customary for male royals to be assisted by male stewards, especially when dressing for public appearances. Yet here, only women fluttered in and out of the Prince’s chambers.

Jungkook’s brow furrowed as he leaned against the wall outside the door. Why so much secrecy? He wondered. 

His thoughts were abruptly cut short by the sharp clearing of a throat. Jungkook straightened at once, spinning on his heel to face an unimpressed Lady Evra, with the Prince standing just behind her. 

Jungkook’s gaze slid past the head maid and landed squarely on the Prince, who was wearing a finely tailored black velvet suit. Unlike his usual flowing robes, this ensemble clung to his form, outlining every contour. Jungkook’s mind involuntarily drifted back to that night at the tavern:

He’s too… delicate. His face, his voice—hell, even his body.

He could see it now. The Prince’s build was slender, with narrow shoulders tapering to a small waist. But lower still, his thighs seemed more shapely, fuller than one might expect. Jungkook swallowed, his thoughts beginning to tread into dangerous territory.

“What are you gawking at with that foolish expression, boy?” Lady Evra snapped, her tone sharp enough to slice through his reverie. She clicked her fingers in front of his face, jolting him back to reality. Jungkook mentally cursed himself for being so obvious.

“My apologies, ma’am,” he muttered, quickly lowering his gaze.

The Prince cast his eyes downward, a faint pink tinge brushing his cheeks. Jungkook’s heart stuttered at the sight, but before he could dwell on it, the Prince turned on his heel and began to walk away. Lady Evra followed, though not without shooting Jungkook a final withering glare, her eyes narrowing in warning.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, pressing his lips into a tight line. Focus, fool. 

When they arrived at the hunting grounds, Jungkook was immediately struck by the lack of royal guards. Only Captain Toren and two more guards stood watch over the King, alongside Jungkook himself. The absence of a larger contingent seemed odd, given the importance of the event. 

More surprising, however, was the presence of Lady Evra. She stood out sharply among the assembled men, all of whom were accompanied only by their stewards or squires. Jungkook couldn’t help but wonder what purpose a maid had at such a gathering. It was unusual, to say the least, for a woman—especially one in her position—to attend a hunting excursion.

The journey there had been rough. The carriage lurched and swayed over the uneven, muddy roads, making the ride uncomfortable for all. By the time they arrived, Lady Evra was visibly pale, her knuckles white as she gripped the carriage’s edge. As soon as the wheels stopped, she nearly leapt from the cabin, clutching a handkerchief over her mouth. She looked as though she might empty the contents of her stomach at any moment.

"Please fetch Lady Evra some water," The Prince instructed one of the nearby stewards.

Turning to Lady Evra, he added, "You may rest in the carriage. I won’t require your assistance for the time being."

Lady Evra nodded stiffly, still covering her mouth. Without another word, she retreated to the designated camp area, her usual sharp demeanor dampened by her obvious discomfort. Jungkook watched her leave, unable to shake the feeling that her presence here was more than just an odd coincidence.

The dense forest stretched around them, the towering trees creating long shadows as the afternoon sun began its slow descent. The hunting party had dispersed, each group fanning out in search of game. Jungkook remained close to you, bow in hand, his eyes sharp as he scanned the surroundings. His primary duty was to ensure that the area was safe, yet his gaze kept drifting to you instead.

You moved with a certain grace, your slim figure seeming out of place among the rugged hunters. The tight-fitting black velvet suit from earlier now seemed even more impractical in the wild. The way it hugged your narrow waist and flared slightly over your hips was… distracting. Jungkook found himself stealing glances, his grip tightening on his bow each time his eyes wandered.

“You’ve been staring,” you said suddenly. You didn’t turn to look at Jungkook, instead keeping your gaze ahead.

Jungkook stiffened, clearing his throat. “I’m merely keeping watch, Your Highness. It’s my duty.”

You finally glanced back, one brow arched. “Is it? Funny, I didn’t realize my waistline required such vigilant protection.”

Jungkook felt heat rise to his cheeks. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I was… assessing the terrain.”

“Of course,” you replied, your tone light but your eyes lingering on him just long enough to unsettle him.

Jungkook tried to shake off his discomfort, focusing on his surroundings. His instincts were on high alert, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted—not by his thoughts, and certainly not by you.

Suddenly, a sharp rustling in the underbrush made both of you halt. Jungkook raised his bow instinctively, scanning the dense foliage.

“It’s probably just a deer,” you whispered.

Before Jungkook could respond, a sharp sound cut through the air. An arrow zipped past, grazing Jungkook’s arm and embedding itself in a tree behind him. He barely registered the sting before he heard your sharp intake of breath. His heart stopped as he turned to see you clutching your side, blood seeping through your fingers.

“Your Highness!” Jungkook lunged forward just as the ground beneath you gave way. You stumbled, and before Jungkook could grab hold of you, both of you tumbled down a steep slope. Rocks and branches tore at your clothes and skin until you landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

Jungkook groaned, pushing himself up despite the aching in his limbs. His eyes immediately sought out your form. Scrambling over, he knelt beside you. “Your Highness, are you all right?”

Your eyes fluttered open, face pale. “I… I think the arrow grazed me.”

Jungkook’s gaze fell to the blood-soaked fabric at your side. He knew he had to act quickly. “It’s more than a graze, Your Highness. You’re losing too much blood. I need to tend to the wound.”

You shook your head weakly, attempting to push his hands away. “No. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Jungkook insisted firmly. “If I don’t stop the bleeding, you could—”

“I said no!” You snapped, voice trembling with both pain and defiance. Your hand gripped the torn edge of your garment. “You cannot… I won’t allow it.”

Jungkook hesitated, understanding dawning in his eyes. You weren’t just refusing out of pride… you were hiding something. But there was no time for hesitation. Gritting his teeth, Jungkook grabbed your wrist gently but firmly. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but your life comes before anything else.”

With one swift motion, Jungkook tore the fabric away from your side, revealing the wound… and something else. His breath caught. Beneath the blood and torn fabric, your chest was bound tightly, concealing curves that no man would possess.

Jungkook froze, his mind racing, but he forced himself to focus. “Your Highness… You—”

“Just hush,” you whispered hoarsely, eyes burning with both fear and anger. “And do what you must….”

Snapping out of his shock, Jungkook nodded, his hands steady as he worked. He pressed a cloth to the wound, applying pressure to stem the bleeding. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he murmured, his voice low. “But you need to trust me now.”

Your eyes searched his eyes for a long moment before you finally, reluctantly, nodded. Jungkook tore away the side of the corset where the arrow had struck, making you gasp, your hands instinctively flying to cover your chest. But Jungkook’s focus was entirely on tending your wound. He ripped a strip from his own jacket and wrapped it tightly around you, improvising a bandage. His mind was whirling with a million thoughts but his hands remained steady. 

“How could this happen…” you winced weakly, eyes blinking slow and unfocused.

Jungkook glanced around the tangled underbrush as he finished securing the makeshift bandage around your side. “I don’t think it was a missed arrow, Your Highness. All the groups were assigned different parts of the forest… no one should’ve been near us. Whoever shot that arrow meant to hit you.”

His gaze drifted back, lingering for a second where your ripped corset revealed the bound curves beneath. Realizing, he cleared his throat and jerked his eyes up to meet yours. You stared him down, cheeks flushed more with anger than embarrassment.

“We need to move. It’s not safe here.”

You tried to sit up, grimacing as pain knifed through your side. “I… I don’t think I can get up,”

“I’ll carry you to the carriage,” Jungkook said, already moving to help.

“Absolutely not.” You shot him a fierce glare, even as your lips trembled. “I refuse to be hauled around like some helpless damsel.”

Jungkook gave an exasperated huff. “Your Highness, this isn’t up for debate. My duty is to keep you alive no matter what.”

You lifted your chin. “I will not be carried.”

“For the love of—” Jungkook muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re so damned stubborn.”

Your eyes blazed, but the pain kept you from doing more than gritting your teeth. “Excuse me?!”

“Quiet now.” 

Before you could even protest the absolute audacity, his arms scooped under your knees and shoulders, lifting you easily. The motion jostled your side making your breath hitch through clenched teeth.

“You absolute brute!” You hissed.

“You're bleeding out,” he shot back, adjusting his grip just slightly so your head could rest against his chest. “Forgive me for prioritizing your survival over your comfort.”

Your fingers dug into the front of his uniform. “You could have at least warned me.”

“I did,” Jungkook muttered. “You just don’t listen.”

You scowled up at him, though the expression was weakened by your paling face and the way your head lolled slightly from the blood loss. “I am the crown Prince, you know. You should treat me with a modicum of…of dignity.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” he snapped, glancing down at you with frustration simmering just below the surface. “You make my job more difficult when you act like you'd rather die than accept help.”

He got nothing more than a quiet huff of indignation in response. You were clearly growing too weak to argue back so he quickened his pace. His gaze flicked constantly between the path ahead and the shadows shifting through the branches. But despite his vigilance, he still looked down at you every few seconds, checking your breathing.

After a moment, your voice came softer, more strained. “Do you think it was one of the guests? Someone who knew I’d be out here, away from the castle?”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But whoever it was, they knew enough to aim for where you’d be most vulnerable.”

“You mustn’t tell anyone,” you murmured weakly after a second. Jungkook glanced down at you. “About what you saw.”

His jaw flexed subtly, and for a moment he was silent. “Your secret is safe with me, Your Highness.”

Something in his voice made you believe him, despite your best instincts warning you otherwise.

He adjusted his grip and pushed into a jog. The pain flared along your ribs, but you bit back the cry, burying it in the fabric of his collar. 

“Stay with me,” he murmured quietly, quickening his pace. “We’re almost there.”

Within minutes, shapes emerged on the rise. Toren's eyes widened when he saw the crimson stain at your side.

“Prince—!” He started.

“Later,” you rasped, before Jungkook could answer. “Find whoever fired that arrow first.”

Toren snapped a signal to his men. The physician rushed forward as Jungkook eased you into a soft cushion inside the carriage, but your hand caught his wrist before he could step back.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

The female physician began cutting away the rest of the corset. Jungkook turned, placing himself between you and the widening circle of soldiers, shielding your secret with his own body as the hunt for the unseen archer began.

“This is an outrage! An arrow shot at the Crown Prince! What barbaric times are we living in?” the Queen seethed, her heels clicking furiously across the marble floor as she paced the length of your chambers. Her hands, adorned in glinting rings, were clenched tightly at her sides, white with fury.

You lay still in bed, propped up against a pile of silk-stitched pillows, a dark expression carved into your face. Pain still throbbed beneath the bandages at your side, but it was nothing compared to the knot forming in your stomach.

You hadn’t yet told her.

She was already fuming, her voice echoing off the high ceilings, and you had no idea how to add to her fire without sparking a full inferno. You didn’t even know what they’d do to Jungkook if they found out. A soldier learning the most guarded secret in the kingdom? The risk alone was enough to get someone executed. But…

Your thoughts flicked back to the look on his face when he saw your body. Not disgust. He was definitely shocked but not disgusted. And you were only alive because of his quick reaction.

You wanted to trust him. But did you know you could?

“The royal guards scoured the entire forest,” your father said, his voice tight with exhaustion. He sat slumped on the edge of the chaise, one hand pressed to his temple, the other clenched over his knee. “There were no tracks, no signs, no discarded arrows. Whoever it was, they planned their escape well.”

He looked older than he had the day before. You know he hadn’t slept. his robes were still wrinkled from the previous night’s vigil at your bedside.

“The wound could have been fatal!” the Queen snapped, turning toward him. “They aimed for her side! Low enough to bleed her out before help could arrive. This wasn’t a warning shot.”

“The physician said she’ll make a full recovery,” your father reminded gently. “Thanks to quick action. The bleeding was stopped in time.”

“Thanks to Jungkook.” You said, staring at the gilded canopy above. “If he hadn’t acted, I might not be here.”

Your mother’s eyes snapped to yours, sharp with calculation. “That boy…he bandaged your wound?”

You hesitated. The truth was teetering at the edge of your tongue. “He saved my life,” you said, skirting the specifics, not quite meeting her gaze.

Your father let out a slow breath. “Then we owe him a debt. At least some among the guards still know their duty.”

But your mother was not so easily appeased. She narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “I want to speak to him. Alone. If he is to be your constant shadow, I need to know exactly what kind of man we’ve invited into this family’s confidence.” Her words left no room for argument.

A tremor of fear ran through you—not for yourself, but for Jungkook. The more people who knew, the more fragile your secret became. And you couldn’t shake the worry that your mother would see straight through any lie he tried to offer.

A knock sounded. Lady Evra slipped inside, curtsying quickly. “Your Majesties, Sir Jeon has returned from debriefing with Captain Toren. He requests permission to deliver his report in person.”

Ice rippled through your chest. The Queen’s eyes flashed. “Bring him.”

Jungkook entered and sank to one knee, head bowed. “Your Majesties. Your Highness.”

“You kept my child alive,” the King began. “For that, the crown owes you.”

“Yes,” the Queen cut in, “but you also led the hunting party that placed the Prince in the arrow’s path. Explain.”

Jungkook lifted his gaze. “Your Majesty, the party followed the assigned quadrant. The assailant lay in wait outside any sanctioned sector. Whoever it was moved with purpose and vanished the moment the shot was fired.”

“You saw no crest, no colors?”

“None, Your Majesty. Only a black-fletched arrow. I have secured it for inspection.”

The Queen folded her arms. “And after the attack? How did you manage the wound?”

Jungkook’s shoulders squared, but his voice stayed steady throughout the questioning. “I made a bandage from my uniform and transported the Prince to the carriage as quickly as possible.”

“And you did not see anything… strange?” She raised a brow.

“No, I was focused on keeping the Prince from bleeding out.”

Your chest loosened by a fraction at his quick wit.

The King exhaled. “I will make sure to let the court know you’ll remain as primary escort for the Prince.”

The Queen looked ready to object, but your voice slipped in first “I concur. Sir Jeon acted decisively. I am alive because of him.”

The Queen inclined her head after a few seconds, the gesture sharp as a sword’s edge. “Very well. But from this day forward you answer to me as well, Sir Jeon. Fail once, and no medal will shield you.”

“I understand, Your Majesty,” Jungkook said firmly.

“Then go,” she ordered. “See the prince’s guard doubled and the gate captains briefed about our new security measures.”

He bowed once more and withdrew.

You let out the breath you’d been holding. Your father rose to leave. “Rest, my child. We will find whoever did this.”

When your parents had gone, Lady Evra fussed with your pillows, but you caught her sleeve. “Send for Sir Jeon quietly. I… need to thank him.”

Lady Evra’s brows arched, but she only nodded. “As you wish, Highness.”

After a few minutes, a knock sounded at your door. You sat up with difficulty, wincing as the movement tugged at your healing side. “Come in!” you called, adjusting the blanket around your waist.

The door creaked open, and Jungkook stepped in with his usual calm, bowing his head slightly before crossing the room. He stopped just at the edge of your bed, posture rigid, as though unsure how close was too close.

Your loose camisole left little to the imagination. The bindings were gone so the faint curve of your chest was now impossible to hide. Still, Jungkook’s eyes didn’t waver once. His gaze held respectfully to your face.

“You wished to see me, Your Highness?”

“Yes.” You found yourself nibbling the inside of your lip nervously. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he now carried your greatest secret or the simple fact that you were alone with him in your chambers. Both felt equally improper. “I wanted to thank you again for saving me.”

“It was only my duty, Your Highness.”

“I know…”  You drew a slow breath. “I also wanted to apologize… for being so difficult.”

“I don’t hold it against you, Your Highness. I’d be difficult too, if I were in your place.”

“I think the Queen suspects you know more than you let on.”

“Yes, the interrogation made that pretty clear,” he replied without missing a beat.

His deadpan delivery made you huff a laugh despite yourself.  He didn’t smile back but his expression softened. And for just a second, he looked at you not like a soldier looking at a royal, but like a boy looking at someone he wasn’t sure how to categorize anymore.

Your smile made him lose that unwavering focus he was known for. His eyes dipped ever so slightly before darting back up. He swallowed.

You caught the slip. “Something wrong, Sir Jeon?”

“No,” he said too quickly. “You should rest. You’re still healing.”

“Is that a dismissal?” you teased, a faint smirk tugging at your lips.

His jaw tightened. “No, Your Highness. Merely a concern.”

“Very well, then. You’re dismissed.”

He bowed and slipped out, the door whisper-quiet behind him.

From the day the physician cleared you to leave bed, Jungkook seemed to multiply—one shadow was no longer enough. If he’d hovered before, now he was practically stuck to your side. Always posted outside your door even after his shift was supposed to end, tracking every corridor you crossed, materializing whenever a servant so much as sneezed in your direction. You told yourself it was because of the arrow, because you were still healing. But deep down you sensed it was because of what he’d seen in the ravine.

Your first outing was a simple walk across the inner courtyard. The morning sunlight spilled over the flagstones and you longed to feel it on your face. You managed three steps before Jungkook appeared at your side.

“If I trip, will you throw yourself under me like a mattress?” You huffed, trying hard not to roll your eyes.

“If necessary, your Highness,” he answered, unblinking.

You clicked your tongue and kept walking, noting the way castle staff parted around him cautiosly. Rumors had already taken flight about the Prince’s new guard, silent as stone, deadly as winter. You wondered which version of the story they told, the one where you were a delicate invalid, or the one where Jungkook was an overzealous watchdog. Neither sat comfortably.

Later that week, you attempted to sneak to the library after dusk to review the latest grain-tax ledgers. You’d just slipped through the double doors when a low voice cut the stillness.

“Your highness.”

You whirled. Jungkook was standing neared the doors, arms folded, as though he’d just spawned there.

“Did you follow me? Your shift ended hours ago” you hissed.

“You must’ve forgotten that the Queen ordered double watch on every entrance after the attack. I can hardly leave the future monarch to wander unguarded gaps.”

“This is the royal archive, not a battlefield.”

“Any place becomes a battlefield once an enemy steps inside.” 

You opened your mouth to retort but suddenly footsteps sounded in the antechamber. Jungkook was beside you in an instant, one hand on the hilt at his waist, the other gently pressing you behind a towering shelf.

The door creaked and two junior ministers drifted in, whispering about budget approvals. Only when they left did Jungkook relax.

“One cannot be too careful,” he murmured. “Not every foe announces himself with a blade.”

You shot him a glare. “You see threats where there are none.”

“Perhaps. Yet my vigilance has saved Your Highness before.”

A dozen retorts crowded your tongue, but none survived the heat in his gaze.

You stepped back first. “Very well. Sit and read if you must, but do so in silence while I work”

He inclined his head. “As you wish.”

You took a table by the tall windows; he chose a chair just within arm’s reach, angled so he could watch the door and, annoyingly, you. Under the wavering candlelight, you tried to drown in numbers, yet awareness of him pulsed at the edge of every calculation.

When the tower bell tolled midnight, you closed the ledger with a thud. “Finished,” you said, more to the thudding in your chest than the paperwork.

Jungkook rose, offering his arm. You hesitated, then took it—if only to steady the soreness in your side. His warmth seeped through the linen sleeve.

As he guided you back to your chambers, you realized two things with unsettling clarity:

First, the palace seemed far safer when he was near.

Second, no safety had ever felt quite so perilous for your heart.

Your injuries had yet to fully mend when your mother, in all her gilded grandeur, declared it time to host a royal ball.

As if a pierced flank and bruised ribs were no excuse to be spared the torment of brocade and small talk.

Worse still, guests from your mother’s bloodline—house Calderan, of the western realm—had been invited. And with them, your cousin Victor. You despised Victor. He was as insufferable as his father, your uncle the marquess of flintmere. Both were horribly self-important, crude, and always eager to remind the court of your… delicate disposition.

Your father had little love for them either, but decorum bound his hands. Calderan and your court were long allies, and the celebration required their presence.

Because of this unfortunate fact you were now struggling into formal attire before a tall gilt mirror. Fresh bindings hugged your ribs, hot with ache, and the new double-breasted velvet coat—blood red, embroidered in silver—pinched at your shoulders. Just as you contemplated tearing a seam for air, a knock rattled the door.

“For the love of the gods, enter!” you snapped.

The door swung wide and Jungkook stepped inside, one hand pressed to his breast in courteous greeting—then froze at the sight of you half dressed, corset strings dangling like snakes.

“What is it, Jeon? Can you not see I am rather occupied?” you demanded.

“My apologies, Highness.” He dipped his head. “I bear word from the Great Hall. The royal party from Calderan has arrived sooner than expected, and Their Majesties request your presence at once in the Receiving Hall.”

“What?” you exclaimed, voice pitching higher than you’d like. “I’m not even dressed! And these wretched clothes don’t fit. Fetch lady Evra at once.”

“Lady Evra is presently addressing some disturbance downstairs, Highness. It seems the scullery maid set the kitchen alight.”

“Curse it all!” you swore, fighting the urge to fling something across the chamber. Jungkook's lips twitched as if he found your outrage amusing.

“Well, don’t just stand there! Come help me with this.” You jabbed a finger at the offending corset’s laces.

His eyes went round. “M—me, Your Highness?”

“No, i’m speaking to the armor in the corner. Of course you! Make yourself useful for once.”

Color climbed his neck, but he crossed the carpet without further protest. You turned, bracing both palms on the bed-post while he gathered the laces of your corset. His fingers brushed the small of your back. He worked carefully, drawing each pull snug but not cruel.

“Too tight?” he asked, voice a shade lower than usual.

“It will have to do,” you muttered, trying—and failing—to ignore how your pulse fluttered where his knuckles grazed skin.

He tied the final knot, then helped settle the velvet coat over your shoulders. You faced the mirror. The garment now lay smooth, waist nipped just enough to suggest aristocratic elegance.

“Thank you,” you said, voice softer than expected.

“Always, your highness.”

His eyes lingered before he bowed and turned toward the door.

“Jeon.”

He glanced over his shoulder.

“If Victor so much as looks at me the wrong way tonight,” you said, slipping into your polished boots, “I expect you to ‘escort’ him into a wall.”

“Gladly, Your Highness”

The bells of the west tower chimed eighth hour as you and Jungkook left your chamber. He offered his arm which you accepted only because the corridor felt endless and your side still ached under silk and whalebone. 

At the doors of the Great Receiving Hall, you let his arm go as the herald struck his staff with three measured raps that silenced the string ensemble within.

“His Highness, The Crown Prince, accompanied by Sir Jeon Jungkook of the Royal Brigade.”

The carved oak panels swung wide. Heat washed over you first coming from the braziers that roared in every corner. Tapestries of your house stag and House Calderan’s silver hawk hung side by side. Above the high tablewas  a chandelier bristled with beeswax candles, dripping slow pearls of wax toward the floor.

All eyes turned as you crossed the threshold. Some widened in sympathy at the pallor still ghosting your features; more than a few flicked to Jungkook, curiosity sharpening into speculation. The string players shifted seamlessly into the opening of the ceremonial court dance—a formation performed in a large circle by the noblemen and lords, and a second concentric circle by the ladies and visiting dignitaries.

“Steady,” Jungkook murmured.

“I am steady,” you replied with a tight smile.

Halfway across the hall, a voice as smooth as oiled steel cut through the courtly murmurs.

“Cousin!” Victor Calderan detached himself from a knot of western lords, crossing to you with the swagger of a man certain every eye belonged on him. He bowed then straightened to his full, irritating height. “I feared we should meet next at a funeral. Imagine my relief to see you upright, if not entirely… unharmed.”

Your jaw locked. “Your concern dazzles me, Victor.”

He smirked, gaze darting to Jungkook. “And this must be the heroic shadow who hauled you from barbaric brambles. Tell me, Sir… was it bravery or blind luck that kept the arrow from finding a truer mark?”

Jungkook’s expression did not change, but you saw his muscles tighten under his vambrace. “Luck always bows to skill, my lord,” he said evenly. “And skill serves the crown.”

A hint of annoyance crossed Victor’s face then vanished under a grin. “Well spoken. Still, I wonder if our dear Prince would fare better guarded by men of better lineage.” He let the insult hang but Jungkook seemed unaffected.

“You damn–”

Before you could finish, the Queen appeared beside you “Victor,” she said warmly, “your father awaits you by the dais.” It was not a suggestion. Victor bowed again, much deeper to her, and left.

Your mother’s smile dropped the moment his back turned. “Behave,” she warned under her breath. “The first set is the ceremonial march, you must appear united.” 

You bowed just to hide an eye roll. “As Your Majesty wills.”

A drum signaled the dance’s start. You and Victor joined the outer circle of lords, your places dictated by birth, while Jungkook took his place along the wall with the other guards. Victor’s presence at your side was unavoidable, his harsh touch on your side during the linking step made you wince.

“Still sore?” Victor murmured as the circles rotated, his lips barely moving. “If those bandages split, imagine the scandal.”

You kept your smile frozen. “If that happens, it won’t be my bindings that split... it will be your lip.”

His eyes glittered, but he was forced to move on as the circle turned and you broke away, hands briefly joining with Lord Banford, then Lord Giles. At every turn, you felt Jungkook’s gaze on you.

When the dance ended, you made to walk away and sit down but Victor stopped you, pulling you back harshly.

“Come on, cousin! Are you tired already?” 

Jungkook was at your side in a second.

“Does the guard speak for the Crown now?” Victor chuckled darkly.

“He speaks when the Crown cannot waste breath,” you answered, accepting Jungkook’s steadying arm. “My physician forbade further strain.”

The Chamberlain hurried forward, announcing the second formation, where you would join a different grouping—this time among the royal cousins and western lords. Custom demanded your continued presence, but you lifted your chin and turned to your mother.

“This set I forfeit,” you declared, voice ringing over the music. “In gratitude for my continued heartbeat, I would honor the man who saved the heir to the crown.”

A jolt of shock moved through the hall, but your mother inclined her head reluctantly, and the King gave a small nod from the dais.

Instead of taking a place in the second set, you moved aside, allowing Jungkook to join. Though not strictly within the bounds of custom, your action was shielded by royal decree.

You leaned in, voice just for him. “You see? I can break a rule or two when I must.”

He let the hint of a smile curled his mouth. “And survive it, Highness.”

The rest of the ball blurred past with Victor’s dark looks from the dance circle, the Queen’s measured glances, and the way the court’s eyes tracked every step you took with your silent, loyal guard at your side. Your closeness would not go unnoticed nor, perhaps, would you want it to.

“Mother, you cannot be serious! They’re an utter nuisance! Why would you keep them here longer than necessary?” you protested, trailing at her heels as she moved about her solar the following morning. Sunlight gleamed off gilded mirrors and the silver trinkets that lined her shelves, mocking your mood.

She turned sharply, her jewels flashing. “Because they are family, and because I say so. Besides, your father is in the midst of delicate negotiations with them.”

You scoffed, folding your arms. “Oh, please. My father would sooner share a cell with the rats under the kitchens than spend another day at table with Uncle and Victor.”

Her lips thinned. “That’s enough. You’re acting like a spoiled child.”

You clenched your jaw, biting back another retort. Without waiting for dismissal, you stormed from her chambers, slamming the heavy oak door behind you.

Jungkook was waiting outside, posture alert. He fell into step at your side the moment you emerged.

“This is absurd,” you muttered, barely slowing your stride as you swept down the corridor. 

“Your Highness, if you walk at that pace, you’ll tear your stitches,” Jungkook cautioned.

You bristled, refusing to look at him. “I am perfectly capable of walking, Jeon. Kindly grant me some dignity.”

Before he could reply, a familiar, grating voice drifted down the hall.

“Cousin.”

You stopped dead, spine stiffening as Victor sauntered toward you.

“I trust you heard the good news,” he drawled, spreading his arms joyfully. “We’re to enjoy your fine hospitality for several more days. How utterly delightful.”

“Truly wonderful,” you replied, the cold expression in your face not matching the words at all.

He grinned. “Since we have so much time to rekindle our friendship, perhaps we should indulge in some amusement. You know, like old times.”

You glanced quickly at Jungkook, drawing a steadying breath before stepping closer to Victor.

“I hardly think that would be appropriate.”

“Oh, come now!” Victor’s voice rose, clearly intended for Jungkook’s ears. “Be a man, will you? You’re the only Prince I know who shuns a bit of female company. It wouldn’t kill you to enjoy yourself for once. Visit the city, see the girls dance. In fact, your guard is welcome to join us. The last one… what was his name? Sir Alric, was it? He could hardly stay away from those girls. Surely Sir Jeon doesn’t object to a little pleasure?”

Your eyes narrowed, refusing to give Victor the satisfaction of a reaction.

“I assure you,” you said, voice icy, “I have neither the time nor the inclination to carouse with you, cousin. Nor do I require your advice on how to behave as a man.”

Victor chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “We’ll see. Even the purest Prince in the realm has his vices. Perhaps your new shadow here might teach you a thing or two.”

“Mind your tongue, Lord Victor,” Jungkook interrupted. “You tread close to slander.”

Victor arched a brow, clearly amused. “Slander? I thought the Prince welcomed plain speech.”

“My loyalty,” you said, stepping forward until your boots touched the hem of Victor’s cloak, “does not extend to brothels or barroom gossip. Neither does my patience.”

His smile thinned. “So prickly. Perhaps the arrow did more harm than I heard. Well—” He spread his hands in mock apology. “The offer stands. Should you grow tired of the court, you know where to find me.”

He pivoted and strolled away. Only when his footsteps faded did you release the breath strangled by the corset.

Jungkook’s eyes stayed on the corridor’s far end before returning to you. “You should not let him bait you.”

“I know.” You pressed a palm to the ache beneath your ribs. “But I know him well enough to know he won’t stop pestering me.”

Night had already draped the capital in velvet by the time Victor found a way to corner you again.

You were halfway through supper when a page arrived with a folded billet stamped in House Calderan’s hawk.

His Highness is invited to continue the evening’s festivities in the city. Your father’s treaty depends upon our growing “camaraderie.”A carriage waits at the north postern.

You could almost hear the smug lilt in every curl of ink. Refusal would definitely reach your uncle’s ears by dawn which would likely damage  the negotiations your father desperately needed. 

The truth was, your kingdom had seen better days. Crime crept through the streets, the fields had withered beneath a relentless drought, and the coffers grew thinner every day. In his desperation, your father had turned to family, forging alliances wherever he could.

So you swalloed your pride and slipped from the palace under cover of night, Jungkook at your side. Neither of you spoke as the postern gate thudded shut behind you. Two Calderan riders flanked the carriage. Inside, Victor lounged with his legs crossed, grinning wide as you entered.

“Cousin! I thought you’d faint from virtue and abandon me to the wolves.” He knocked twice on the carriage roof, and the horses surged forward. “No need to fret. The Gilded Swan keeps its finer rooms for those of proper blood.”

You took your seat opposite, brushing off his jibe. Jungkook stood by the door, his eyes fixed on the shadowed streets beyond the rattling shutters.

Victor uncorked a silver flask and swirled its contents, his gaze sharp. “Tell me, have you ever seen dancers from the southern isles? They’re… a rare delicacy. Your guard may feast his eyes as well. Consider it a courtesy from one man to another.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, but he held his tongue. 

The carriage rattled downhill through a maze of twisting lanes until you reached The Gilded Swan’s front of polished wood and gilded carvings of wings. Women in gauzy silks greeted patrons on the steps

Victor was out first, flipping a coin pouch to the doorman. “See that House Calderan gets the finest chamber.”

There were severak ushions sprawled around low tables laden with wine and fruit inside, while a sunken stage in the center drew all eyes. Dancers shimmered in veils and jewels, their skirts flashing as they twirled, each movement met with cheers and hungry applause.

Victor sank into a couch, discarding his boots as if he were in his own chambers. He beckoned a pair of courtesans with a lazy curl of fingers. “Wine for the Prince,” he ordered, “and something stronger for Sir Jeon… he looks parched.”

“I don’t drink while on duty,” Jungkook said firmly. He stationed himself at your shoulder, watchful as a tower guard.

Victor’s grin turned sly. “So disciplined. Perhaps the dancers can loosen that spine.” He snapped, and a tall woman with chrysanthemum tattoos crossed to Jungkook, offering a tray of crystal cups.

Jungkook took none.

The woman turned to you, lowering gracefully. Her kohl-lined eyes roved over your figure, pausing at the stiff line of your torso. She tilted her head, curiosity pricking but before her hand could brush the boned front of your doublet, you leaned back.

“No entertainment,” you said, keeping your tone princely and bored. “I am here only to ensure my cousin’s discretion.”

Victor laughed, raising his goblet. “Ever the dull blade, cousin. Truly no edge for pleasure. Tell me, do the bindings truly leave no room for—”

Jungkook stood between you. “Mind the heir’s dignity, Lord Victor.”

“Spirits be merciful, Sir Stonewall. We are all friends here.”

Yet his stare lingered before drifting toward a curtained staircase that led to secluded chambers.

“Very well,” he sighed, feigning magnanimity. “If my cousin will not try  the Swan’s delights, I shall enjoy twice the share.” He stood up with a girl on each arm, and sauntered toward the stairs. “Perhaps another night, Your Highness… when your nurse allows.”

You forced a breath past clenched teeth.

“We can leave if you wish to, Highness.”

You shook your head, eyes still on the curtained stairs. “No. Victor thinks I’m weak. Let him wear out his appetites. We will see how well he argues tariffs tomorrow with a pounding skull.”

You managed a tight smile. “Besides, I have my own entertainment.” You pointed to a quieter alcove overlooking the stage. “There. Far from roaming hands.”

He escorted you to the nook, positioning himself so no stray reveler could approach unnoticed. 

Hours later, when Victor was well and truly lost beyond those curtains, you remained in the alcove. Below, you could see the dancers entertaining nonstop. A single brass lamp burned on your table, its low flame gilded Jungkook’s profile and it was hard not to notice the clean line of his jaw, the faint scar at his temple, the way lamplight glanced off his dark lashes whenever he blinked.

Perhaps it was the spiced wine Victor pressed on you before he vanished, which you refilled at least twice since . Perhaps it was the warm stupefying musk of incense that drifted from braziers along the wall. Either way, your limbs felt pleasantly untethered, your thoughts inhibited. You laid sideways on a velvet bolster, temple propped on your fist, studying the man who refused to leave your side.

“You do realize,” you said, words coming slower than usual, “that you have not taken your eyes off that door since we sat down.”

“It is the only entrance to these private stairs,” Jungkook answered. His tone was even, but his gaze slid to you for the briefest moment. “If trouble returns, it will come from there.”

You let your head loll back. “Still the dutiful shield. Even in a house of vice.”

“I am sworn everywhere,” he said quietly.

“Sworn everywhere,” you echoed. “To me”

That earned his full attention. His eyes, dark as spilled ink, held your own and you wished nothing more than to see into his thoughts.

An idea, warm and reckless, bloomed behind your ribs as you reached across the low table and brushed a fingertip along the edge of Jungkook’s gauntlet where metal met leather. “Remove this,” you murmured.

“Highness?” His voice caught in surprise.

“The armor,” you clarified, sliding your finger higher, grazing the strap at his wrist. “If I must endure bone and lace, you may relinquish a single plate. Humor me.”

His lips parted and you could tell he was trying to find a way to refuse. But the dutiful soldier in him told him to obey. Slowly he unbuckled the vambrace and removed it.

Without the gauntlet, his hand looked strangely vulnerable, long fingers scarred at the knuckles, veins tracing elegant lines beneath skin. You found yourself cataloging each detail as though it were a secret map.

You took the risk, folding your hand over his. Jungkook did not pull away, though every muscle in his forearm flexed.

“Your pulse is fast,” you whispered, sliding your thumb across the roughness of his knuckles.

“So is yours,” he replied, eyes locked on the place your hands met.

Perhaps he meant to reclaim discipline and perhaps you meant to retreat. Neither happened. Instead you leaned forward, wine-sweet breath mingling with his steady exhale. From this close you noticed the faint scent of cedar oil on his tunic and the way a single strand of hair curled against his cheek. Your gaze drifted to his lips and how soft they looked. You’d never been kissed before but suddenly the curiosity to experience it felt stronger.

“Highness,” he breathed.

“Do you truly not desire any distraction?” you asked, trying for light teasing, but the words husked in your throat.

“I desire—” He stopped, swallowed. “I desire your safety.”

“And now?” Your lips were inches from his. “Am I in danger?”

A flicker of something like hunger flashed in his eyes. He raised his free hand, intending, you knew, to guide you back to a safer distance. But he misjudged and his fingers brushed the bare line of your collarbone instead. The touch was light as a feather yet it felt like embers striking tinder.

“I think you’ve had more wine than you intended, Highness.” His jaw tightened slightly, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before swiftly darting back to your eyes.

“I know precisely how much I’ve had,” you countered quietly. “And it is just enough to see clearly.”

He exhaled slowly, but made no move to withdraw. “And what is it you see clearly now?”

“You.”

His dark eyes searched your face, their careful mask slipping. “Your Highness, I—”

But words seemed suddenly insufficient. Before caution could whisper warnings, you leaned in even closer, enough to feel the warmth of his breath fan across your cheek.

“You’re quite handsome, Jeon,” you breathed, and then the realization of your boldness caught up to you. But even then, you couldn’t pull away.. or didn’t want to.

Jungkook’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Highness,” he finally managed, voice strained. “We must be careful…”

But still, he did not move away. And you wondered, heart racing wildly in your chest, whether either of you truly wanted him to.

You let your gaze drop to his mouth. He drew in a shaky breath, then closed the distance, brushing the gentlest kiss against your lips. It lasted no longer than a sigh, but the heat of it spread through you faster than the wine had. When he pulled away, only inches remained, his nose still nearly touching yours, and you knew caution had already slipped from both your hands.

After that, everything became a hazy rush. You could barely recall what was said or how you’d managed to leave, only the feel of his hand at your back and the way he kept you close until the cool night air met your skin outside.

The city’s raucous glow had faded behind you as you rode back to the palace. Jungkook carried you through the shadowed halls, keeping to the servants’ ways where no courtiers would see. Your head lolled, the fine points of your princely attire digging into your ribs and making every step a trial.

When at last you reached your chambers, Jungkook all but dropped you onto the old settee. You slumped with a groan, fingers clawing at your sash and the linen bindings beneath.

“You must shed these clothes, Highness,” Jungkook said, trying to keep his tone respectful. “You’ll not heal sleeping in such tight bindings.”

You snorted. “Spare me the lecture. If you’ve any compassion, help me before I die of strangulation. Saints, this is tighter than a miser’s fist.”

He hesitated, glancing aside. “This is improper—”

“Oh, by the gods, Jungkook!” you snapped, voice sharper than intended. “You think I care for propriety tonight? I’ve suffered arrows, your company, and Victor’s idiocy. Help me or leave me for the crows.”

He muttered something under his breath—a curse, probably—but obeyed. His fingers found the cords at your back, unsteady only in the beginning. The binding was nothing like court ladies’ corsets. It was just cruel, tight linen, meant to flatten your chest beneath the shirt and sash. As he worked, you nearly sagged in relief from all the air rushing in.

“Mercy, that’s better,” you groaned. “If I die of a broken rib, you have my permission to toss me in the moat.”

“You should lie down, Highness” he murmured, his voice low and strangely gentle.

You shot him a side look, drunken bravado bleeding into your words. “Only if you swear to catch me, Jeon. I think my legs are lost to the night.”

He slid an arm behind your shoulders, helping you upright. The motion spun you and you tumbled against his hard chest, hands gripping his shirt for balance.

“Gods, you’re sturdy,” you slurred, grinning like a fool. “Is that what they teach in the brigade? To stand firm no matter what fool Prince pitches into you?”

He swallowed, lips parting. “It’s…expected of me, Highness.”

You laughed brightly. “Expected. Hah. I expect nothing and am never disappointed. Look at you, face all grim as judgment day. No jest, not even a smile.” You squinted up at him, noting the worry in his gaze. “Why do you look at me like that?”

He was silent, hands still steady on your waist, but his eyes betrayed him.

“Don’t be so serious,” you whispered, suddenly closer. “There’s no secret between us. Not anymore.”

Your lips brushed his, barely a touch, but it was enough to scatter any pretense of sobriety. He froze. Both honor and desire warring under his skin.

You pulled back, smirking despite yourself. “You have no taste for this, have you? No appetite for ruin?”

“That is not it,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

Before he could protest further, you kissed him. A real kiss this time, hard and sure, all the reckless longing you’d been holding in. His hand curled at your back.

You broke away, breathing hard, half in his lap now. “Tell me truly,” you demanded. “Do you want this, or must I beg?”

He exhaled like a man dying of thirst. “I do.”

As his hands slid under the last linen, your bindings came undone and for the first time—maybe in your entire life—someone saw you not as a Prince, but as you.

You waited for judgment, but Jungkook’s eyes only darkened as his gaze swept down your bared chest.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he whispered. His hands trembled as they cupped your waist, his thumbs smoothing over your ribs, mapping bruises and your wound. His fingers relished on the softness, the secret curves only you had ever touched until now.

You wanted to make a joke to break the nerves, but the words melted in your throat. Instead, you watched him watch you, and your heart ached, shocked at how it felt to be gazed at like that.

He bent his head, lips ghosting down your collarbone. “Tell me if you wish me to stop,” he murmured against your skin.

You shook your head, voice ragged. “Don’t you dare.”

He smiled and kissed down your body. Mouth lingering on every inch, tracing the swell of your breast with reverent lips. Hands spreading your legs open—showing you, wordlessly, that nothing about you needed hiding. When he finally pressed his mouth to your nipples, you gasped, one hand flying to tangle in his hair.

His tongue traced gentle circles around the softest part of you, his breath hot, the scrape of his jaw rough but grounding. You shook in his hands, aching from the inside out.

Your thoughts unraveled. This is me, my true form. You could barely remember the last time you’d felt your body as anything but a disguise, made to fit someone else’s story. Now, with his tongue and lips coaxing pleasure from you, every moan felt like reclamation, every arch of your back a defiance of everything the court said you were not.

Let them say I’m unfit, let them call me monster or traitor, you thought as you cried out for him, but at least he knows me. He knows me.

His kisses trailed lower, aching passes of his lips that left your skin flushed and trembling. Every inch of you he touched felt new no longer hidden. When he settled between your thighs, you jolted. Not from fear, but from the terrifying ache of being seen there. You’d bound yourself for years, flattened what made you a woman. No one had ever touched you like this, looked at you like this.

“Please,” Jungkook whispered, hands firm on your thighs as he guided them apart. “I want to see you.”

Your head tipped back, lips parted in a soundless plea. “Don’t mock me,” you breathed.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said, voice rough with restraint. “You don’t know what it does to me—seeing you like this. Real. Unhidden. Do you know how many men would fall to their knees for you?”

Then he did. Right there, between your legs, head bowed not in service to your crown, but to your body.

He kissed the inside of your thigh first then higher, then higher still, until your hips jerked and your hand flew to his hair again, fingers twisting in the strands like rope. The first pass of his tongue against your most sensitive flesh made your knees lock around his shoulders.

You gasped helplessly. “Jungkook—!”

He didn’t speak. Just moaned low against your cunt, and the vibration sent a white-hot jolt straight through you. He licked you with so much fervor, you’d think he was a starving man.

It was unbearable, how good it felt. Unfathomable. The Prince—you, who had fought in war councils and sparred in training yards—reduced to nothing but trembling whimpers and heat between your thighs. His hands never stopped holding you, grounding you, keeping you from flying apart.

The room blurred. Your mind went blank. All you knew was the relentless pressure of his mouth, the way he sucked and licked and groaned against you as if your pleasure was the only reward he’d ever wanted.

“Gods,” you whispered, hips grinding up into his face, “I— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, voice muffled, filthy and warm. “Let go. Let me have it.”

You shattered with a cry that would haunt the stone walls if they had memory, back arched, thighs trembling, every muscle locking as you spilled into his waiting mouth. He held you through it, drinking it in, the wet sounds obscene and sacred all at once.

Only when it ended, when your body finally stopped thrumming did Jungkook stop. Slick with sweat, chest heaving.

He didn’t speak. He simply rose, face flushed, lips glistening with your pleasure, and met your eyes with something so raw it made your throat close.

No man had ever kissed you there. No man ever could.

And now, Jungkook—your sworn protector—had knelt between your legs and made you come undone as if it was his greatest duty.

“If the world had sense, it would crown you queen,” he whispered against your ear.

You woke to a shaft of pale morning light spilling through the narrow windows. For a long, breathless moment, you lay utterly still, not quite sure where you were or even who you were.

But your body reminded you with the ache in your thighs, the softness where your bindings usually gripped you, the strange, delicious soreness between your legs. And then…Gods. The memories rushed in, scenes flashing through your mind with blinding clarity. Jungkook’s mouth, the press of his hands, the way you’d let yourself be worshipped in every way you’d been forbidden.

A spike of panic shot through you. You sat up too quickly, the room spinning, covers falling to your lap. Your shirt was thrown across the foot of the bed. Your bindings lay in a heap by the settee. You drew your knees up, arms wrapped tight around yourself, heart racing so loud you could barely hear your own breath.

You looked for Jungkook, already knowing before you checked that he was gone. The hearth was cold, the door shut tight. No trace of him but the memory of the weight of his body, the heat of his mouth, the words he’d whispered into your skin.

Your throat burned with shame and dread. What if someone knew? What if someone heard? You pressed your palm to your mouth, trying to stifle a gasp that was half horror, half desperate longing.

Last night you weren’t a prince or a pawn or a prisoner. Last night, you were just a woman. A wanted woman, loved with a fierceness that still lived in your bones.

But now, daylight had returned you to the castle and its old lies. Your heart pounded as you forced yourself to move, fumbling to dress, to pull your bindings tight enough to erase the softness he’d worshipped. Your fingers shook on the knots.

You tried to compose yourself, to breathe, to remind yourself of what must be done. Of the mask you had to wear.

But as you stared at your reflection, at your mussed hair, bruised lips, and bright eyes, there was no hiding what had changed.

You’d been seen and touched for the first time.

And now, as you moved about your lonely chamber, the world pressing back in with all its old weight, you didn’t know if you wanted to cry, scream, or just go back to last night and live it over, consequences be damned.

You stepped into the corridor still lacing the last tie of your sash, trying to compose your face into something neutral. But it shattered the moment your eyes met the uniform of the man standing at your post.

And it was not Jungkook.

A different guard—older, stiffer, unfamiliar—stood at attention outside your door, hands behind his back, chin high.

“Where’s Jungkook?” you asked sharply.

The man blinked, clearly startled by your tone. “Pardon, Your Highness?”

“Jeon Jungkook. My personal escort. Where is he?” You stepped closer.

“I was told by Captain Toren that he’s... indisposed. I was assigned to relieve him of today’s duty.”

“Indisposed?” You raised a brow. “Since when does Sir Jeon shirk duty for a sickbed?”

The guard shifted uncomfortably. “I know not, Highness. Only that Captain Toren said he’d not be attending the Prince today.”

You didn’t wait for another explanation. Your jaw clenched as you spun on your heel, fury pumping through your limbs faster than your blood could carry it. 

“Your Highness—!”

He left. He just left.

Coward.

You stormed through the hallways, ignoring the glances of courtiers and servants as your pace grew more feral with each step.  You checked the guard barracks first—empty. Then the inner court. Then the old stables.

Every place he might’ve been, every shadow you thought he could’ve retreated to after defiling the body of a prince in the hush of night.

And he was nowhere.

You hadn’t known what you expected… maybe guilt, maybe him standing with his head bowed, ready to explain, to apologize for slipping away like a thief but this absence felt worse.

As if he’d taken your skin with him. As if he’d kissed you, tasted you, broken every rule and decided afterward that it hadn’t been worth the risk.

You finally found Captain Toren speaking to a handful of men by the training yard. The moment he saw you approach, he bowed slightly.

“Your Highness. Is something the matter?”

You ignored the others. “Where is Jungkook?”

Toren’s brows lifted. “He is indisposed—”

“Indisposed is not an answer,” you snapped. “I asked where.”

There was a brief pause, but it made your stomach turn. “I granted him leave this morning. He left the grounds. Said he needed time to clear his head.”

Your breath stilled in your chest. The silence after felt like it scraped your ribs raw.

He ran away from you.

Without another word, you turned on your heel, fury crackling just beneath your skin. But underneath that humiliation.Your guard, your confidant, your secret, your lover—for one night—had taken all of you in his mouth and hands and then vanished.

So be it.

If he thought he could disappear without consequence, he’d sorely underestimated you.

The door closed behind Jungkook on a breathless hush. He paused in the corridor, back pressed to the wall, eyes shut tight. He could still feel you, your hands clutching his hair, the press of your thighs around his head, the taste of you lingering on his tongue.

He should have stayed. He should have faced you when the sun came. But the enormity of what he'd done, that you'd let him do, was enough to shatter the foundation of every vow he’d ever sworn.

He moved through the empty palace like a ghost, head down, avoiding every servant’s gaze. He'd barely made it to his quarters before the panic set in for real.

Saints above, what have I done?

He'd known you as a Prince—sharp-tongued, reckless, always shoving against every rule. But last night… last night he'd seen you as no one else had. The hidden softness of your body, the way your voice broke when you begged, the wild way you pulled him close, desperate for something real.

And gods forgive him, he’d worshipped you. He’d knelt before you, tongue aching to give you pleasure until you broke against him. The memory of your cries was a brand on his soul.

But daylight did not bring peace. It brought terror. Every moan, every gasp, every whispered plea was a risk not only to you but to the very kingdom.

He'd tried to clean himself in the barracks, scrubbing your scent from his skin with icy water, as if cold could erase the warmth of your body or the sight of your eyes as you came undone for him. It didn’t work.

He couldn’t face you. Not with his hands still shaking, not with want and shame fighting in his gut.

So when Captain Toren found him at dawn, face haggard, and offered him leave—“You look like you’ve not slept in a week, Jeon. Take the day. Gods know the court will not collapse if I put another sword outside the Prince’s door”—he took it, barely trusting himself to speak.

Now he wandered the city’s edge, cloak pulled tight against the morning chill, lost in the noise of market stalls. He had nowhere to go. All he could do was remember the taste of your skin, the way you’d looked at him, and the sick ache that he’d ruined everything by wanting you too much.

He did not know if you would forgive him. He did not know if he deserved it. He only knew one thing with blinding, ruinous certainty…  he could never protect you from this. From the court, from scandal,  from himself.

Jungkook wandered through the winding city streets, the clang of cathedral bells chasing him from square to square. He couldn’t settle, couldn’t think. Every step was just distance put between himself and the castle—between himself and her. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, still tingling with memory and regret.

He ducked down a quieter alley that  eeked of wine, piss, and cheap perfume. He hadn’t even made it to the edge when he heard that smug, drawling voice he would’ve recognized in his sleep.

“Well, if it isn’t the Prince’s lapdog. Out chasing your own tail this morning, Sir Jeon?”

Victor leaned against a tavern wall, cloak askew, hair a mess, a faint stain of last night’s excess still clinging to his collar. His eyes were bloodshot, but the venom in them was sober as steel.

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. “Lord Victor. Shouldn’t you be sleeping off such an entertaining night?”

Victor smirked, pushing off the wall. “I could ask the same. I imagine the Prince kept you plenty busy yesterday. I wonder what the palace would say if they knew where that mouth of yours had been last night?”

Jungkook froze. There was no way he could know about what you did in your chambers, it was just the two of you there and he was too preoccupied here drinking himself to death. He must’ve seen you in the alcove, the kiss.

Jungkook stepped closer, refusing to show his worry. “Watch your tongue, my lord.”

“Or what? You’ll cut it out?” Victor’s grin sharpened. “How long’s it been going on, hmm? I’ve had my suspicions, of course. That little princeling’s been avoiding women like plague since birth… Makes sense now, doesn’t it?”

A dark fury settled over Jungkook. “You know nothing.”

Victor only laughed. “What, struck a nerve? What would the Queen say if she knew her heir was letting a common-born soldier mouth her off in a brothel? What would the court say, the people? Tell me, Jeon…do you prefer her weeping or begging?”

The blade was out before Jungkook even knew he’d drawn it.

Victor flinched, but it was too late. Jungkook slammed him into the alley wall, forearm pinning his throat, dagger pressed tight to his cheek.

“If you ever breathe a word, if you ever so much as look at the Prince sideways—“ Jungkook growled, “and I'll carve your tongue out and mail it to your father.”

Victor struggled, but Jungkook’s grip didn’t loosen. “You wouldn’t dare—”

Jungkook headbutted him. The crack of bone echoed in the stone alley.

Victor reeled, collapsing to his knees. Jungkook didn’t let up. He kicked him hard in the ribs then grabbed the back of his collar and slammed him face-first into the cobblestones.

Blood splattered as Victor groaned, trying to crawl away. Jungkook pressed a boot between his shoulder blades, blade poised at the base of his skull.

“You speak ill of her again and I'll make sure they find your corpse hanging in the north woods with your cock stuffed down your throat,” he whispered.

Victor coughed, wheezing. “Go on, then! Kill me! Prove you’re just as feral as they say!”

Jungkook held still, the blade trembled in his hand. A bit more and he’d cut straight into the skin and he could only imagine what a satisfying moment it would be.

But he put the blade away.

“You’re not worth it,” he said coldly. “But understand me, Lord Calderan—if I so much as hear your boots echo near the Prince’s door again, I will make you regret it”

Before walking away he landed a few more raw punches to Victor’s face, so he would not forget when he saw his reflection. Then he turned, leaving your cousin bloodied and gasping in the filth.

Back in the castle, you were done waiting. You tore through the corridors, snapping orders, refusing to let anyone stop you. You would find Jungkook. Drag him back if you had to.

Just as you walked into the training yard to demand Captain Toren to send a search party, the clang of the portcullis carried clear across the ward and a breathless sentry sprinted in.

“Your Highness… the south gate… Sir Jeon returned.”he said between breaths.

You spun, boots biting the sand, cape snapping behind you as you stalked for the archway that opened on the outer bailey. Two guards tried to flank you but one glare sent them scattering. 

Jungkook crossed the drawbridge alone. His cloak was torn, his knuckles split open, and you could swear shreds of Victor Calderan’s livery clung to his sleeve. But his eyes fixed on you the moment he stepped beneath the gatehouse. Whatever storm lived there matched yours blow for blow.

He stopped three paces short and dropped to one knee with his head bowed. “Your Highness.”

You didn’t give him leave to rise. Instead you stared, shaking with fury.

“Look at me.”

He lifted his head. The courtyard might as well have been empty save for the two of you. A few servants hovered at distant doors, merchants stalled their carts, even the ravens on the battlements fell quiet.

“Where did you go?” Each word was a blade you flung at him. “You swore to keep me and then you vanished before dawn like a coward.”

Pain flickered across his face, “I left because I feared I’d done you harm, Your Highness. Because if the court learns what we… what I did—”

“You think a disappearing act protects me?” You laughed bitterly. “Don’t be so damned honorable.”

“I regret nothing,” he said, the words bursting out. He surged to his feet before closing the gap in two strides. “Nothing but leaving you alone. I couldn’t breathe for it.”

You wanted to strike him and scream but you shoved him instead. He barely moved, but his breath hitched like you’d run him through.

“I searched every hall,” you hissed. “I nearly ripped the castle down stone by stone.”

“I fought Victor,” he blurted shakily. “He cornered me in the city, spewing poison about last night. He saw us in the alcove. I lost my head… I drew steel. If rumor spreads, it will be by his tongue or mine.”

The anger in you swelled, then toppled under a wave of cold fear. You seized his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Did you kill him?”

“No,” Jungkook said. “But I left him bleeding enough to remember my words well.”

You exhaled a jagged breath, fingers slipping from his face to his shoulder feeling the tremor there, matching your own.

“You cannot fight every battle for me,” you said, softer but no less fierce.

“I can try,” he answered. “Or die on the attempt. But I will not run again.”

The resolve in his eyes cut through every echo of shame. In that heartbeat, the yard, the court, the watching world—all of it fell away. You stepped into him, fists twisting in the collar of his torn cloak. His hands found your elbow, reverent even in urgency, a touch that spoke more than any public display.

“Swear it,” you breathed, low and fierce.

“On blade and blood,” he said, voice for you alone, “I am yours to command.”

The onlookers could only see a Prince and her battered guard, standing eye to eye in the hush, but between you the promise burned brighter than any scandal or sword.

You released him at last, straightening your cloak, resolve returned. “Come. Tend your wounds and then we will decide how to silence Calderan.”

He nodded once and together you walked back toward the heart of the castle.

The eyes of the court lingered on your back as you strode from the yard, Jungkook at your side. He matched your pace despite the raw edge of tension radiating from his every step, one hand curled loosely into a fist, dried blood still crusted along his knuckles. Neither of you spoke until the castle swallowed you both.

You ducked into a side chamber near your quarters—a private room used by the royal guards. You shut the door firmly behind you. Jungkook started to speak, but you held up a hand.

“Sit,” you ordered softly, voice no longer edged in fury.

He hesitated only a moment before lowering himself onto the bench, watching carefully as you gathered clean cloth and water from the cabinet. Your chest was tight, heartbeat thrumming wildly beneath your bindings, but your hands were steady as you knelt in front of him.

Taking his hand, you examined his split knuckles, anger rising anew at the bruises forming under torn skin. “You should have been more careful.”

Jungkook’s voice was low and quiet. “He deserved worse.”

You sighed softly, dipping the cloth into water and gently pressing it against his hand. Jungkook’s muscles tensed, but he didn’t flinch or pull away.

“You know he will speak, don’t you?” 

“Not if he values his tongue.” His reply was dark, certain.

Your lips twitched despite yourself. You carefully cleaned the blood from his hand, gentle in contrast to the fury still simmering beneath your skin. “I feared I might never see you again,” you admitted quietly.

He looked away, jaw tightening. “I was a fool. I thought leaving would protect you. But I swear it won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” you whispered, thumb brushing lightly over the raw skin. You glanced up, meeting his eyes. “I cannot endure another morning like this.”

Jungkook’s gaze softened, and slowly he turned his hand, catching your fingers gently. “Nor I.”

“You’ll be sore tomorrow,” you murmured, releasing his hand.

“A worthy price,” he said simply.

You stood slowly, allowing yourself one last lingering look at him before straightening your posture, mask sliding back into place. “Come. You must report back to Captain Torren.”

But you didn’t even make it halfway down the corridor before a servant intercepted you, bowing deeply.

“Her Majesty requests your presence in his chambers, Your Highness. At once.”

Jungkook stiffened beside you. You didn’t look at him, only nodded.

“Of course,” you said tightly.

The King’s receiving room was a gilded cage with high windows and the constant scent of cigars and bitter tea filling the air. He stood by the hearth, hands behind his back.

“Prince,” He greeted you coolly. His gaze flicked to Jungkook with a razor’s edge. “And Sir Jeon. I am glad you’re both still in one piece, judging by the trail of whispers currently flooding my halls.”

You gave a slight bow. “Father.”

“Come now,” he said with feigned warmth, “let’s not pretend I haven’t already heard every version of this morning’s spectacle. The servants have been fussing all morning about you causing a ruckus and then you cursed Sir Jeon dead in front of the entire court.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Am I missing any details?”

Jungkook moved to kneel, but you raised a hand subtly to stop him.

“I was retrieving my guard,” you said evenly. “His absence was unexplained, and I had cause to be concerned.”

“Concerned enough to shout at him in front of the entire southern garrison?” the King asked, voice growing colder. “Tell me, my child… is this guard so essential that you’d undermine royal decorum to drag him back by his collar?”

“He is sworn to my protection,” you said firmly. “When he vanished, I acted accordingly.”

“Vanished,” the king echoed, his eyes flicking to Jungkook. “And what explanation have you, Sir Jeon, for abandoning your duty? For coming back bloodied, with half the city talking?”

“He defended my honor,” you said without hesitation. “From a man who has done nothing but insult this house since the day he arrived.”

The King raised one brow. “Victor Calderan?”

“Victor Calderan.”

His eyes shifted again to Jungkook. “Is this true?”

“I acted in defense of the Prince’s dignity, Your Majesty,” he said steadily. “I drew no blade until insult turned to threat.”

The King let the silence stretch then finally, he exhaled and moved toward the table.

“I should send him home,” he muttered. “That little rat and his bloated father both.”

“I would not object,” you said under your breath.

He shot you a look. “But Calderan blood is not easily spilled without price. Should Lord Victor demand satisfaction, the entire treaty may hang by a thread.”

You bristled. “With respect, Father, if Lord Victor can’t hold his tongue, perhaps he’s not fit to negotiate for his house.”

The king’s stare sharpened. “That is not your decision to make. And it is not your duty to chase after your guard through the halls like a lost child. Whatever has passed between you—” his eyes narrowed, and your heart froze, “—remember that you are heir to this kingdom. Your choices weigh more than anyone else’s.”

“As for you, Sir Jeon… if you fail to keep your place at the Prince’s side without incident it will more than your commission you lose. Is that clear?”

Jungkook bowed his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The King let the silence stretch again, letting you both feel the chill in his study seep into your bones.

“I will not have the future of my house risked for the sake of one reckless guard and one reckless heir,” he said at last. “From now on, you will both be watched. Do not give me cause to regret my patience.”

You stared at the mosaic floor, jaw clenched, every muscle urging you to argue, to insist that you’d had no choice. But the weight of the crown perched on his brow reminded you that here, in this chamber, he was not just your father; he was the King, and you were the wayward heir who’d brought fresh rumors to an already restless court.

“You are dismissed. And kindly refrain from further disrupting my morning.”

You bowed and turned away with your last bit of dignity, Jungkook gliding into step beside you. Only once you were a safe distance from the council chamber did you allow yourself to breathe.

“Well,” you murmured, your tone edged with wryness, “that was less severe than I anticipated.”

Jungkook let out a quiet, sardonic laugh. “His Majesty did not order to remove my head. I consider that a win.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, the tension easing ever so slightly from your shoulders.

“It would seem we are to live another day, then,” you replied.

He glanced at you, a trace of mischief flickering in his eyes despite the gravity of your situation. “Fortune favors us.”

The palace chapel sat at the far end of the eastern cloister, practically forgotten now that grander temples dotted the city. Few ventured there except old priests and novices to maintain the statues and other sacred artifacts, and at this late hour the tiny sanctuary was empty.

You slipped through the narrow door making sure that the night time guard didn’t follow you. You’d dismissed them with the excuse of needing some time for private devotion. The king would approve— piety always soothed rumor, after all.

At the altar rail you knelt in silence for a whil, until soft footsteps echoed behind you.

“Highness,” Jungkook murmured.

“You came,” you said, rising slowly.

“I received your note.” He managed a wry smile. “It seems you were in need of some private prayer.”

You huffed a breath. “I need far more than prayer.”

“Today,” you continued, forcing steadiness into your voice, “the court saw their Prince lose control. My father saw it. And all because I could not bear to think you’d left me.” Your gaze dropped to his bandaged hand. “I was ready to tear the palace down.”

He stepped forward “I regret leaving, but I do not regret what we shared. Not a breath of it.”

The words were a balm, even if they left your heart aching. You moved closer. “We stand on the edge of a sword,” you whispered. “One misstep, and somebody will bleed.”

“I know,” he answered. “Yet here I stand.”

You reached for his injured hand. He hesitated, then let your fingers brush the knuckles. “Does it hurt?”

“Barely,” he said, gaze locked to yours.

You released a shaky sigh and turned, leading him down the side aisle to a tiny transept chapel. 

“Here,” you murmured, guiding him to a bench. You fetched a small vial of holy oil left on the credence shelf, poured a drop on your thumb, and knelt to touch it gently to each battered knuckle.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “That’s for anointing the dying, not the living.”

“Hush,” you said, pressing a final kiss to the back of his hand. “As the Prince I say this should be for the living who’ve risked death for me.”

His eyes smiled at you, crinkled at the corners and shining despite their dark color.

You rose, and this time he didn’t fight the impulse. He reached, settling his uninjured hand at the small of your back “Why did you really summon me here?” he whispered.

You drew in a steadying breath. “I just needed to be sure you’d be there when dawn comes. That you won’t disappear again.”

“I’m not leaving again.” His voice did not waver. 

“And,” you added softly, daring, “I need… your touch again, even if only here, where no one dares to look.”

The storm in his eyes lasted but two seconds before you felt the cold of the chapel wall searing through your clothes as Jungkook pressed you back.

The hush of the sacred air shattered by the rasp of hurried breaths. This wasn’t the practiced grace of royal undressing. It was frantic. Fingers slipping over sweaty skin, belts tugged half-loose, layers bunched at your elbows. Every brush of his hands felt dangerous and exciting.

Your breaths hitched, chest rising fast against tight bindings, the sound of him—hoarse, hungry—spilling into the shadowed alcove. His hands found your hips, thumbs digging in hard enough to bruise as he pulled you flush against him. There was nothing reverent in his touch anymore. You felt the tremor in his grip, the desperate stutter of his exhale as he nosed along your jaw.

You caught his mouth with yours, teeth clashing in a kiss that tasted of salty sweat. Lips parting as he bit down gently, just shy of pain.

His palm cradled the side of your face, rough thumb smearing the flush of your cheek, and for a moment you forgot where you were.

“If someone finds us—” you whispered breathlessly, voice trembling against his lips.

“Then let them bear witness,” he said darkly, eyes fierce and wild as they captured yours. “I fear no judgment but losing you.”

He spun you around, your chest pressed against the cold stone, one arm braced firmly beside your head. You felt the faint tremor in his hand as it slid roughly down your back, tugging impatiently at layers until he found the hem of your breeches and shoved inside. His palm was calloused and urgent as his fingers found you all wet and desperately willing under his touch.

Your forehead pressed against the stone, eyes squeezed shut as he opened you slowly, two fingers curling deep in your core. His other hand rose quickly to muffle your moans against his shoulder.

“Quiet, Your Highness,” he warned in a rough whisper, mouth hot against your ear. “Or do you wish the entire court to hear how eagerly their future monarch yields?”

His hand moved faster, hips pressing insistently against you, and you felt the undeniable hardness of his cock through his breeches. When his teeth grazed your neck, you bit fiercely into your sleeve, desperate to silence your moans and his name trembling dangerously upon your tongue.

His fingers work you ruthlessly, thumb circling your clit. You didn’t hold on long, coming hard and fast on his fingers.

He kept going, not letting up until you were shaking.

When he finally pulled his hand away, you twisted and caught his wrist, dragging his slick fingers to your mouth to suck them clean, meeting his eyes the whole time.

“Fuck,” He whispered, barely audible, as if even here the gods might overhear.

You hadnt even caught your breath before he turned you back around. His lips found yours, hand rising to your cheek, still wet from where it’d ust been inside you. You dragged him closer, tasting yourself on his tongue, neither of you pretending you’re anything but desperate now.

“Please,” you whisper, the word trembling out between your teeth, the plea of a sovereign who’s ready to kneel for no one but him. “I need you. All of you. Do not make me beg.”

His control snapped, finally.  He fumbled with your breeches, yanking them down just enough to bare you, his own clothes undone with the same desperate haste. He pressed himself against you, one hand tangled in the fabric at your chest, the other steadying your hip as he aligned himself at your entrance.

He was hot and hard and impossibly thick. When he pushed into you, your body stretched to take him, the unfamiliar ache drawing your eyes shut and forcing a gasp from your lips. The pain was sharp but edged with an overwhelming relief, a fullness that left you crying. For a second you could only clutch at him, feeling the sting and the fast pulse of your heart fluttering wildly in your chest.

He paused, brow pressed to yours, breath shuddering as he held himself there. “I will stop—just say the word,” he whispered, voice rough with concern and restraint.

“No,” you gasp, nails digging in his shoulder. “Don’t stop. I want this more than anything.”

He held himself still for a few seconds, giving you time to adjust, waiting as you breathed through the sting and pressure and the dizzying intimacy of it all.

After a moment, your muscles eased around him and the ache softened into pleasure blooming where pain had been. You moved your hips, testing, and the friction made you shudder, tears pricking your eyes now not from pain but from want.

He felt it too. “Gods above, you are perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with awe. “So tight, so exquisite.”

He drove into you, abandoning all pretense of gentleness, and you nearly sobbed into the hollow of his neck at the exquisite pain and the forbidden stretch of him—taken utterly where even saints had never dared to look.

The angle was all wrong and all right, knees spread shamelessly, every sound echoing in the hush of the chapel. His hand clamped over your mouth to swallow your cries, his teeth gritted as he took you deep and relentless, every last shred of knightly self-restraint destroyed by the secret he would die to protect.

You gripped his shoulders, body split open around him, still hungry for more. Needing more. He fucked into you as though he meant to brand your very soul with his shape. His grunts spilling against your mouth, your moans echoing in the sacred silence.

“Gods,” he hissed, his thrusts faltering as you clenched tightly around him. “We should not—this is… by all that’s holy, this is profane.”

“Does it feel wrong?” you whispered, lips brushing his skin as you spoke. “Do I feel like sin to you, Jeon?”

“No… you are… salvation itself,” he growled, snapping his hips harder, drawing a choked cry from you as your eyes fluttered back. “I would burn for this a thousand times.”

You laughed breathlessly “You would burn for me?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “By all the saints, yes.”

“Then make me cry out in this holy house.”

He groaned deep in his chest. “You are meant to be the vessel of the divine… holy, untouched. Yet look at you now… ruined for me against the chapel wall, spilling down my cock for any god who dares to look.”

“Stop—” you managed, your voice a trembling plea, not because you did not crave it, but because his words unraveled you faster than his body ever could.

He snarled, driving deeper, one hand rising to circle your throat. The weight of his palm there made your thighs quake.

“You will be Queen,” he muttered, voice low and ragged, each word another oath against your skin. “Anointed before the gods.”

“And what a queen I shall be,” you rasped, barely able to form the words, “impure, made so by your seed.”

He groaned, the word torn from his chest. Then his thrusts quickened, one arm locking you up by the waist as the other held your neck. Your moans broke in your throat, and you swore every star beyond the stained-glass windows flickered in answer.

“Look at me as you come undone on my cock.”

Your eyes met, wild and shining. In that moment, you cared for neither your title nor any consequence. You were simply the crown Prince, being filled by her guard in a place meant for prayer.

With a cry stifled by his hand at your throat, you fell apart. Body tightening and shaking, your legs locking around him as he drove through your climax. His own followed moments later, his body shuddering as he spilled himself deep inside you, buried to the hilt, his voice ragged and reverent as he moaned, “Mine.”

His thrusts became rougher, desperate, his hand sliding to your thigh to hold you open as his thumb found your clit again, coaxing every last tremor from your ruined body. The world melted away into the crash of bodies and need.

Somewhere outside, the bells tolled for midnight. Inside, you were left wrecked if only proven by wild hair, flushed skin, and his seed slick on your thighs. The memory of his cock and his hands, forever burned into you.

He held you there, arms locked around your waist, unwilling to let you go.

“I will burn for this,” he whispered, voice raw.

You drew him close for another bruising kiss. “Then we shall burn together.”

Afterward, the hush of the chapel pressed close. Jungkook held you, breath soft against your brow. The stone felt less cold now, your limbs leaden and content for the first time in memory.

He drew you into his lap, cloak pulled to shield you both from the lingering chill. His hand traced the curve of your cheek, eyes searching yours for what words could not say.

For a long while, you only listened to the shared breaths and the distant tolling of the bells.

But secrets had a weight of their own. You pressed your face to his shoulder. “I owe you the truth.”

Jungkook stilled, arms tightening protectively. “There is nothing you could say that would turn me from you.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You say that now, but you don’t know what I carry.”

He touched his forehead to yours, eyes fierce and gentle all at once. “Then tell me. Let me carry it too.”

You drew in a steadying breath. “I was not born to be heir. My mother, the queen…she had a son. My twin. But he did not live past his first breath. She had three failed pregnany before ours, and the king’s council grew anxious. A realm with no prince had no future in their eyes. So they gave me his name. Only a man could inherit the crown, so a man I became.”

Jungkook listened, his thumb stroking your jaw.

You swallowed. “The council never knew. The midwife was sworn to secrecy. The servants, threatened. I was raised as their son, their hope, their lie. All my life I have been split in two.. what the world must see and what I am under the skin.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your brow, his gaze full of sorrow and pride. “And yet you carry it all. Not just the crown, but your mother’s grief, your father’s ambition, the weight of a kingdom’s secret.”

You nodded, the truth finally spoken into holy air. “All for a throne I am not allowed to claim as myself.”

Jungkook cupped your cheek. “You are more than their heir, more than any king’s shadow. You are the future because you endured what none of them could.”

Tears burned hot in your eyes. “And if they learn the truth, I lose everything.”

“Not everything,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You will never lose me.”

You melted into his arms. In the hush of that ruined sanctuary—with the past laid bare and the world waiting just beyond the door—you finally understood what it meant to be free, because of the man who held you, who saw you for the woman you truly are.

[yoonkinii]

Guys, I am in the search again. Does anyone remember this jungkook x reader fic? I’m going to describe it and yall are going to think I’m crazy. I literally remember the title of it being ‘tease’ but I can’t find the account of the author anywhere or the fic itself anywhere. The fic was a stripper AU (trust it was written well) where the MC was taken to a strip club for her friends birthday and some shit happens where the MC tries out to become a stripper and gets accepted to be trained by, ‘guess who?’ Jungkook who is basically Superman was the stripper world. I can’t remember everything just that the friend of the MC turned out to be a hater and some gang shit happened to where jungkook and the MC were in danger.

[yoonkinii]

Lowkey guys, does anyone remember/know this bts fic that was mainly jungkook centered. I’m pretty sure jungkook was like some high ranking demon and all i remember is that jungkook was made to watch a gladiator style event for his birthday that taehyung brought him too. The fighters were various monsters and the mc was also fighting. The whole she’s fighting, jungkook is like blasting holes into her cause she’s popping tf off. He ends up ‘purchasing her’ and it turns out mc is a fallen angel and that’s all I can remember. 💔

[yoonkinii]

fissure is amazing; do you plan on continuing it?

Omg hi!

I am so sorry to everyone who is waiting for me to update any of my stories. I am currently suffering from college work and have had no time to work on any writing.

But!!! My semester is almost over. Once it is over, I promise I will get back on writing. I deeply apologize to anyone waiting.

[yoonkinii]

Fissure (1)

Synopsis: The Virelith does not speak. The faithful must never see. And she was born to kneel. As the chosen Voice of the Sanctum, she carries the weight of silence, draped in ritual and shadow. But when she’s sent beyond the holy walls with a disgraced warrior who has cursed the Virelith and lived to tell of it, the path ahead begins to rot beneath her feet. The further they stray, the more the veil thins. And something ancient is listening.

Fallen Holy Knight! Jeon Jungkook x Veiled Priestess! Reader

Genre- dark fantasy / gothic / enemies to lovers / angst / blind devotion / religion / forbidden love

Warnings- language / death / gore / self sacrifice / killing / religious psychosis / major character death. (as parts are released, please inform me if I have missed any warnings and I will update the list)

word count: 2.2k

Character list + aesthetic

Masterlist

a/n: sorry the first chapter is so short. I wanted to make something that would draw people in and not shove a bunch of information into them. Chapters will be longer as the story goes on. thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy :)

The bells of the Sanctum tolled thirteen times. 

Not twelve for the measured hours, nor one for mercy, but thirteen; an omen by design, a number that crawled along the spine like a whisper from the grave. It was not a sound, but a submission: the soul bowed, the body laid bare to be hollowed. Each peal echoed through the Sanctum;s vaulted emptiness like the voice of Virelith himself, a sonorous command that shook the marrow of all who dared listen. No one moved. Not until the final chime vanished into the shadows like a drowning breath, 

Then, they stirred.

Figures robed in ivory and ash, faceless behind sheer black veils that fluttered through no wind stirred the air. They shifted in silence, parting to allow her passage. Beneath them, the obsidian floors gleamed like still water, reflecting the iron braziers above as though the stars had been cast downward in exile. Candles burned low in holders the color of congealed blood, their flames hissing with unseen breath, casting tall, twitching shadows the writhed like revenants summoned from the dust. 

She stepped into the hall of silence, where words came to die, and knelt within a scorched ring of stone that marked the place of binding. 

Her veil different from theirs. It draped in five translucent layers, silk dyed in a gradient from bone white to pitch black. It spilled past her collarbones like smoke, stitched with glyphs of silver thread that shimmered faintly, as though they wept. When the candlelight struck it, the glyphs stirred, ever so slightly, as if drawing breath. Her face remained hidden, her sight clouded by the veil but her purpose was clear; she was meant to see with the weight of revelation. 

The hem of her robe whispered across the stone, trailing threads of silence. Her sleeves were laced with pale crimson, curling up her arms like dried blood on snow. The fabric clung to her in uneven spirals, folded velvet, ash dyed linen, woven together like mourning and devotion. She dared not speak. Dared not breathe too loud. The silence here was not absence; it was presence. It watched.

Above her, seated upon a dais carved into the shape of a blooming corpse lily, stood the High Magister of the Veil- her father, Oberon Saith. 

In one hand, he held a blackened censer, its smoke trailing like threads of thought. In the other, the Book of Unknowing, the only scripture said to hold all truths of Virelith, the great holy one. His veil ended just beneath his nose, revealing a mouth pale and still, embroidered with seven concentric circles: the mark of his rank, of silence made master.

And then his lips moved. 

His voice filled the chamber. A voice cold and hollow, as if spoken from behind the veil of death itself. 

“Y/n of the inner Cloister,” he spoke, each word heavy as stone. “You have been summoned by Virelith to walk the path beyond the Sanctum, as once did your mother. Do you accept the burden of revelation?”

Her voice was but a thread of breath, drawn from somewhere far beneath her ribs. 

“I do.”

“Do you forsake the world, and the self alike?”

“I do.”

“Do you carry silence in your blood, that it may devour blasphemy and unmake desire?”

A hesitation. A flicker. The briefest tremor in the hollow between heartbeats; a memory of hunger, of flesh and self and a life once lived. 

“I do.”

Oberon turned without a word. 

Behind him, three veiled attendants emerged like shadows congealing into form. One bore a black urn of obsidian glass, so polished it seemed to drink the light. Another carried a blade carved from sanctified bone, its curved edge etched with runes that whispered against the silence. 

“Then let it be witnessed,” Oberon intoned, his voice echoing like a knell. “You shall walk the path your mother once did, to seek the Godshard, the vessel of revelation, key to the oracle’s wisdom, and final crucible for your faith in Virelith.”

The attendants approached. 

The tallest drew the blade with ritual grace, its edge gleaming pale as moonlight on a corpse. The smallest of them stepped forward, delicate hands lifting the sleeve of her robe until flesh was revealed; soft, vulnerable, waiting. The blade pressed to her inner arm.

There was no cry. No flinch. Only the flow of blood, dark as pomegranate wine, sluggish and solemn. It welled from the wound and traced a sacred line downward. The urn was brought close, it’s open mouth yawning like a gate into the void. 

Her blood fell. One drop. Then another. Each swallowed by the abyss without sound. Then came the smoke.

It rose suddenly, twisting in tendrils of grey and violet, perfumed with incense and something older- older than memory, older than language. She inhaled sharply as the vapor curled upward, and for a breathless instant, the smoke parted. 

A great eye stared back.

Lidless. Immense. Watching.

And then - nothing. Silence again

-

She was led to the Sanctum gates by four veiled guards, their footfalls hushed against the stone like a funeral procession. Gone were the ceremonial robes, her bone and ash and crimson threat now replaced with a simple garment of white linen that ghosted just above the floor. A black sash, tight around her waist, held scripture embroidered on the threads that spelled truths that were not meant to be spoken out loud. Only her veil remained unchanged, trailing down like breathless silence, and the leather boots at her feet. 

Mist curled low over the stone courtyard like a shroud. 

Waiting in the greying dawn stood Jeon Jungkook, the Blasphemer. 

She stilled.

Behind her veil, her lips curled into a frown of quiet disdain. His presence unsettled something within her, some unspoken sense of sanctity now threatened. The memory of her father’s voice was still fresh in her mind, still echoing beneath her skin. 

“Father, Virelith would not approve,” She said, the words low but firm. “The retrieval of the Godshard is sacred. To entrust it to one so steeped in blasphemy…it borders on heresy.”

Though she could not see her father’s eyes behind the ceremonial veil, she had felt them. Cold. Unyielding. Like judgement passed in silence.

“This is not open for discussion,” Oberon replied. His voice soft and restrained, carried the weight of iron bells tolling for the dead. She had swallowed the tremor it summoned in her. 

“Jeon Jungkook’s skills,” he continued, “are unlike any the holy knights have ever borne witness to. In order to ensure the highest chance of your return, he was offered a bargain.”

She had opened her mouth, a protest forming on her tongue. 

“He lives in exile,” her father continued, as if reading the shape of her thoughts. “And he will only return if you live to see the Godshard unearth, his freedom is tethered to your breath.”

She gnawed at her bottom lip, the bite ground her. 

Exile. 

The Sanctum’s condemnation was no simple banishment- it was erasure. To be cast out was to walk the world as a ghost, denied the gods, the people, the faith. Alone in a land where even the wind would not speak your name. 

She had not pitied him. Not truly. But she understood. And so she had bowed her head, the words slow and bitter as they left her. 

“I understand, Father.”

Jeon Jungkook was a man of legend but not the kind the Sanctum sang about. 

Once a high ranking holy knight, now a blasphemer cast from grace, his name was a scar across sacred record. He had cursed Virelith aloud, turned his back on the god before the congregation, and for that, he had been exiled, both body and soul.

He wore no veil. 

His face was bare, unrepentantly so. Smooth, sun warmed skin clung tight to the sharp sculpt of his cheekbones and jaw, as though carved by something both divine and vindictive. Strands of ink dark hair curled across his brow like creeping shadows, dampened by the morning mist. His lips, full, plush, and out of place on a man so hardened, were drawn into a thin, unimpressed line as he watched her approach. 

His eyes were wide. Not with innocence, but with something worse, something aching, unreadable, half buried in the umber of his irises. They held the weight of someone who had once been holy…and had chosen to fall. He looked less like a man and more like a forsaken idol. An effigy broken from its altar, smeared with ash, still warm with the breath of those who once knelt before him. 

But this idol had spat like poison and bled defiance. And now, he bore the wounds. 

There were no remnants of the knight he once was. No glint of consecrated steel. No banner stitched to his shoulders. No sigil of the Sanctum laid over his heart. What he wore was dark, dense, and silent armor shaped by necessity, not oath. 

It draped over him like a shadow poured from an eclipse, slick with old rain, heavy with older blood. One side was clasped at the collarbone with a battered iron pin, unmarked, no insignia; just a dented disc stained with rust. The other hung loose, shifting like a torn wing with each motion. It whispered when he moved, the sound of soaked cloth over stone, the voice of a storm that refused to pass. 

Beneath it, his armor was cobbled and brutal. Blackened leathers sewn in angular seams, reinforced at the ribs with panels hardened from long campaigns. Thick belts crisscrossed his chest, brass buckles dulled and worn smooth by years of dust and salt. His arms were wrapped in vambraces, some riveted, others tied with rawhide cords and old chains, scavanged, reworked, rebroken. 

His legs were clad in quilted plating molded to his form, ribbed for movement, not ceremony. And at his hip, hidden beneath the dark folds of his coat, she caught the gleam of a blade. Well hidden but the ruby hilt glimmered briefly like a tongue of fire in the gloom. 

There was no symbol of Virelith. No sigil. No scripture. No sign of home or sanctuary. 

Jeon Jungkook wore only the vestments of exile, scars, silence, and the grit of survival. 

He leaned against the cold stone archway of the Sanctum walls, one boot pressed against the wall, arms folded loosely across his chest. His gaze slid between her and Oberon with the disinterest of a wolf eyeing an old shrine. He was tall, his height almost rivaling her fathers who stood to be amongst the Sanctum.

Then he spoke.

“You’re late.” His voice was smooth, velvet pulled over iron too soft to be mocking, too precise to be kind. 

She flinched just slightly, startled by the blunt weight of his voice. 

Oberon stepped forward, his movement deliberate, precise. He did not look at Jungkook, not fully. His gaze hovered just past him, as if to acknowledge him directly would invite something profane into the sanctified air. 

“You will guard her life,” he said, his tone as hard and cold as the sanctum stone. “Your exile ends only upon her return. If she dies, you will not return at all.”

Jungkook snorted, the sound low and dry as scorched parchment. His dark eyes narrowed, a flicker of annoyance catching in their depths like dying embers. 

“Exhiled for speaking,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet stretched over a blade. “Not punished for listening. Poetic.”

Oberon did not dignify with a reply. He simply turned, the hem of his ceremonial robes whispering across the floor like ash carried on still air. He gave a small nod to the guards who lingered behind him, their presence like silent wraiths of the Sanctum.

They approached her with ghostlike steps, the metal of their armor barely whispering. One extended a leather bound satchel, simple but meticulously packed. It was all she had requested. No spare robes. No excess. She traveled light, as her mother once had. 

She opened the satchel briefly, fingers brushing reverently against the worn leather of a small diary tucked within; her mothers. The edges were frayed from age and use, the pages fragile as old petals. She hoped the words inside would be more than memories. That somewhere within the ink stained thoughts, her mother had left a trail; signs to follow, turks half buried in grief. 

Satisfied, Oberon gaze no farewell. No blessing. No touch of parting affection. He turned and walked back into the Sanctum’s hollowed walls without once looking back. 

She did not let it wound her. Not visibly.

Adjusting the strap of her satchel, she stepped past Jungkook without a word. Her stride was slow, each footfall a weight carried not just by the journey ahead, but by the crushing expectation wrapped tight around her shoulders like a second veil. She could feel his eyes follow her, unblinking. Watching. Measuring. 

A moment later, she heard him fall in step beside her.

They walked in silence, their path winding downward, the black gates of the Sanctum blurring behind them, being swallowed by pine and fog, fading into myth. 

Only when the spires were lost to mist did he speak again. 

“So,” Jungkook said, voice idle and laced with amusement, “You’re the holy lamb.”

She did not turn to face him. Her gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, her spine straight, her steps measured. 

“And you are the knife,” she replied, voice flat as stone. 

A pause. Then the faintest grin curled at the edge of his lips; sharp, secretive. 

“Perhaps this won’t be so boring after all.”

-

Taglist (open)

[yoonkinii]

Fissure- FF announcement

Synopsis- The Virelith does not speak. The faithful must never see. And she was born to kneel.

As the chosen Voice of the Sanctum, she carries the weight of silence, draped in ritual and shadow. But when she’s sent beyond the holy walls with a disgraced warrior who has cursed the Virelith and lived to tell of it, the path ahead begins to rot beneath her feet.

The further they stray, the more the veil thins. And something ancient is listening.

Fallen Holy Knight! bJeon Jungkook x Veiled Priestess! Reader

Genre- dark fantasy / gothic / enemies to lovers / angst / blind devotion / religion / forbidden love

Warnings- language / death / gore / self sacrifice / killing / religious psychosis / major character death. (as parts are released, please inform me if I have missed any warnings and I will update the list)

a/n- o no! I have disappeared for awhile and suddenly reappeared! this ff is solely based around the song, forbidden fruit. This ff does discuss religion (not a real one, I made one up for entertainment purposes) and being blindly devoted to it. this ff will also not be sunshine and joy, I wanted to make a ff that had a more gothic and creepy tone. so beware for that as well. first part will be up soon as soon as I polish it up to my liking. I hope you enjoy reading this ff as much as I have while creating the world and story.

Character list + aesthetic

Dictionary - TBA

Masterlist

Taglist: open

[yoonkinii]

Fissure Character list + aesthetic

Jeon Jungkook

Y/n Saith / MC/ wtv you want to refer to yourself. its you.

Character list:

Oberon Saith: High magistrate of the Sanctum, y/n's father

[yoonkinii]

BTS m.list

Jeon Jungkook

Fissure

1 |

Synopsis-

The Virelith does not speak. The faithful must never see. And she was born to kneel.

As the chosen Voice of the Sanctum, she carries the weight of silence, draped in ritual and shadow. But when she’s sent beyond the holy walls with a disgraced warrior who has cursed the Virelith and lived to tell of it, the path ahead begins to rot beneath her feet.

The further they stray, the more the veil thins. And something ancient is listening.

Fallen Holy Knight! Jeon Jungkook x Veiled Priestess! Reader

Genre- dark fantasy / gothic / enemies to lovers / angst / blind devotion / religion / forbidden love

Warnings- language / death / gore / self sacrifice / killing / religious psychosis / major character death. (as parts are released, please inform me if I have missed any warnings and I will update the list

Character list + aesthetic

Dictionary - TBA

Masterlist

theme song- forbidden fruit - tommee profitt

Temptation I can't escape you, escape you Desire You're my forbidden fruit, forbidden fruit Oh You're my downfall Downfall

[katerina-marie]

The Tragedy of a Duality

Gojo Satoru x Female Reader and (Past) Ryomen Sukuna x Female Reader

Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3, Chp 4, Chp 5, Chp 6, Chp 7 (Final)

In the present, you are a sorcerer and the cherished wife of the Honored One. In an era long gone, remembered by only one, you were ordinarily human and the beloved bride of the King of Curses. How fitting it would be, in an evening of destruction, to have your heart torn in two.

Content: JJK Universe and Canon Events (tho tweaked to incorporate reader), Fluff, Angst, Flashbacks, Ambiguous ending, Violence, Death, Female reader but left descriptively vague, No use of y/n, True Form Sukuna in the past, Itadori Yuji is Sukuna's vessel in the present but nothing inappropriate b/n reader and Itadori as the vessel, Innuendos, Allusions to + Vaguely described sex so avoid accordingly, Mildly Possessive and Jealous Satoru. Will add more CW to each chapter if needed.

WC: 6.1k

Chapter 5

You suspect that Sukuna still knows it’s you approaching the doors of his bathing chamber even if your footsteps are rendered nearly silent because of the stockings on your feet. The hour is late and the night is cool, and you are just a little vexed that he hadn’t come to see you upon returning home from his two weeks away. When one of the maids had whispered the news to you as you sat reading in the room you share with Sukuna, you hadn’t dallied and only slid on a robe over your nightgown before slipping into the hall.

Now, however, when you stand in front of large, double wood doors with your fist poised to knock, you find yourself hesitating. You still aren’t quite certain of how far your formalities with your new husband are supposed to go. Three months is barely enough time to become familiar with a person, let alone bind yourself to them in matrimony, yet you’ve resigned yourself to both. In an effort to find success in such endeavors, you’ve dipped your toes into the metaphorical waters and pushed at what boundaries you could find when it comes to establishing your place at Sukuna’s side, even when it proves difficult. 

When his temper isn’t mercurial he’s stoic, when it isn’t enough for him to be quiet he hides behind aloofness, and the rest of your communication is all done in some annoyingly blunt manner. Teaching Sukuna tact isn’t something you had foreseen as a wifely duty for yourself, but alas, maybe the two of you would be better off for it.

“You may enter.” 

The suddenness of his voice makes you jump, and you realize Sukuna must have grown tired of sensing you waiting and contemplating on the other side of the door. Embarrassment warms your cheeks, and you consider fleeing back to your room, but something about the weariness of his words stills your feet. Concern has you pressing open the doors. 

Thick steam rises to meet you and billows out behind you into the hall until you shut the doors again. Hundreds of candles are scattered along the perimeter to cast flickering light against the walls. The room is humid and damp, and instantly the fabric of your nightgown begins to stick to your skin uncomfortably. Below you three steps down is an expansive pool built into the floor. Large grey stones and black tile trim the edges of it, and at the end farthest from you, Sukuna lounges on a ledge in waist deep water. You blanch when you notice the pink tint of it and when your eyes flick to the corner behind him, soiled linens lay in a heap of dirt and blood and who knows what else. 

“You have returned,” you say in lieu of a greeting. You carefully maneuver down the set of stairs and stop when your toes reach the edge of the pool across from him. A grumbling noise is his only response until Sukuna lifts his upper set of arms out of the water and drapes them along the edge of the pool. Two of his fingers on his right hand curl back and forth in a request for you to come nearer. Not interested in denying him, you pad over to him, mindful of the slickness of the floor and the stockings still on your feet. 

You come to a halt next to his left arm, and you have to stifle a gasp because the state of him is evident up close. Sukuna’s hair is saturated in blood and drying in matted clumps. Dirt and more blood mar the skin of his face and chest not obscured by his tattoos. For a second, you fret over how much of it might be his own, but there are no visible wounds to his body and you shove down the building panic. 

Sukuna continues to watch you, and when you cast your eyes about the room and they fall onto a basket of cloth in a corner, an idea comes to mind. 

You tilt your head towards the basket. “May I?” 

He turns infinitesimally, and you see his eyes flick back to where you indicated. After he gives an elegant nod of his head, you scurry over to the basket and lift into your arms. Back at Sukuna’s side, you glance between the steaming water, the awaiting cloth, and the hem of your robe that is darkened from the moisture it has already absorbed. Without debating it further, you undo the tie that keeps your robe shut and shrug it off your shoulders. In the next instant, your nightgown falls to your feet and the warmth of the room hits your bare skin. You toe off your stockings last, and just as you go to step down into the water, Sukuna lifts an arm to supply you a steadying hand. 

When you first enter the water, the heat of it stings your skin and draws a hiss from between your teeth. You go to lower yourself to your knees next to Sukuna’s side, but halfway down his hand tightens around yours and pulls you forward. His other hand helps you straddle his hips, and the burn of the water continues up your body to where it laps at your shoulder blades. At least you could blame the heat in your cheeks on the temperature of the room, though whether Sukuna would believe that to be the cause over the way his naked body is flush against yours is unlikely. 

Sukuna reaches with the arms not on you for the basket of linens. He drags it across the stone so it is within your reach and then lets his eyes drift closed as his body relaxes. You feel a smile tugging at your lips, and with a gentle hand, you dip a cloth into the water and wipe away the grime on his face. You brush over his brow and then trace down his cheek, pausing every so often to wet the cloth again before it becomes so dirty that you discard it and replace it with a clean one. When you finish with his face, you continue down his neck to his shoulders and then the solid plane of muscle that is his chest. 

From your peripheral, you catch Sukuna looking at you through a single slitted lower eye. His stare isn’t critiquing, nor is it cautious or wary. Instead, though it’s difficult to be sure through the steam, you would think it’s focused, content on following every lithe movement of yours across his body. One of his lower arms is wrapped around the small of your back while the other grasps your thigh under the water. His nails scratch softly and mindlessly, back and forth, and the act of it sends goosebumps all over the skin exposed to the air. Dare you think, Sukuna missed you. 

“Why did you hesitate outside the doors?” 

“Is that what I was doing?” you ask innocently. A glance from beneath your lashes gives you a glimpse of a frown on his face. 

“You are my wife, are you not?” And Sukuna clearly is not interested in whatever evasive game you try to play. You scrunch your nose in defeat. 

“I suppose so, in every sense of the word.” 

“Then I must ask you again: why did you hesitate?” 

Your sigh is long, and you let your hands fall into the pool with a small splash. “I am not sure,” you tell him honestly. “Perhaps you intimidate me. I am still getting to know you, and what you allow of me.” 

Sukuna’s face is surprised and pensive. “Do I?” 

“Mhm,” you hum, and you lift your hand out of the water to resume wiping at his skin with a soaking wet cloth. “Quite the reputation precedes you, if you are not aware.” 

A hand smooths up your spine. “Well, let me be the one to reassure you, Wife.” 

You assume Sukuna will further part your thighs or find some hidden place on your body with his lips that makes you call out for him, but instead, one of his fingers hooks under your chin so he can raise it up until your eyes meet his. The burning red of them is intense.

“Would it please you to hear how your beauty bewitched me the moment I saw you standing under that pear tree?” 

Your breath hitches, and the cloth in your hand tumbles into the water with a heavy plop. 

“Or,” Sukuna continues, and there is a genuine grin that is beginning to form on his face, “I can tell you how your intellect and wit far surpasses anyone else’s that I know. You are stunning and magnificent in all your ways.

“If I had not kept you for myself, if my selfishness was not near as great, then ultimately, some worthless mortal man in that unassuming village of yours would have asked for your hand and never realized the treasure he keeps under his fingers.” 

Your body flushes warm all over, and you can no longer blame it on the heat of the water. You know Sukuna can hear your heart pounding because it is ringing in your own ears, and he confirms it when another hand slides up to settle over it in between your breasts.

“Do not cower from me,” he tells you, and his voice is resolute in its sincerity. “Come to me, when you feel so inclined, and I will always be willing to let you find me.” 

You are rendered speechless from his declaration and thoroughly flustered in every other way. Sukuna watches you patiently as your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with some dignified response, but nothing sensible finds your tongue and you look everywhere but at him. 

There is a chuckle from Sukuna, and he lets his hand on your chest and back drift away to give you whatever space needed to not overwhelm you. Contented, he seems, he leans back again and shuts his eyes while waiting for you to continue with your earlier ministrations. 

You are thankful that his focus is no longer on you, and with a stuttered breath, you pick up another cloth to dip in the water and resume making progress on removing the evidence of whatever battles Sukuna fought from his skin. 

A few minutes later, once you have finished with his body, you turn to his hair and click your tongue in disapproval. “Did you not have the opportunity to bathe?”

Sukuna opens one eye lazily and grunts. “I did.”  

“Truly? The state of your hair and body would prove otherwise.” 

Hands tighten on your waist and thigh and now all of Sukuna’s eyes are on you. 

“I was occupied the last remaining days,” he refutes. “Besides, now I have no intention of doing it myself ever again when I know I could have your assistance instead.” 

There is heat in his voice, but you ignore it in favor of cleaning his hair. You rest your knees on top of Sukuna’s thighs and sit yourself up as tall as you can in order to stretch your arms up and above his head. One by one, you pick out bits of leaves and other questionable objects before softening the blood in it with warm water. Your stomach tilts and churns as you comb the matted parts loose with your fingers, but you manage to keep any bile down as you rinse it out. 

Sukuna sits relatively still and patient with eyes closed as the water runs down his face and over his shoulders, but as you spend an extra minute working at a particularly heinous knot right above his ear, you feel him nipping at the underside of your breast. The scraping of his teeth draws a squeal from your mouth as you shy away from him, but the strength of his grip doesn’t allow you to venture far. Instead, he urges you closer against his chest and looks up at you with eyes that are asking and beseeching.

Sukuna has never forced you. Not into the marriage that saves you from a bleak life of nothingness in a village that is equally lackluster. Not into his bed the night after the ceremony, though you did find yourself there and under him willingly. And not anytime after that, despite his best efforts in persuading you to indulge in him. He still does not now, even when you can feel him between your legs. 

There must be something answering and pleading on your face because Sukuna suddenly has two hands that grip at your rear while another cradles your jaw and brings your head close to his. Water splashes at the edge of the pool, and the knot in his hair is all but forgotten.You rock against him in a way that wrenches a gasp from you and a rumble from his throat, but you pause in making any more movement with your hips to whisper against his lips.

“Promise you will take me with you the next time you must leave and every time after that.” 

Sukuna grins at you, and it is devious and thrilling all at once. “Anything you desire, you shall have.” 

---------------------------

When you pop your head around the doorframe of Nanami Kento’s office, he is hunched over his desk with a pen in one hand and the side of his face propped up in the other. 

The paper he’s focused on is full of an elegant script you’ve always been envious of. Even in school, when Nanami was staunchly dedicated to transcribing every lecture in writing, the delicate strokes of his letters and the straightness of his sentences made his notes akin to art. You would tell him so at every opportunity, and the way the bridge of his nose would flare pink afterwards was a test to every bit of your self control to not squeeze him out of some affection-induced aggression. 

To this day he continues the habit, even if his face is lined by exhaustion and the burden of responsibility. Nanami has not once forgone wearing his fine-pressed suit or rather uncouthly patterned tie since returning to sorcery after abandoning corporate monotony—despite your gentle coaxing to do so. And the sight of him now, when it’s way past lunchtime and he clearly hasn’t taken a break all morning, makes you ever more grateful that you managed to stop at a quaint little bakery on your way back to the school. Nanami is perfectly capable and independent to nearly a fault, but you can’t help thinking he’d do well with someone to care for him. 

“Hey there,” you announce, and you do so delicately to avoid spooking him. When Nanami lifts his eyes to see who awaits at his door, you let yourself in and share a kind smile as he sits back in his chair and plucks his glasses from his face.

“Hello. It is always a pleasure to see you.” 

You don’t miss the emphasis on that last word, and you can’t help the giggle that arises from it. Anyone who has been around long enough knows of Nanami’s meager tolerance for Satoru’s antics. Diametrically opposed in their personalities, the two of them have just as many—if not more—moments of ire-filled tension than any that are relaxed and easy, and oftentimes one is in need of saving from the other (namely Nanami.) So, when he’s already worn out and not looking to be overstimulated, you know Nanami is grateful to not see your other half trailing behind you as he usually does.

“Even more so today,” you tell him, swinging a brown paper bag containing a fresh sandwich and half a dozen varieties of bread at your side before plopping it on his desk. “I’ve come bearing gifts.” 

Nanami has already been eyeing the bag since before you set it down, no doubt catching a whiff of the intoxicating scent of freshly baked bread when you entered the room, and in an impressive show of self restraint, says, 

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I insist.” You wave your hand dismissively as you fall back into one of the two tan wingback chairs Nanami has situated in front of his desk. “Besides, it’s not an entirely selfless offering. Or at least not completely. Consider it partly as a thanks for doing Satoru’s research a while back, and also because I would like to pick your brain if you can spare the time.” 

Nanami’s hand is halfway into the bag by the time you finish, and a small part of you feels bad when he withdraws it so he can sit up straight in his chair and turn his attention to you. The other half of you is desperate for information and doesn’t get hung up on the fact he’ll have to wait a couple more minutes for his lunch. 

“Of course,” Nanami says, interlacing his fingers together and resting them on his desk. “What can I assist you with?”

“Did you find anything else in your research on Sukuna pertaining to a wife of his?” you ask. “It’s not that I don’t have faith in Satoru to keep the information straight, but I just want to make sure he didn’t accidentally leave anything out, I guess.” 

Nanami nods in understanding. “I shared with Satoru everything I found, but to be thorough, why don’t you repeat what he told you and I’ll let you know if anything is missing.” 

You tell Nanami everything Satoru told you that night verbatim, but to your disappointment, he is shaking his head at the end. 

“That is the entirety of it, I’m afraid.”

You slump in your seat as some of the wind leaves your metaphorical sails. It’s not as though you expect some grand, unspoken details to emerge from the depths of Nanami’s brain, but you did hold on to some meager hope that he’d have something new to share.

 “I was wishing that wasn’t the case.” You sigh, and Nanami looks apologetic, but you let go of the disappointment in favor of moving on to your next question. “Next thing, if you don’t mind. I know since Itadori ate that one finger he’s—,”

“Three fingers, actually,” Nanami interrupts hesitantly.

“Three?” you repeat flatly, and he nods. “Where did the other two come from?” 

Nanami leans back in his chair as his eyes flick upward in consideration, and then takes a moment to click through his computer and scan through something before shifting back to answer you. 

“The first is the one Itadori found at his school and then consumed while trying to help Fushiguro. I’m assuming Gojo came home from that assignment late and told you about it?”

How could a name sound so familiar when you know you have never heard it before?

It’s your turn to nod as you stare a bit dazedly at your longtime friend. Surely Satoru didn’t intentionally withhold the information about the extra fingers from you, but you’re still shocked that you’re just now hearing it from Nanami. 

“The second Itadori ate the same day Sukuna appeared in the lounge and claimed you were his wife. Gojo gave it to him later in the afternoon.” Your mind flashes back to the unassuming black box almost hidden under used napkins. 

And the strange dream and odd tingling of your skin that followed later that night. An eerie, but reasonable coincidence?

“The third?” Something in your voice must be off because Nanami looks at you with a furrow of his brows.

“Itadori informed us that Sukuna ingested the third finger after he took over during the first year’s assignment at the detention center.”

Another vanishing dream; the urging throb in your chest; the same white-noise sensation over your arms while in the morgue. Denial could make anything sound like a second coincidence, right?

“Oh,” you breathe out, and your nail bites into the meat of your finger as your hands sit in your lap. “I didn’t realize I was missing out on all that information.” 

“I thought Gojo would have told you about the second, but the record of the third was documented in the report that Shoko wrote up that night.”

You must have stopped paying attention to the words on the paper by that point. 

The sigh you release sounds just as tired as Nanami looks, and he offers you a small smile of shared pity. 

“All that’s to say, there are twenty fingers total that Itdaori will ultimately come to consume, and that will result in the full manifestation of Sukuna’s power as it was a thousand years ago. It’s just a matter of time until we find them all.” 

For once, you did happen to know about the extra set of arms that Sukuna had, hence the twenty fingers, but it wasn’t something you like to think about too much. The idea of it is a tad off putting. Freaky, if you have to choose a word. What is concerning to you, however, is a burgeoning theory you aren’t sure you believe that is unfortunately taking up space in your head. 

Would these bizarre dreams you can’t quite remember and the odd sensations on your skin continue to occur each time Itadori ingests a finger? And what could possibly happen when he eats the last one? 

“That sounds ominous,” you say because you don’t know how else to describe it. 

Nanami sighs and leans back in his chair. “We’ll all be here to handle it together, I suppose.” 

Your only response is a nod, and you glance about Nanami’s office before pushing off your knees to get up. 

“I appreciate your help. But now,” you tell him with mock sternness, “please enjoy your lunch.” 

Nanami’s face lights up, and he reaches for the bag with an enthusiasm only reserved for his favorite indulgences in life. It brings a smile to your face.

He says his thanks as you turn to leave his office, but just before you walk out the door, you spin back around. Your eyes flick to a little postcard that sits on a bookshelf behind his desk—an image of golden sand and sparkling blue water—and you call his name just as Nanami is bringing the sandwich to his mouth. 

“You should really take that vacation soon,” and Nanami’s eyes go soft as a chagrined smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You deserve it.”

---------------------------

“You’re hovering.” 

“Is that what I’m doing?” 

“Mhm.” 

“I like to think of it as I would rather never be parted from you.”

“The intention behind the action is what differentiates the two, Satoru.” 

It is not unusual for Gojo Satoru to always be right at your side at any given moment. 

“Concerningly over-attached,” is what Nanami calls it. 

“Clingy is an understatement,” Shoko remarks most days. 

“Dedicated,” is how Satoru proudly puts it. 

For you, it’s somewhere in the middle, maybe a combination of all three, but trying to decipher which one it is at any specific time is more work than you care to commit. All you know is that you don’t really mind that your husband trails after you like a love-sick puppy, or that he will always slip his hand into yours if he thinks it’s been too long since the last time he touched you. If anything, you’d argue you are equally besotted with Satoru, though maybe you reserve your physical proof of such for when it’s just the two of you. 

No matter, you would never take for granted how Satoru chooses to express his love for you, but it feels like as of late that his constant presence near you has more to do with who resides in your shared student than his desire to spend every waking moment with you while you’re at work. 

“Fine,” Satoru pouts, and he slumps over you to rest his chin on your shoulder. You’d normally bat him away for showing physical affection in front of the students, but Itadori is currently preoccupied with practicing fighting stances in the obscure training building you found in a remote part of campus, so you decide to indulge Satoru while the two of you stand in the corner observing him. 

“Care to tell me why?” you ask. You reach your arm up behind you and around his neck so you can scratch your nails through his hair, and it earns you a pleased grumble. You can feel the vibrations of it where he is pressed against your back, and you smirk—both at the sound and the way you know it’s an effective tactic to get Satoru to loosen his tongue. 

“I dunno,” he mumbles, more focused on turning his head every which way so that he can receive the maximum amount of scratches. “Just checking in on you.” 

You would narrow your eyes at Satoru if he were looking at you, but he isn’t, so you give a gentle, albeit pointed, tug of his hair. He whines and lifts his head from your shoulder. 

“You sure about that?” 

Satoru comes around to stand in front of you, though not quite enough to block Itadori from your view, and his face is drawn in some sort of concern. “I promise, I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

A weary sigh puffs your cheeks as you let it out, and you tip your chin down a little as you level Satoru with a look. 

“And I assured you that I was alright.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Satoru says, and you can’t see if there is any worry in his eyes through his blindfold, but you hear it in his voice, “but you looked upset last night when I got to the morgue and he—,” 

“I was just a little taken aback, Satoru.” 

You do reach out for his hand and give it a squeeze in reassurance, and your heart does the same when he takes in a stuttered inhale. It’s not like Satoru to be so anxious, and you try to put aside whatever disgruntlement you have in favor of making sure he feels alright. He smiles at you in return, but you note how it’s not quite as bright as usual. 

“You would tell me if there is something to be concerned about, right?” 

The question is unexpected, and you hate how it puts something inside of you on the immediate defensive. 

You smile tightly at him. “You know I would, Satoru.” 

You assume he’s studying you before he finally nods, and when he takes a step back, you pull your phone from your pocket to check the time. “Off to train Fushiguro?” 

“Yup,” Satoru quips, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll pop back in later?” 

You bob your head a bit half-heartedly in acknowledgement before giving him a small wave goodbye. Satoru hesitates in turning towards the door to leave, but when he finally does, he calls for Itadori to offer his encouragement. 

“This month will go by quickly, Yuji. You’ll see.” 

And to some extent, Satoru is right. 

Itadori bounces back from his temporary stint in the land of the dead with relative ease and normalcy. He is eager to return to his training, and though he’s disappointed his survival has to remain a secret from his friends a while longer, he complies without complaint. From then on, the days pass with little-to-know fanfare. However, much to your displeasure, it doesn’t escape your notice that you aren’t left alone with Itadori for very long at any given time. 

Nanami claims he’s hiding from Satoru when he slips into the lounge with you and Itadori some afternoons. The boy is ecstatic to see him and hangs off every word Nanami shares with you two, but you eye him suspiciously, a little amused at how he very intently refuses to meet your gaze. You decide not to pester him too much about it, figuring that it isn’t his decision that is forcing him here, and instead you watch as Itadori does his best to crack a smile from your normally impassive friend. The two of you both cheer enthusiastically when Nanami inevitably gives in to a grin with a shake of his head. 

On other days, Satoru is already spread out on the sofa next to Itadori by the time you make it to them. Even through his blindfold you can tell that he watches Itadori carefully when you come around the sofa to greet them, but when nothing happens and Itadori simply gives you a wave and happy smile, Satoru’s shoulders relax. He reaches out for you when you stand in front of the two of them, but you are mindful of your student in the room and only allow Satoru a quick brush of your arm before you step away and laugh at the pout on his face. 

As for Sukuna, he keeps himself relatively scarce except for the rare instance. Every once in a while during training, Itadori’s eyes go blank when they are set on you. You do your best to ignore it, and once Satoru catches on to it, he’s quick to step in between and block you from Itadori’s line of sight. On another random afternoon, when you return to the lounge with your lunch in tow, a bright green pear is waiting at your place at the small dining table on one side of the room. You look questioningly at Itadori, but he only gives you an unaffected shrug, too preoccupied with shoveling his own meal into his mouth to bother with an explanation. 

When you ask Satoru about it later, assuming it was him who left the pear since he would be the only one who pays attention to your favorite snacks, his face hardens before he denies that it was his doing. You stare at each other in the following silence, and you know both of you are thinking the same thing: 

Sukuna. 

You know it’s nothing, that at the end of the day, whatever minute happenstances that occur between you and Sukuna mean nothing. Satoru, however, seems to vehemently disagree, and his penchant for hovering tips into the realm of the excess. By the time the month of Itadori’s sequestration is over, you’ve reached your limit for how much you can handle Satoru and his lingering doubts without any conversation being had about it. 

So, you breeze into your shared office one evening, long after the school day ends, and round on him with hands on your hips as you ask point blank, 

“What are you doing?”

Satoru isn’t surprised to see you, clearly having sensed you coming since his blindfold is already hanging around his neck, and he turns to you from the computer on your desk with a smile. 

“I’m actually working. You should be proud,” he says blithely and folds his hands primly in front of the keyboard. His voice is light, if not a bit snippy, but you notice the rigid straightness of Satoru’s shoulders and the way he seems to be guarding himself, and it keys you into the fact he’s playing dumb. 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

He’s unbothered by the unimpressed arching of your brow and the way you cross your arms over your chest while your toe taps against the rug on the floor. “Oh?”

You let out a sigh of frustration and poke your tongue into your cheek. “Nanami has been supervising every session I’ve had with Itadori this month.” 

Satoru shrugs, dismissive in his attitude. “Maybe he’s missed hanging out with you.” 

A muscle under your eye twitches, and you struggle to keep your voice calm. Arguing with Satoru is something that seldom occurs, but when it does, your spats tend to escalate more than you would like—a wrongdoing you are both culpable for. “And what about the times he was unavailable? You were always there before I even arrived.” 

“Well, have you thought that maybe I missed—,” 

Your patience vanishes. “Satoru, that’s enough!”

The sudden loudness of your voice and the command that snaps from your mouth stuns him into clicking his jaw shut as he jerks back against his chair. His earlier smile is long gone, and the frown that takes its place is hard and displeased. If you weren’t already so worked up, both by Satoru’s overprotectiveness and now his antagonizing behavior, you’d let the argument go in favor of having a more productive conversation when the two of you have had a moment to calm down.

“That was uncalled for, I’m sorry,” you admit, but you scrub your hand over your face before letting it flop back against your side in frustration. “I just…really, really don’t like feeling like I’m being babysat because someone is doubting my abilities or questioning the trust they have in me.” 

Satoru’s expression changes into one of confused alarm, and he pushes back from the desk to make his way over to you in just three long-legged strides. 

“That’s not what I think,” he insists, crossing his arms in front of his chest so he mirrors your stance. 

“Really? Because that’s how it comes off.” You glance over Satoru’s shoulder out the window of your office and then look at a picture of the two of you hanging on the wall before returning to him. “Is this about Sukuna?” 

Satoru looks taken aback. “Why would this be about him?”

“What else on earth could this possibly be about, Satoru?” You gape at him in bewilderment and bristle at how unforthcoming he’s being. “Is what he said bothering you?” 

“Of course not!”

“Are you sure? Then explain to me why it’s only ever when I’m working with Itadori that you and Nanami just decide to come join us. That never happens when I train Fushiguro and Kugisaki.” 

Satoru sputters and drags a hand roughly through the ends of his hair. “I’m just looking out for you. I promise I—,” 

“But why? I am perfectly capable of protecting myself!” A thought crosses his mind and you gawk at him accusingly. “Do you think I’d be unfaithful?” 

Satoru’s eyes bulge and he waves his hands wildly in denial. “No! No, of course not. That’s not it at all.” 

But he pauses for a moment and his tongue darts out over his lips as he considers his next words. Even the brief hesitation stings and you feel your hands begin to tremble. “I just…what if what Sukuna says is true and you—,”

“‘I’ what? He’s a monster, Satoru!” you burst out in frustration. One of your hands slashes up through the air and you feel your throat go tight as tears burn your eyes. For a split second, you wonder which of the two of you needs the reminder more.

Sukuna is nothing more than a latent curiosity, an academic inquiry, a brief musing when boredom strikes.

 “Sukuna is evil and a murderer, and there should be no reason that conceivably convinces you that I would ever entertain the idea of being with him willingly! Where did that idea even come from? Do you really think that lowly of me?” 

Your voice rings out in the quiet of the room, and you’re left breathing heavily as Satoru stares at you with wide eyes. When his shoulders start to sag and his chin lowers in defeat, the haze of anger and betrayal fades, and you start to feel incredibly guilty. 

“Satoru—,”

Someone clearing their throat behind you interrupts whatever attempt at an apology you are about to make, and when you spin around to see who is there, Itadori is standing in the doorway of your office with a sheepish expression on his face. Your heart sinks to your stomach and embarrassment heats your cheeks as you take a deep breath. 

“I-I’’m sorry,” Itadori stutters, and his eyes flick between you and where Satoru still stands behind you. His feet begin to shuffle backwards seemingly on their own accord and he rubs a hand at his temple. “I wanted to ask Gojo-sensei about the reveal tomorrow, but it can wait.” Itadori spins on his heel as he waves hurriedly. “Sorry again for the interruption!”

The boy is gone before you can get a word out, and with a disappointed groan, you turn back to Satoru and throw an arm out in the direction Itadori just fled. “One of us should go after him.” 

His sigh of defeat hits you in the chest and has you yearning to reach for him, but Satoru is already stepping around you and towards the door before you make up your mind to move. 

“I’ll do it,” he mumbles, and you hate how he yanks his blindfold up over his eyes without looking once at you. “We’ll talk later.” 

Without another word, Satoru is gone, and you’re left in the silence of your office to stew over how things went wrong so quickly. 

---------------------------

A/N: Just two more chapters after this 🥹

Taglist (open): @kalopsia-flaneur ; @kafanizdakicokiyi

[yoonkinii]

Jjk M.list

Gojo Satoru

Perfectly Imperfect

Synopsis: Everyone is born with a soulmate. Everyone knows by the time they hit age 18, a different kind of soulmate mark will appear. Some are unable to see color until they meet their soulmates gaze, others have matching tattoos. These are the more common ones; ones that can be tracked down in history but others are rare. So rare that there’s rarely any information available about it. Rare like yours and the only case of this soulmarking was dated decades ago with only two lines describing it.

"Person A and Person B afflicted by this marking will discover themselves to be covered in string-like tattoo markings in certain areas. These areas are what the soulmate A or B deem unworthy of themselves; or rather, what they hate about themself."

This wouldn't be a problem for you if it wasnt for the fact that everything from the collarbone to your ankles was decorated in white string-like lines.

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader

Theme song: Bonfire - wave to earth

What color is my sky painted? What color is your emotion? Close your eyes slowly and feel the wind. The bonfire is fading out. Maybe we are falling Falling down with the rain.

amore mio aiutami- Piero Piccioni (literally the song that plays when M/C looks at him)

Warning(s):

18+, Sub!Gojo (gasp!), cursing, mentions of self-hate, discussion of Self-hate, mentions of minor character death- Will be added as chapters progress but if you see something that I didn’t include here, please let me know!

Note(s):

Expect this to be a short fic. I do not plan on having this over 6 parts and even then it could be less or couple chapters more. Depends on how I write everything.

Part(s): TBA

Ryomen Sukuna

Snippets of Love

Synopsis: Glimpses of your relationship with Sukuna through prompts/questions.

Paring: Sukuna x Reader

Theme Song: Heart To Heart - Mac DeMarco

So I had a late Arrival So, we never saw the start of each others lives heart to heart

Notable tags: ModernAU, slight age gap, Canon/Fanon implements, Sukuna still has his tattoos, CEO Sukuna, uncle Sukuna, college student reader, pierced Sukuna.

Note(s): Inspired to do this series based on Kyarrcha fanart of Sukuna on Instagram! I want this to be mostly based on requests about certain moments such as when Sukuna and you first met, first date, and things like that. This can also include certain scenarios or environments. Feel free to send in requests but I will also add in my own takes.

Requests: Open.

Warnings: will be listed in the sections.

You are not required to read snippets in order, but it is recommended.

How y♡u first met Sukuna!

How y♡u met Sukuna again (and got his number)!

First date with Sukuna!

Sukuna letting y♡u doll him up!

Sukuna with drunk y♡u

Jealous Y♡u

Argument with Sukuna

Choso Kamo

Echos of Desire

Synopsis: Choso is one of the few to possess abilities that transcend human limits. His family was taken away from him and he was given to serve the king. He was trained in nothing else but to kill and follow orders. He was a man made weapon. His name whispered in fear- the kingdom's boogeyman. He hates it though. Hates how his freedom was ripped from his hands. Hates how his ‘gift’ is more like a curse. He is offered a deal he can’t deny- transport the princess to safety in a neighboring kingdom. The only problem is, she’s the daughter of the man that took everything from him and she is being hunted down by unknown forces. 

Pairing: Choso x Reader

Theme Song: my love is mine all mine - Mitski

Moon, tell me if I could Send up my heart to you? So, when I die, which I must do Could it shine down here with you? 'Cause my love is mine, all mine I love mine, mine, mine

Notable tags: FantasyAU, Fanon (I am creating my own world and using some pieces of jjk in it), major character death, burning alive, abuse, gore, blood, mentions of self loathing, anger. (Will be updated as more parts come out)

Note(s): Just a little something.

Part(s): 1 |

Headers by @uzmacchiato

[yoonkinii]

BG3 M.list

Astarion

We Were Human

Synopsis: Astarion died as soon as he became something the world has never seen before. No one noticed the damage before it was too late and the Astarion everyone loved was lost to the new one. No one could notice when the turn was slow and silent. He slowly lost the playful glint in his eyes. Lost the love he gaze upon me with. Lost everything that made him the man I loved. Oh, how I would give anything to get him back. I would gladly give up my damned soul for him.

(Aka you are transported back to the past in order to prevent Astarion from losing himself once more. The only problem? You don't have a lot of time.)

Theme Song: Vore - Sleep Token

"You have become the voice in my head Only recourse we're left after death Your viscera welcome me in, welcome me in My life is torn, my bones, they bleed My metaphors fall short in the end Your flesh and bone welcome me in, welcome me in Are you in pain like I am?"

Pairing(s): Ascended!AstarionxReader

Warning(s): Gore, blood, cruelty, cursing, death/murder, mentions of using oneself unwillingly, abuse. Its ascended astarion, prepare for the worst. (Will be updated as more parts are released)

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | ...

Status: on hold

Note(s):

For the sake of the plot- Astarion will not automatically be damned from the start. In this world, Astarion becomes lost to the ascension overtime until he becomes the ascended vampire we know him to be in the game. Another note that should be highlighted is that this story will be told from the first person perspective since it benefits the story more than any other perspective.

You will also notice various things being different from the game. For example, Karlach will be able to stay in the ‘human’ world and she fixed her heart. (I love my girl, I’m not sending her back), Szaars palace has a different layout cause the one in the game was stupid. There will be more that you will notice in the future so beware. You notice many things that were not included in the game but it I ensure that it is on purpose and isn't just there randomly. It should also be noted that when I post, I post the raw draft before I go back and edit the story. I do this so I am able to post consistently without having readers wait. I will go back and edit once I am able so if you notice spelling mistakes, I apologize.

Soulless Soul

Spawn!AstarionxAbsolute!VampyreReader

 Synopsis: There he stands, eyes downcast and shoulders caving in on himself. He does not look weary as he was pricked and prodded to fit the standards of his master. He has no idea why he is here- lined up amongst his siblings in the dining hall. His back aches, scars he knows that have not healed properly catching onto the rough fabric of his shirt. He watched the floor, he knew better not to meet the eyes of the predators that lurked before. He doesn’t even look up when the hem of an emerald green dress stands before him.

“This one. I want this one.” 

He does not allow himself the privilege of hope to blossom in his chest at those words. 

Theme Song: Soulless Creatures - Aurora

All the pieces of my body's gone Look at me now and tell me how I feel inside Every pieces that I lost, I have loved

Warning(s):  mentions of sexual trauma, Physical assault, gore, death, panic attacks, cursing, (more will be added as the story progresses if needed)

Note(s): Redacted in case of spoilers. I will upload notes with the first chapter

Part(s): TBA

Short Stories (Drabbles?)

Waiting...

[yoonkinii]

Omg you did amazing with the fic literally all my scattered ideas into words and became a masterpiece it’s so good!!!

WAAAHH thank you so much 😭 im so sorry if astarion is a tad out of character. In my head,,,he’s in love with her 🙏🏼 BUT im so glad you liked it :D

[yoonkinii]

Waiting...

Based on Fluffleboo's post Warning(s): death, mentions of death, hopelessness, murder, kidnapping, grief, depressive episodes, panic attacks, throwing up, mention of attempted su!c!de. Masterlist I hope I did a good job with her idea.

Note: I did change some of the events that take place but this idea and writing was heavily based on Fluffleboo (@fluffleboo) and their brain from coming up with this. Thank you for allowing me to use your idea and to create something with it. 

Reader is female (sorry I have not mastered being able to write with no gender yet), no use of Y/N, reader is of the elf lineage (makes astarion being gone for 200 year and the reader not being dead or super old make sense) 

I should also make it known that the reader and astarion didn’t live in Baldur’s Gate at the beginning, it wouldn’t make sense if I didn’t change it so lets pretend they just lived in another major city. 

LOTS of flashbacks, I’m sorry if it gets confusing but I wanted to write it in a way where there’s backstory to everything. If you need any clarification, let me know and I’ll do my best to explain it. It sort of gives context before having a flashback tied in with the context before it leads up to the main point with no more flashbacks.

Astarion has Green eyes Pre-Vampyr Spawn. Astarion is a little OOC cause teehee. 

I did include parts of the song “Will you fall in love with me again” in here, don’t be surprised if you see them. 

She remembers the night he vanished - the way the stars burned bright, oblivious to the absence that would soon consume her. She had woken to an empty bed, the sheets cold where he should have been. At first, there was no panic, only reason. He had told her he would be late, something about unrest in the streets, disputes over the new laws he passed. 

So she simply sighed, turned over, and let sleep reclaim her. 

It wasn’t until the next evening, when the sun hung high and the space beside her remained untouched, that the panic finally set in. 

“You’re staring again.”

His voice was smooth, warm like the golden light slipping through the curtains, casting his skin in a soft glow. He sat against the headboard, silver-framed reading glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, a stack of parchment resting in his hands. 

She shifted beneath the sheets, the fabric rustling as she propped herself up on her forearms. The blanket sliding down, baring the curve of her back to the morning air. 

“Can’t help it,” she murmured, tilting her head with a smile. “You’re absolutely enchanting.”

He snorted, amusement flickering across his face as he glanced at her over the rim of his glasses. “Enchanting?” he echos, setting the papers aside on the dark wooden table beside the bed.

She moved with him, closing the space between them, her body molding against his as if drawn by an unseen force. A sigh left her lips as she rested her cheek against his shoulder, letting herself sink into the warmth of him, of the moment. 

She hummed. “Of course. You practically glow in the sun - like a feline.” 

A sudden pinch at her hip makes her squeal, laughter bubbling from her throat as she tries pushing him away, her hands pressed against his chest. He only tightened his hold, pulling her even closer, silencing her giggles with a kiss that stole the breath straight from her lungs. 

Their lips hovered, teasing, their words nothing more than whispers against the soft curve of each other’s mouths. 

“Are you calling me an enchanting feline?”

Her fingers found his hair ,carding through the silken strands, untangling the knots sleep had left behind. His eyes, green as polished emeralds, gazed at her like she had hung the stars themselves. 

“Of course not,” she said, voice softer now, reverent. She let her fingers trail down, curling at the nape of his neck. 

“You’re my enchanting husband.”

“Your husband is dead.” 

The words were distant, muffled, as if spoken through water. They echoed in her mind, looping over and over, a cruel, inescapable refrain. 

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Your husband is dead. 

She falls apart in the parlor room of her house. 

She collapses in the parlor, the weight of those words tearing her apart at the seams. 

She searched - Gods, she searched. Every alleyway, every dim-lit tavern, every shadowed corner of the city. She scoured the streets until her boots split at the seams, until her hands were caked in filth, until grief hollowed her cheeks and darkened her eyes. She pleaded with the Flaming Fist, her voice raw from desperation, begging them to look harder, to do more. 

Weeks dragged into months. And then, one day, they stopped looking. 

Bile rose in her throat, spilling onto the floor in a sickening splatter as she doubled over on the couch. The room spun, too loud, too quiet, too dull. Through blurred vision, she barely registered the subtle grimaces behind the thin veil of sympathy. 

Hands settled on her, cradling her like a wounded thing, whispering empty comforts. Hollow reassurances that everything would be alright. But how could anything be alright when everything was lost? 

The words didn’t feel real. They were an ill-fitting mask over an unbearable truth, easier to swallow than the vast, gaping unknown. Bandits. Wild Beasts. A moment of misfortune that stole him away. But there was nothing. No body. No proof. Just a verdict, wrapped in empty condolences. 

The home they had built together became a mausoleum, haunted by laughter that no longer filled its halls. Days blurred together, each one as lifeless as the last. Friends told her to grieve, to let go, to move on. 

But how could she, when there was no grave to mourn over?

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. 

The hearth bathed the room in golden light, its warmth chasing away the lingering chill of the night. The fire crackled and popped, filling the silence with its steady rhythm, its flickering glow bright enough for her to make out the inked words on the pages of her book. 

She nestled deeper into the maroon velvet of the chaise lounge, the fabric soft against her skin. A cotton blanket draped over her frame, cocooning her in comfort. It was a quiet night, peaceful. Or at least, it had been.

The ornate wooden doors of the manor opened with a soft creak, followed by the unmistakable sound of his groan echoing through the halls - frustrated, tired. The noise grew louder as he made his way toward her, his presence a storm rolling in to disturb the calm.

She didn’t look up when he rounded the couch, didn’t shift her attention from the book in her hands even as his briefcase hit the floor with a muted thud. 

“How was work, my love? She asked, voice lilting with amusement. 

Rather than answer immediately, he slotted himself between her legs, resting his head against her lower stomach with a dramatic sigh. His groan vibrated against her skin, and she couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. One hand fell from her book, fingers threading lazily through his hair. 

“I take it that it went well?”

He scoffed, shifting just enough that she could feel the eye rolls that accompanied it. 

“Oh, of course,” he drawled, “If you consider imbeciles squabbling over meaningless matters without reaching a single useful conclusion, then yes - today was absolutely splendid.”

Her shoulders bounces in silent laughter as she flipped the page. Before she could read another word, the book was plucked from her hands, stolen in one swift motion. She barely had time to protest before he spoke again. 

“Let’s go somewhere.”

She arched a brow as he propped his chin on her stomach, gazing up at her. Absentmindedly, her fingers trailed from his hair to cradle his cheek, thumb sweeping gently across his cheekbone. 

“And where exactly would we go?” 

He sighed as if the answer should have been obvious. “Anywhere.” His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a soft pout. Looking up at her through his lashes, he murmured, “Let’s just leave. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere it’s just us. I want uninterrupted time with you, away from- “ he groaned again, “gods-damned idiots.”

She hummed, feigning contemplation, “Anywhere?”

His eyes brightened, brimming with something she was sure she mirrored back at him. Love. He looked like a child promised a long-awaited treat, excitement shimmering in his gaze. 

“Anywhere,” he confirmed, nodding eagerly. 

She exhaled a quiet laugh. “I suppose we can- when we get the chance.” 

His grin was instant, sharp and boyish, his joy utterly unrestrained. Before she could say more, he pushed himself up, leaning in just enough to steal a kiss- brief but lingering, leaving her chasing the ghost of it as he pulled away. 

“It’s settled, then. I’ll handle things at work, and once it’s all arranged, we’ll go.”

Tilting her head, she watched him, bemused by the way he practically glowed with anticipation. “You make it sound as if this trip is going to be enchanting.”

He dropped to his knees before her, fingers curling around her hands with reverence, as if she were something fragile, something sacred. Her heart stuttered, warmth rushing to her cheeks. 

“Oh, it will be,” he murmured, lips curving into something sly. “As enchanting as a feline.”

She huffed an incredulous laugh, ready to tease him, only for the words to die in her throat as he lifted her hand to his lips. His mouth pressed softly against her knuckles - against the delicate band of silver circling her finger. 

His voice was barely more than a whisper, a vow spoken against her skin. 

“For you, I would do anything. Any chance I got.”

But they never got their chance. 

The carriage swayed with the uneven rhythm of the dirt road, jostling her body with every dip and rise. She barely noticed. Her fingers twisting her wedding band absently, rolling the cool metal over her skin again and again as she gazed out the window. The forest stretched endlessly beyond the glass, its foreign trees casting long shadows in the fading light. 

She had left everything behind. Sold everything she owned in pursuit of a ghost. The acceptance others spoke of never came, nor did the quiet surrender that grief was meant to bring. How could she believe he was gone when there was no proof? No body, no grave - only silence. Her heart had never settled. Her future had become a weight, a chore she carried rather than a path she walked with purpose. 

So she had set out, wordlessly, determined to reclaim what had been stolen from her.

Two hundred years.

Two hundred years of searching, of chasing whispers across the vast expanse of Faerûn. She scoured city after city, hired investigators, pleaded with mercenaries, begged the gods themselves. Each inquiry ended the same.

“Sorry. We couldn’t find anything about your husband.”

Again and again, the words repeated until they were carved in her bones, hollowing her out with every rejection. Slowly, hope had withered. And with it, her very soul. 

Then, when she had nothing left - when she had stood at the edge of a balcony, staring down the yawning abyss below - she overheard the murmured conversation of tenants beneath her. A city saved. Heroes who had risen from the darkness to pull Baldur’s Gate back from the brink. 

It was a city she had never searched, one she had long dismissed as too distant, too unlikely. But hope, weak and flickering, ignited once more. If he wasn’t there, then perhaps these so-called heroes could help. 

She had stepped away from the ledge and set out that very night. 

“We’re here, My lady.”

The driver’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. She barely acknowledged him as she stepped from the carriage, pressing the fee into his hands without a word. He thanked her, but she was already walking.

Before her stood the great gates of Baldur’s Gate, scarred by battle, the remnants of war still etched into the stone. And beyond them - a sight unlike any other. 

Fae, humans, tieflings, githyanki, orcs, halflings, dragonborn, dwarfs, drow - so many walking the streets, their lives intertwining in a way that made the city feel more alive than any she had visited before. But beneath the movement, beneath the rebuilding, there was a quiet grief that settled over the people like dust. She recognized it well. 

No one spared her a second glance. Not for her sullen expression, not for the way her clothes hung from her frame, weathered by wind and rain. The rich burgundy fabric of her gown had dulled with time, its once - soft texture long since roughened by travel. But she had never cared for the stares, nor the whispered opinions of those who thought a woman should not cross the realm in such impractical clothing. 

Her dress had been tailored for survival - sturdy linen layers beneath flowing skirts allowed for swift movement, hidden slits cut along the sides ensuring she could run, ride, fight if she needed to. A wide leather belt cinched her waist, pouches filled with coin, letters, maps, herbs, and the one thing she never parted with. 

A single, tattered parchment. 

Her fingers brushed over it through the fabric. She never unfolded it anymore - couldn’t bear to. Time had stolen most of the image, leaving only the faintest remnants behind. But his face remained. Always. Smiling down at her blurred form, forever untouched by the years that had worn her down to nothing.

A deep-hooded cloak, midnight blue and heaving with the weight of travel, draped over her shoulders, shielding her from both the elements and prying eyes. Her boots, laced to her knees, were scuffed but strong, having carried her across cobblestones, through forests, over mountains. The only ornament she still wore was the one that mattered most. 

Her wedding ring. 

Cheers and applause rang through the streets, drawing her attention. A crowd had gathered in the square, their voices an excited hum of anticipation. She approached on instinct, weaving through the bodies, catching snippets of conversation.

The heroes of Baldur’s Gate. 

Then, with a flourish, the massive linen covering the crowded monument was pulled away. 

A statue stood beneath it, towering over the gathered crowd, the figures carved in stone were unfamiliar - strangers cast in heroism. But then her eyes caught a familiar curl, a detail so small yet unmistakable. 

The world shifted. 

Her breath came short, uneven, a trembling exhale past her lips as her hands fumbled for her belt. Her fingers found the parchment, carefully unfolding the delicate edges, barely breathing as she held it up beside the statue. 

Her vision blurred, darting between the image in her hands and the face carved in stone. 

It was him.

“Wow! That drawing looks great! Where did you get that?”

She jolted, nearly dropping the parchment at the sudden voice. Her head snapped to the side, meeting the keen, amused gaze of a tiefling woman, 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced her voice to work, though it came out broken, trembling. “You…You know this man?”

She clutched the image close to her chest, as if afraid it would be taken from her.

The tiefling grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Who doesn’t? That’s Astarion!”

A sob tore from her throat before she could stop it. 

The tiefling’s expression shifted from amusement to alarm as she stumbled back slightly, uncertain how to react. Awkwardly, she patted her shoulder, offering hesitant comfort. 

But nothing else mattered. 

It was him

It was Astarion. 

“Doesn’t this whole ordeal seem rather…unnecessary?”

Astarion’s voice dripped with amused skepticism as he stood beside her in the grand wedding hall, his arms loosely at his side. His wife-to-be arched a brow, tilting her head to look up at him, arms crossed over the intricate bodice of her gown. 

“Are you telling me that wanting a painting of this moment is pointless?”

Astarion blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His lips parted, the sharp edges of his teeth flashing as he realized his misstep. 

“No!” The word shot out of him in haste. “I just don’t see the appeal. Why capture us in paint when you can gaze upon my magnificence whenever you please?”

He puffed his chest with theatrical pride, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. 

She clicked her tongue, rolling her eyes as she playfully smacked his chest. “I want a painting to remember this day, Astarion. It’s not as though I can wear a gown like this every day.”

His gaze flickered to the silent painter, whose brush moved in steady strokes across parchment, capturing their every detail. Then, inevitably, his eyes found her again. 

She was radiant. 

The gown she wore was a masterpiece of moonlight and devotion, woven from dreams and stitched with quiet reverence. Soft ivory fabric rippled with her every movement, delicate yet unyielding - much like the woman who wore it. Silver embroidery curled along the bodice like ivy climbing an ancient trellis, glimmering under the light, a quiet tribute to the stars beneath which they had once whispered their vows. 

The sheer sleeves draped over her arms like mist rolling over the sea, tapering into fitted cuffs embroidered with ancient runes of love and protection. The skirt cascaded around her in layered waves, each panel split to allow freedom - because she was never one to be caged, not even by tradition. And beneath it all, the faintest glimpse of deep red silk peeked through every step, a secret only the wind and her beloved would see. 

Astarion’s arms slipped around her waist, drawing her closer. She turned easily in his hold, gazing up at him with an expectant look - waiting for him to redeem himself. 

His fingers trailed along the line of her spine, his voice lowering to a teasing murmur. “I wouldn’t be opposed to you wearing this every day.”

She hummed in mock consideration, her hands smoothing over his shoulders, tracing the fine fabric of his own wedding attire. “Really? And would you wear this every day?”

His coat was a study in elegance, the deep midnight hie reminiscent of a sky on the cusp of twilight. Tailored to perfection, it framed him effortlessly, the silver embroidery tracing the high collar and cuffs like constellations mapping the heavens. It was a quiet nod to the night he had first whispered his love to her beneath the stars. Beneath the coat, a dark crimson waistcoat clung to his form, the color rich yet subtle - like aged wine, like the bloom of roses, like the depth of passion he could never quite put into words. His trousers, dark as shadow, were tucked into polished leather boots, completing the look as man both regal and untamed. 

Astarion looked skyward in feigned contemplation, biting the inside of this cheek. “Even though I do look devastatingly grand,” he admitted, “I suppose it would be a terrible inconvenience for everyday wear.”

She laughed, and the sound sent a ripple of warmth through him. It was music - an immortal melody he would never tire of. 

His grin widened as he pulled her impossibly closer, reveling in the mirth between them, in the love that bound them tighter than any vow ever could.

The painter, silent and steady, allowed himself the barest of smiles as he etched the moment onto parchment - a portrait not of nobility or grandeur, but of devotion, of adoration, of a love that would endure beyond the confines of time.  

She had spent the entire day tearing through the city, asking - no, begging - for someone, anyone to tell her where she could find Astarion. But no one knew. No one even seemed certain where the other so-called heroes of Baldur’s Gate were, or if they still lingered within the city walls. 

Her heart felt heavy as if it were a stone in her chest. There was no way this was a coincidence where a man that looked just like him happened to be the hero of Baldur’s Gate. Questions flooded her mind, swallowing her head whole. Where had he been this whole time? Did he simply just leave her? Why did he never reach out to her? Was he alright? 

With every unanswered question, her heart sank deeper, heavy as a tone lodged in her chest. It couldn’t be coincidence - there was no way. A man who looked exactly like him, standing among the city’s saviors, bearing the name she had whispered a thousand times in her loneliness? It had to be him. It had to be. 

By the time night had fallen, the bustling streets had emptied, lanterns flickering along the roads in a warm glow that did little to ease the cold settling within her. The city, once alive with energy, had quieted, its liveliness slipping into shadows. And she - she felt just as empty. 

She wandered without direction, cursing the gods for filling her with hope only to rip it away once more. 

A harsh breath shuddered through her, and she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until she saw stars, willing the rising grief back down her throat. She needed to stop. Needed to find a place to rest. Needed- 

“I had heard a woman was looking for me all day…but to think she was so persistent she’d still be out this late into the night.”

Her entire body went rigid. The voice came from behind her, smooth, familiar, yet laced with something…different. 

Slowly, she turned, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and lips. 

And there he was, standing before him, but it wasn’t him all the same. 

The night clung to him like an old lover, and he had dressed to match its embrace - sharp, elegant, and just dangerous enough to make it thrilling.

His coat, deep as the void between stars, fit his frame as though sculpture for him alone. The high collar framed his jawline, silver embroidery curling along the lapels and cuffs, catching in the dim glow of the lanterns. He had never cared for unnecessary fastenings, and it seemed like he still did not - the coat remained open, revealing a waistcoat of deep crimson silk, rich and smooth as spilled wine. Beneath it, his shirt was a whisper of pale linen, barely fastened at the collar, as though formality had never quite suited him. 

His sleeves were fitted, stopping just as his wrists, where rings of silver and blackened iron gleamed against his pale fingers. His trousers, dark as shadow, moved with him, fluid and effortless, allowing both grace and lethality in equal measure. They tucked neatly into polished leather boots, laced tight to his knees. 

He was still beautiful. Still striking. Still- 

Her gaze dropped to his hands.

She stopped breathing

Among the trinkets and rings, among the trophies of a life she did not know, sat a single band of silver. 

Her wedding ring. The one she had placed on his finger all those years ago. 

She swallowed hard, her voice barely more than a whisper against the night.

“Is it you?”

His ears twitched at the sound of her voice, his jaw tightening as he met her gaze, recognition flashing in his eyes. A single, sharp breath left him as he bit down hard on his lips, willing the emotions away. 

She took a step forward, hesitant but unable to stop herself. He was different now - so painfully different. His skin was pale, too pale. His eyes, once warm, were now an unnatural shade of crimson. And at his throat, the scar of two puncture wounds sat like cruel reminders of something stolen..

Yet she kept walking. Closer. Closer, until only a breath separated them, until all she had to do was lift her hand and- 

“You look different,” she murmured, her voice softer than she meant it to be. 

Astarion inhaled sharply. 

He fought the instinct to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and never let go. Fought the urge to grasp onto the one thing that had ever made him feel human. The woman who had saved him time and time again without ever knowing. 

His memories had been fragmented, buried beneath time and centuries of torment. But her - her touch, her voice, her scent, like the first breath of spring - he had never truly forgotten. Not even when everything else had slipped through his fingers like sand.

Yet now, standing before him, she looked…broken. Her clothes were tattered, her body worn with the weight of grief he knew all too well. She had searched for him. For two hundred years, she had searched. 

And what had he done?

He had let her believe he was gone.

Her hand lifted. Slowly, cautiously. He hesitated, uncertain - until, finally, he let her take it. 

The moment her fingers curled around his, she flinched.

His stomach churned.

She hadn’t expected his touch to be so cold. And gods, how that realization twisted something deep inside him.

He wanted to run. Run from his guilt, his sins, the weight of what he had become. But he had promised himself - when he finally killed his tormentor, when he freed himself - that he would stop running. 

Even if it killed him. 

“You eyes are tired,” she murmured, searching his face. “Your frame lighter. Your smile torn.”

A lump formed in his throat. 

He could hear her heartbeat, rapid and uneven, like a caged hummingbird. 

Then came the question. Soft. Fragile. 

“Is it really you, my love?

His breath hitched. His voice - gods, his voice, usually so smooth, so full of confidence - shook as he answered. 

“I am not the man you fell in love with. I am not the man you once adorned. I am not your kind and gentle husband. And I am not the love you knew before.”

He turned away from her. He couldn’t beat to see the pain in her face, the way her hope cracked like glass beneath his words. 

Shame clawed through him. Not just for the past she did not yet know, but for the time he had wasted, for never trying to find her. He had been free for months now, and not once had he tried. Perhaps, deep down, he had feared what he would find. Feared what his absence had done to her. 

A hand touched his cheek, warm against the cold.

His eyes fluttered shut. Instinctively, he leaned into her palm, the way he had so many times before. 

When he opened them again, she was smiling. Soft. Loving. 

Tears brimmed at her lashes.

“I still think you look rather enchanting,” she whispered.

A shaky scoff left him, something akin to a laugh. “As enchanting as a feline?”

She let out a broken laugh of her own, inhaling sharply. “That’s…weird. That’s something only my husband would say.”

He didn’t think. He just moved, pulling her against him, arms tightening as though she might vanish if he let go. 

She sobbed into his chest, body shaking with the force of it. He buried his face in her hair, and for the second time in centuries, he let himself cry willingly. 

She pulled back just enough to cradle his face in her hands, thumbs wiping away his silent tears. 

“I will fall in love with you over and over again,” she swore, her voice trembling. “I don’t care how, where, or when. No matter how long it’s been, you’re mine. Please…” she choked on her own breath. “Don’t tell me you’re not the same person. You’ll always be my husband. And gods, Astarion, I have been waiting for so long.”

His lips parted, but no words came. 

So he held her again. 

He had so much to tell her. So much she needed to know.

But for now, he would hold her. 

Because after waiting for two hundred years…

She had finally found him. 

[10enbris]

List of Astarion's Terms of Endearment

This is for the fanfic writers haha. Tell me if I'm missing any so can add it in!

Darling (his most used)

My love, love

My sweet

“You sweet, generous thing”, “you sweet little thing”

Lover

My dear, a dear, dear

Beautiful

Cheeky little pup

My little treat ("-with their cheeks all flushed")

Sweetie

Pet

You wicked little thing (affectionate)

"You're a sweetheart", "you sweetheart"

Delectable little pet (not directed towards Tav but it easily could be)

My friend (yay, we're his friend)

My favorite traveling companion (not a pet name but it's nice to be his favorite)

My leaking blood-bag (technically you refer to yourself as that first and he calls you his one after, but it counts)

You little scoundrel

Edit: Thank you everyone in the comments for adding the Dark Urge ones!

Bhaal-babe (I'm dead, this silly pun I swear)

My sweet, bloodthirsty friend

My precious little Bhaal-babe

My conflicted villain

My dagger-happy friend

Bonus: Ascended Yandere Astarion

My pet, pet

Little love

Precious thing

My treasure

My consort, My Dark Consort

My favorite spawn

Insolent little- (the Dev's notes say that the full line is "you insolent little brat" which, um...)

Insolent little pup (the line was in EA, although I’m not entirely sure if it’s Ascended Astarion. Full line: “you are an insolent little pup, aren’t you?”)

"You ingrate" (When you try to break up with him. It's not really a pet name, but-)

"Property I cherish, but still my property" (his thoughts)

[freneticfangirl]

x.com

[yoonkinii]

Haven’t played bg3 in a phat minute…got in today and played dress up for an hour in character creation and didn’t even play.

Might as well share what I made here at least

They have no names 😔 I was just playing dress up