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targaryenrealnessdarling · 1 month

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Between Fire and Stone

Daemon Targaryen/Strong!female

summary: anxious about her approaching union to Aemond, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen seeks comfort | word count: 2.8k~ | warnings: incest, reader is described with strong features, fingering, p in v sex, arranged marriage, Daemon being a cheeky cunt

A/N: idek what I was on to write this cos I'm not usually a Daemon girlie but here we are besties. Tysm @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for beta-ing 😘 appreciate you

The cold mist nipped at the skin around her ankles, a shiver running up her spine as she struggled through the jagged rock towards the Dragonmont. Her fingers brushed against the stark stone for balance, the other holding the lit torch to light her way before her in the darkness.

It was one of her favourite things, taking a stroll through Dragonstone in the hour of the wolf. Peaceful. Quiet. Something she could have all for herself. Away from the prying of her maidservants and the overbearing boisterous nature of her brothers. Though Jace, now a man grown, still held onto those immaturities.

Yet another thing that set her apart from her siblings.

For she, only a mere year younger than Jace, was considered a woman, ripe for marriage and bearing children, whereas the same hastiness was not pressured upon him. She knew her mother had never intended to bestow such responsibilities on her, but she understood, it was inevitable. As that time loomed ever closer, she found herself roaming her home more often, as if to savour the feeling of once being a child.

Where her brothers could seek adventure with their dragons once they were big enough to saddle, her egg had not hatched in her cradle. She would not inherit the birthright of the blood of Old Valyria, yet another judgement cast upon her that only inflated her sense of belonging at her mother's side. With her moonlit hair and pale lilac eyes, each of her children could not have looked more different.

Before the incident, there existed only one other soul who could truly fathom the depths of her solitude. No dragon. Ceaseless taunts. The notion of isolation, even amongst one’s family. Any semblance of camaraderie had been extinguished the day Lucerys took his eye. That defining moment when Aemond—her uncle—seized his birthright had marked the fracture in their familial bonds. In the aftermath, her mother, alongside her new husband Daemon, orchestrated a grand scheme to mend the shattered relations, a plan that involved her betrothal to him at an opportune moment.

Try as she might, she couldn't conjure the image of herself as his wife. The thought of residing in King's Landing under his roof refused to coalesce into a coherent vision. It remained an elusive spectre, haunting her thoughts with its intangible uncertainty.

Whispers of tradition and duty echoed in the hallowed halls of her childhood, spun by the gentle tongues of Septas who spoke of the sacred rites of marriage. Tales of Lords and Ladies, of the solemn exchange of vows, and the anticipated consummation on the wedding night. Some stories painted a picture of pleasure and intimacy, of unions founded on mutual desire and affection. Others whispered of duty, of sacrifices made for the sake of one's spouse, regardless of personal inclination.

Caught in the web of uncertainty, she pondered which version of Aemond awaited her, a tender partner or a distant lord, bound by duty and tradition. The unknown loomed before her like a shadow, casting doubt upon her heart and stirring a quiet fear within her soul. She knew not what to expect, but the uncertainty itself was enough to unsettle her, to sow the seeds of apprehension in her mind. And as the weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air, she couldn't help but wonder, which path would her marriage tread, and would she have the strength to endure whatever lay ahead?

Amidst the towering peaks of Dragonmont, she sought solace in the embrace of ancient flames and the soothing hum of Vermithor's slumber. Here, amidst the rugged terrain and the ever-watchful gaze of the dragons, she found a fleeting sense of peace.

But it was not the Bronze Fury that sang to her.

“Hen ñuhā elēnī:

Perzyssy vestretis,

Se gēlȳn irūdaks…

Ānogrose.”

She felt the rush of heat at the nape of her neck. Daemon stood straight, back facing her, his voice near-matching the hum of Vermithor’s deep exhales.

“It is late, Princess.” Unlike her, Daemon remained as he dressed during the day, shown when he turned to face her, with the self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “What troubles you?” he asked.

She tried to raise her chin, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil that stirred within.

“My fate,” she said, her careful steps drawing ever nearer. "I am to be wed to Aemond, but I fear what awaits me in that union.”

Daemon hummed, as if curiously amused.

She had known no father figure since Laenor. And though she knew sooner than her brothers the truth that lay beneath the careful picture her mother had forged, since she had been wed to Daemon, he had taken practice with his own daughters and become almost a father to her alike.

She felt his eyes sink over her once before returning to her eyes.

"Marriage is a weighty matter," he said. "But is it the marriage itself that troubles you, or something more?”

She did not miss the lilt to his voice. The one, that like his eyes had done many times before, made something squeeze in her gut. A fire burning bright. A feeling that brought her shame.

He was her mother's husband.

“I cannot say exactly,” she confessed. “Perhaps it is leaving Dragonstone. Mother and my brothers. And being alone in the capital with no face I recognise with trust.”

Daemon nodded almost indistinctly, his fingers reaching out to brush a lock of hair back over her shoulder, admiring her hair loose of its usual braids. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, a sensation both familiar and disconcerting. She fought to push aside the conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, the warmth of his touch conflicting with the knowledge of their complicated relationship.

"Leaving behind the familiar can indeed be a daunting prospect," Daemon acknowledged, his voice a velvet caress, “But fret not. Within you resides the same fire that fuels your mother's resolve. Embrace it. You are as much Targaryen as any of them.”

She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze, at the way he seemed to see straight through her defences. She knew she should be wary of his advances, of the way he danced on the edge of propriety with his words and his touch. But there was something undeniably alluring about the way he held her gaze, about the way he made her feel desired and understood.

"Thank you, Daemon," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your support means more to me than you know.”

Daemon's smile was a slow, seductive curve of his lips, his eyes alight with a fire that mirrored the flames of the Dragonmont.

"Ah, but my dear Princess," he replied, his voice low and husky, "you have yet to discover the true depths of my support.”

She felt her throat close up, the feeling mirroring somewhat what happened between her thighs.

What could he possibly mean?

“Do you fear it?” he asked. “The act of consummation?”

Her cheeks flushed crimson at Daemon's bold question, his words sending a jolt of both arousal and apprehension coursing through her veins.

“It… is perfectly normal, I would think,” she answered, words failing her.

"Princess," he murmured, his voice a soothing caress against her skin. "There is no shame in feeling uncertain. It is only natural to have doubts, especially when faced with such intimate matters.”

She felt he was circling her, as dragons did their targets. And felt her heart thumping in her chest.

“With Aegon, I dare say, I would join you in your uncertainty. But Aemond, on the other hand… is a different matter entirely.”

“How so?” she asked, breathing out when he disappeared out of her line of sight, his presence at her back, fingers draping past the material of her dress.

“I am afraid he may be less… forthcoming with expressing his desires,” he purred. “He may be cold, or at least that is how it may be interpreted.” Her eyes met his with bated breath as he appeared on her opposite side, closer. “He may not be so adept with the pleasures of a female body.”

She swallowed, a chill settling on her front, her body reacting thus. He remained silent, as if daring her to say what he knew was already on the tip of her tongue. So, she took the plunge. “And…you are?”

Daemon smirked smugly, and she knew she already had her answer., “What do you think?”

Her heart raced. Her mind struggled to contemplate whether she should be honest or not, for she had heard stories and rumours. She knew she was treading dangerous waters, playing with fire in the form of her mother's husband, but there was a part of her that couldn't resist the allure of his confidence, his charm, his undeniable magnetism.

"I... I suppose I never considered such matters," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the admission.

Daemon's eyes danced with amusement as he stepped closer. "Perhaps it is time you did," he murmured, fingers trailing lightly down the curve of her spine.

Her skin vibrated with anticipation as she fought to maintain her composure in the face of his overwhelming presence. She knew she should pull away, should put an end to this dangerous game they were playing, but the lure of Daemon's charm was too strong to resist.

“Mayhaps I could demonstrate and put your worries to rest,” he suggested, crossing the imaginary but daring line seemingly without fear. “Rest assured, my experience in such matters is... extensive."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to maintain her resolve, her body betraying her with every flutter of her lashes, every quickened breath. “But… you and Mother—”

Her lips clamped shut with the bruising of his grip in the softness of her waist, urging her back to the rocky, hard wall. Only now, when faced with the Rogue Prince, did she realise just how small she truly felt.

“Your mother is preoccupied with her own affairs," he replied, his voice dripping with a dangerous allure. "She won't concern herself with our little... indiscretion.”

The realisation sank in that she was alone with Daemon in the secluded confines of the Dragonmont, far removed from the prying eyes of the world. And yet, she still felt her lips go dry when he hung the torch and trailed his touch upon her skin where he was taking her skirts with it.

She could not hide her nerves, or the beating rush of arousal, “Bu—but… with Aemond, I must—”

The air felt warm as her skirt was rucked around her hips. She squeaked when his calloused fingers swept through her folds, ashamed to find she was affected by what he was doing to her as her slick coated them easily.

Daemon chuckled, a pleased hum in his chest that she was wet and ready, while his other hand busied with the laces of his breeches, “Sweet girl. When my dear nephew has his cock buried inside you on your wedding night, he will not know the difference.”

His words, combined with the tight circles he applied to the forbidden bud tucked between her legs, had white hot pleasure burning in her veins. Her lips were parted, but no sound came out. All she could do was look upon his pleased face with a hedonistic expression, feeling very much like they were doing something deliciously wrong but could find no reasonable excuse to cease.

“Do not look so surprised. I have seen the way you watch me. Are you not ashamed for looking upon your own mother’s husband with lust?”

The more he touched her, the more arousal he coaxed forth, the sound lewd and forbidden in the raw silence of the Draognmont. She could not answer his question without subjecting herself to further embarrassment. Even so, attempting to concentrate enough to form words as his two forefingers slid within her tight, hot walls, was near impossible. She gasped quietly, the feeling so foreign and yet not unpleasant. And like Daemon in any other scenario, while his motions were forceful, somewhat brutal, they were calculated, without effort. Like it came innately. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, his digits buried deep inside curved towards him, stoking a fire at the hearth of her.

“Answer me.”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—I am ashamed—”

It was all she managed before the feeling began to crest, building and building as if she were climbing some great height and was about to tumble off. But she only exhaled shakily as Daemon withdrew his fingers from her fluttering, sensitive walls, using the moisture to lubricate himself with a careful caress of his manhood.

He chuckled at the wounded expression on her face. “No need for shame, Princess.”

She caught the glint of his ring as he wrung the fabric of her skirts in his fist. Her eyes widened as the head of his cock disappeared easily between her swollen folds, with no real full feeling until he pushed forward, both with hesitation and a sort of evil excitement.

Her back pressed against the jagged stone, her lips only parted to suck in air where it had left her lungs. It was a feeling she could describe very little, the sting of being stretched around him painful and yet once sheathed fully inside her, hips pushing against her own. Daemon wrapped his fingers around her fleshy thigh to tug her leg over his hip, a flash of white hot pleasure creeping up her spine. He only grunted, her slick ridges gripping him greedily without any effort on her part.

For a few moments, he stayed like that as if waiting for any complaint, but when he found none, began a steady rhythm, fingers creating crescent-moon shaped welts in her skin. He did not share in her reaction. He simply raised one corner of his lips in a pleased manner, watching her face, treating it very much as a lesson in pleasure more than anything else.

She could scarcely think with the violent push of his hips, the notch of his belt stabbing into her each time.

“My nephew does not deserve this perfect. little cunt.” He grunted from the effort. “Tell me, Princess—when he is fucking you with his narrow little prick, will you be thinking of this instead?”

Her eyes slipped shut, her head tipped back and fingers coming to her own mouth to muffle the lewd sound that threatened to come out. Her perceived embarrassment at her own enjoyment of this only seemed to motivate Daemon further, and he widened her hips with a soft nudge of his knee against her leg and groaned at the way she tightened around him.

“You liked that, didn't you?” He breathed against her face, looking briefly down between them to watch how he rooted himself inside her over and over, as if unable to believe this was really happening. “I bet he won't make you this wet. I doubt the little cunt will even know how to make you come.”

Her skirt fell from his hand as it drew down between them, and she resisted the urge to squeal when he began to apply pressure in tight, sure circles around her bud.

“You shall have to teach him those pleasures.”

Her fingers gripped his forearms tight as she climaxed, her tight, hot walls spasming around him uncontrollably. It was so utterly different to the way she had pleasured herself before. This time, the forbidden combination of Daemon stretching her open around him and the pleasure he coaxed from her with his fingers meant that this peak seemed to drain her entire body of energy. Her body feeling boneless in his hold, that if he let go, she would surely lose her balance.

A flash of fear cracked like lightning across her subconscious. Surely he did not intend to spill inside her?

He did not overstimulate her for much longer as he neared his own end. Rather, he savoured the feeling of her warmth sucking him in for just a few moments more before pulling out, stroking himself vigorously to completion, warm ropes of his spend coating her lower stomach.

In the quiet dead of night with only her laboured breathing to echo within it, she felt her eyes could not keep up with her mind as she glanced back up at him. His rapidly cooling seed began to dribble towards her thighs, swiftly covered by her skirts once more as Daemon lowered her clothing back into place. The reality of the dangerous and yet delicious sin she had committed with him began to rise into clarity.

Upon his fingers shone the damning proof of his sordid claim on her, pearly in the glow of torchlight. “What a waste. I’d have liked to see it dripping from you.

But that pleasure… I shall save for my nephew, sweet girl."

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies

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chapel-of-rizztual · 5 months

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Okay okay, this is just a thought in case you'd be in the mood for it. I've been haunted by these thoughts for weeks now. I'd just love some absolutely nasty yet gentle (itsy bitsy) edging of our lovely Dew. He's a little shit. But he needs lots of love. Restricted, possibly? Could be transmasc!Dew? Maybe with Rain? Or Phantom? He'd be such a mess goddamn. Anyway thank you love you have a lovely rest of this what-the-fuck year <3

How about Rain and Phantom edging poor Dew??

~nsfw~

Dew wasn’t sure how he got into this situation. One minute he’d been sandwiched between Rain and Phantom, watching some anime they both loved. The next minute he had his hands bound together and tied to the headboard in a pretty silk lilac colour ribbon as Rain pumped two fingers into his cunt while Phantom rubbed at his clit with the tips of his fingers. They weren’t letting him cum, whenever he got close they’d both share a look and giggle, pulling away from Dew making him whine and squirm, begging for more.

Rain giggles again as he pulls his fingers out, watching as Dew’s cunt twitches as more slick drools out of him. His hips buck and lets out a whine as the feeling of his impending orgasm flutters always.

“Rain-sir- please. Please let me cum. I’ll do anything, anything you want just please let me cum. Pleeeeeeease.” Dew begs, trailing off with a cry.

Rain coos at him, petting at his wet cunt before shoving his two fingers back into him with a wet squelch sound.

“But we’re having so much fun playing with you like this.” He thrust his fingers in and out, crooking them just right, making Do arch of the bed with a high pitched moan. “Isn’t that right, Phant?”

Phantom hums from where he’s sat at Dew’s hip, his fingers circling around his clit once again. “You’re so fun to play with, Dew. Look at you, so needy and desperate for anything we give you.”

Dew whines again, his hips jumping as Rain hits that spot inside him that has his whole body feel weak and stars dancing behind his eyes.

Phantom giggles at him, using one hand to rub over his hip bone as he continues to circle over his clit.

“Look at how hard his little dick is. You’re loving this, aren’t you baby? Love having your little dick and cunt played with.” Phantom pulls the hood all the back and flicks directly on the top of Dew’s clit.

Dew lets out a pained cry, how whole body bowing off the bed, his legs shake as he desperately tries to close them around both of their hands. Rain tuts at him and forces his legs back open. “Don’t ruin the fun, baby. We know you love this.”

Dew clenches around Rain’s fingers, feeling himself gush more slick around the digits.

“I’m gunna- I’m so- please let me.” Dew begs, feeling tears leak from his eyes. “I need- please. I’ve been good, please let me cum.”

Rain kisses his knee and speeds up his fingers. “We know you’ve been good, baby. That’s why we’re going this. This is your reward, you get us playing with you for as long as we want.”

Dew clenched impossibly tight around Rains fingers as Phantom fingers brush over his clit so fast they’re a blur.

“Oh, oh. Shit, sir, please.” Dew hiccups a sob, his hips bucking. “Daddy, please let me cum. I can’t- I’m- oh.”

Dew feels his orgasm build in his belly, getting tighter and tighter with each relentless jab of Rains fingers. His belly tightens even more and he clenches even more around Rains fingers feeling it build higher and higher in his belly, until it’s just at the peak, he just needs one last little push and he’ll be over the edge and-

“No! No, no no, please! Don’t stop, let me cum please.” Dew begs as he thrashes against the bed, pulling hard on the restraints around his wrists as both ghouls pull away from him again, The feeling of his orgasm disappearing once again makes him sob, the desperate need for release is almost too much for him to handle now and he seriously debates of he’ll be able to cum untouched. “I’ll be good, I promise. Daddy please let me cum, I need it so bad.”

Phantom coos at him and places a kiss to his hip. He begins to rub at Dew’s clits once again, feeling it twitch and jump under his fingers.

“You’re such a good boy. So good for daddy, aren’t you? Taking everything we give you so well, baby.”

Rain sinks how fingers back into him with ease, petting at Dew from the inside. “You’re so wet, there’s a little puddle of slick forming under you.”

Dew moans, tossing his head from side to side. “I just wanna cum. Please let me, sir. Please, I’ll do anything.”

“Oh don’t worry, baby. You’ll get to cum soon enough, just let me and Phantom have our fun with you, we love seeing you like this, so needy and desperate for us.”

Dew’s stomach flutters as he lets out a sob as more tears fall from his eyes and roll down his cheeks. “I can’t- I can’t do it. I need it so bad.”

Phantom lands a slap to his clit making Do scream and his whole body convulse and spasm as the shock of it ricochets through him. “You can. And you will. You’re a good boy remember?”

Dew makes a sounds that’s somewhere in the middle of a scream and a moan, his hips jumping as Rain continues to relentlessly pump his fingers into him. “Only a few more, baby. And then you’ll get to cum. Think of how good it’ll feel to finally be able to cum.”

“Yeah, yeah. So good. It’ll be so good.” Dew pants, pulling at the restraints again.

Phantom turns to face Rain fully, a slight look of confusion on his face. “We’re not really going to stop anytime soon, right?” He whispers to him.

“Of course not.” Rain smirks at him. “We’re not stopping until he can’t form a coherent sentence.”

#the band ghost #ficlet #dewdrop ghoul #rain ghoul #phantom ghoul #nameless ghouls #my writing

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mononijikayu · 6 hours

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family line.

Sukuna’s betrayal of the Ryomen—and by extension, the descendants of Hiromi—had left a deep, festering wound that never truly healed. The eradication of Ryomen Sukuna was not just a mission; it was a sacred vow that bound the family, a duty that had been passed down through a millennium. People had died for it, people had lived for it. Every generation felt the echo of this vow, this duty a resonant call to action that Itadori Yuuji’s existence as Sukuna’s vessel now urgently beckoned. The family line exists for that very purpose, after all.

GENRE: pre - hidden inventory arc to shibuya arc (1990s to 2010s);

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

LISTEN: family line by conan gray

NOTE: genmei and hiromi both having family issues is so insane. i keep wondering when i write about them, how do they survive? in any case, i think we'd have something we can drink about, if they're real!!! anyway, please enjoy this new chapter!!! :]

masterlist

u s and t h e m

GENMEI WOKE UP BEFORE THE CLAN BELLS COULD RING. A small yawn escaped Genmei's lips, tinged with the faintest trace of annoyance. As her lilac eyes narrowed against the thin slit of the window, the intrusive morning light already spilled into her chamber, disrupting what little rest she had managed to capture. Her body, always prompt in waking, continued to betray her desire for sleep—a constant irritant that had plagued her long before the nightmares of her past had begun to haunt her nights.

Even in her earlier years, sleep had been a fleeting companion. Often, the murmurs of voices in her head would parade through her thoughts relentlessly, echoes of past conversations, or the menacing whispers of the Zenin clan, reminding her of darker times. There were nights when the fear of being thrown back into the pit by one of her own—a punishment all too familiar during her time at the Zenin estate—kept her alert, her senses wired in anticipation of danger.

Sleep had never been her friend. This shared struggle with insomnia was one of the subtle threads that connected her with Satoru. They both bore the scars of their burdens, their responsibilities, and their pasts—factors that mingled and mingled well into the realm of their private sufferings. Yet, despite this kinship in sleeplessness, Genmei often wondered if she would ever experience the simple solace of a good night's rest. But as she slowly rose from her futon, skepticism clouded her thoughts; she highly doubted such peace would ever be hers.

The Mikoto family ethos, deeply ingrained in her since childhood, demanded punctuality and discipline in all aspects of life. If one was deprived of rest, then one would simply have to find time later to recover. Duty came first, always. This principle had steered her through countless difficult days, propelling her out of bed even when her body cried for just a few more moments of reprieve.

Today was no different. There was much to be done—duties that required her attention, decisions that needed her clear-headedness, and younger sorcerers who looked to her for guidance. Letting out another sigh, a soft resignation to the start of yet another long day, Genmei prepared herself mentally for the tasks ahead.

She moved through her morning rituals with practiced ease, each step a reaffirmation of her commitment to her roles, both as a leader within the Jujutsu community and as a mentor. Yet, as she tied her hair back, preparing to face the world, a part of her mind still clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, tonight might be different. Perhaps the night would be kinder, the voices quieter, and sleep would not be such a fleeting stranger. Duty does come first. A Mikoto must not abandon duty.

"Are you awake already, Genmei-sama?" A reverberating voice questioned against the wooden doors in a soft manner. Genmei wonders how Akihiko was able to get rest at all. He always wakes up too early. "Genmei-sama?"

"I'm awake." Genmei responds groggily, blankly staring at the wooden doors. "You can enter."

As the shoji door slid aside with a soft whisper, the space between servant and master diminished, bridging their respective worlds with practiced grace. Mikoto Akihiko stood in the threshold, his presence subtly commanding yet deferential. His attire, an elegant ensemble of white and red robes accented by a dark scarlet haori, spoke of his high rank within the household. His hair, meticulously groomed and gathered into a ponytail with a simple hair string, added to his dignified appearance. As his eyes met Genmei's, he offered her a respectful bow, his head dipping towards the gleaming mahogany floors that reflected the morning light filtering through the rice paper windows.

Hiromi, observing from the side, pursed her lips in a quiet contemplation of the scene unfolding before her. She noted the ease with which Akihiko carried himself, a testament to his years of service and understanding of the household's dynamics. As he straightened, meeting Genmei’s gaze with a serene confidence, Hiromi nodded slightly, a silent acknowledgment of his flawless conduct.

Akihiko then carefully slid a tray across the tatami floor towards Genmei. On the tray was a bowl of cold water, its surface gently perfumed with floating flowers, and beside it lay a washcloth made from the finest silk. The simplicity of the offering belied the thoughtfulness behind its preparation—each element chosen to provide a subtle refreshment and start the day with a sense of serenity.

With a graceful gesture, Genmei raised her hand slightly, silently bidding Akihiko to enter. He moved with quiet efficiency, stepping into the room to place the tray within easy reach of Genmei. His movements were fluid and precise, each step and action measured and full of purpose.

As he settled the tray beside her, Genmei allowed herself a small moment to appreciate the meticulous care with which Akihiko attended to his duties. It was not just in the grand gestures or significant events that his loyalty and value were manifested, but in these small, everyday attentions that he continually proved his dedication to her well-being.

"Good morning, Genmei-sama." Akihiko greeted, slowly entering with the tray in hand. "I was told to bid you awake for the day."

"Everyone's about to wake then?"

Akihiko nodded. "Yes, Genmei-sama. The morning prayers at the shrine would come first, and then breakfast."

"Hm," Genmei says as she starts to wash her hands, her face, her neck and arms with the water. Soon, she takes the wash cloth and starts drying herself. "I wouldn't have expected everyone to be so vigorous."

"How so, Genmei-sama?"

"I kept everyone up for days straight, the elders especially." Hiromi responds, putting away the wash cloth. "I would have thought the elders would finally take the time to sleep."

"Duty does not stop, Genmei-sama. I doubt the elders would want to also miss the opportunity in doing their part."

Genmei laughs as Akihiko slowly reaches for the tray. "I suppose not. They may have lost their voice trying to make their point towards their disagreements. But they're still servants of the clan one way or another."

The council session had been grueling and exceedingly long, but Genmei couldn’t help but find humor in the enduring nature of such discussions, especially given the gravity of the topic at hand.

The matter concerned Itadori Yuuji, the unfortunate boy who now served as the vessel for Ryomen Sukuna, a curse whose name was written in the darkest annals of their clan's history. Given the weight of the issue, it was no surprise that the session had dragged on for hours and hours — to no end.

In the Ryomen clan, discussions held by the elders were typically open to all members, a tradition that had been maintained since the clan's inception. This openness was meant to foster transparency and collective decision-making. However, when it came to matters involving Sukuna, the protocols shifted dramatically.

These discussions were strictly confidential, held behind closed doors, a testament to the sensitive and perilous nature of the subject. No information was allowed to leak, a precaution to prevent any manipulation or interference from external forces.

People had died for it, people had lived for it. Every generation felt the echo of this vow, this duty a resonant call to action that Itadori Yuuji’s existence as Sukuna’s vessel now urgently beckoned. The family line exists for that very purpose, after all.

During the session, the division among the clan’s elders was palpable. Half of the prominent members were staunchly against overriding the order of execution. This faction saw no alternative but to eliminate the threat Itadori represented, unwilling to risk the potential resurgence of Sukuna’s full powers.

Their refusal to support Satoru, who had shown a rare leniency towards Itadori, underscored the deep-seated fears and traditionalist views still prevalent among the clan's leadership.

Genmei, ever the strategist, had spent long exhaustive days navigating through the sea of concerns, countering objections with well-reasoned arguments and logical deductions. Her efforts were bolstered by the support of other, more progressive elders and crucially by her aunt Arisu’s authority as the clan leader. Together, they had managed to forge a compromise, albeit a tenuous one, that temporarily aligned the clan’s diverse viewpoints.

Yet, Genmei was no stranger to the undercurrents of clan politics. She was acutely aware that her opposition might be harboring resentments or plotting quietly behind her back. The complexity of clan dynamics, coupled with the stakes involved in dealing with a matter as volatile as Sukuna, meant that alliances were fragile and could shift with little warning.

As she stepped out of the council chamber, the weight of the responsibility felt heavier than ever. Despite the temporary resolution, she knew that the issue was far from settled. The discussions might have ended, but the real work of ensuring the clan’s safety and navigating the precarious situation with Itadori Yuuji was just beginning.

With a slight shake of her head, Genmei allowed herself a brief moment of levity amidst the tension. ‘If politics within the clan were as straightforward as fighting curses, perhaps we’d have less need for such long discussions’, she mused wryly. ‘We’d get all of this done sooner. Less headaches.’

"Has the letter been sent to the office of Gakuganji? About the support to suspend the execution order indefinitely?"

"From what I heard, the decision had been sent to everyone." Akihiko says, taking a small sigh. "But I would not be surprised if he and Zenin are a thorn in your side. They would contest this. Much more so, Gojo dominance."

"The clan leader would most of all scoff at the thought, mayhaps even my foolish uncle." Genmei snickers, her tone nonchalant. "I would not be surprised if I am summoned to Zenin manor today."

Akihiko frowned at her. "It would not be good upon you if you come and see Naobito-sama at all conditions, Genmei-sama."

Genmei’s gaze lingered on Akihiko, noting the unmistakable concern etched across his features. Akihiko had been a steadfast presence in her life, joining her mother’s household many years ago when she had left her maiden home to marry into the formidable Zenin clan.

His loyalty had been unwavering, his service impeccable, and over the years, he had become much more than a mere attendant; he was a confidant, a silent witness to the trials she had endured.

The Zenin clan, known for its ruthless vanity, was a place where familial bonds were often overshadowed by the relentless pursuit of strength. Within the clan's walls, your value was measured strictly by your power, and weaknesses were exploited, not shielded.

Gojo Genmei knew this all too well, having navigated the treacherous waters of Zenin politics. Despite her formidable abilities, she had often found herself appalled by the brutality her family members could exact, even on one of their own.

As a subtle chill traced her spine, Genmei unconsciously clutched her wrists, the memory of past cruelties momentarily resurfacing. Akihiko, ever observant, noticed the small, telling gesture and his frown deepened. He knew much of her pain, having been there through many of her darkest moments, yet he maintained a respectful silence on such matters.

Despite the complications, Genmei understood the necessity of maintaining connections with the Zenin, however fraught they might be. Her lineage was an integral part of her identity, one that she could not simply cast aside, even with the relative freedom her marriage to a Gojo provided. Akihiko, while concerned for her well-being amidst such a toxic environment, also understood this duty, though it never stopped him from worrying.

To speak of them would not only breach his position but could also jeopardize Genmei’s standing within both her natal and marital families. His discretion was as much a shield as it was a sign of his respect for her.

The weight of her responsibilities weighed heavily on Genmei's shoulders as she pondered her next steps. Her expression revealed a mix of determination and slight exasperation, a reflection of the myriad duties pulling her in multiple directions.

She knew all too well the delicate balancing act required between her roles as a clan leader, a sorcerer, and a wife. Each role demanded her attention, yet there were only so many hours in the day, and Genmei felt the strain acutely.

"It's the only way," she reiterated, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she let out a weary sigh. "It would not last long, I should say. I had delayed being home already." Genmei’s voice carried frustration. "I'd rather not seek more headaches in Tokyo. Besides, my husband's quite upset that he didn't get to spend some time with me. Soon enough he'll be busy. Best to settle it now."

"That should be all for now," Genmei said, cutting off any further discussion with a polite yet firm tone. She offered him a soft smile and a nod, signaling that she appreciated his concern but had already made up her mind.

Her attendant, a seasoned elder who had served her faithfully for years, listened with a somber expression.

"Genmei-sama....." he began, perhaps hoping to offer some word of caution or to suggest an alternative, but he was promptly interrupted. “Perhaps—”

The decisions were hers to make, and while she valued the counsel of her trusted servants and advisors, ultimately, the path she chose was one she had to walk herself.

"Now call for the female servants to come and bring me my clothing. I’d like to have something comfortable now," she instructed, her voice gentle yet imbued with an authority that brooked no argument. "Thank you, Akihiko."

The elder gentleman paused for a moment, his face reflecting his deep respect and understanding of his lady's wishes. With a resigned sigh, he bowed his head deeply. "As you say, Genmei-sama," he replied, his voice a mixture of deference and a touch of concern.

As he turned to carry out her orders, Genmei's mind raced ahead to the tasks that awaited her. She needed to return to her family’s estate, to manage the brewing issues within the Zenin clan, and to support her husband in whatever small ways she could from afar. Each responsibility was critical, each demanded her best effort, and Genmei was not one to shirk her duties, no matter how heavy the burden.

Left alone for a moment, she allowed herself a brief pause, a few seconds of quiet respite before she would change into her comfortable clothing and prepare for the journey ahead. In these fleeting moments of solitude, Genmei gathered her strength, fortified her resolve, and readied herself to face the myriad challenges that awaited her.

When he left the room, Genmei could only sigh and look at the window slit.

Genmei slowly stood from her position and started to look out into space.

It was then and only then that the clan bells rang with a loud vigorous echo.

The Mikoto Clan was now awake to the sound of bells in the morning light.

GENMEI THINKS THAT SHE'S TOO SENTIMENTAL THESE DAYS. As Genmei stood alone, her thoughts meandered through the corridors of her past, each memory shaded by the hues of longing. She had come to understand that with each passing year, the weight of grief did not lessen but settled deeper into her bones, a constant reminder of those she had lost along the way. Each loss carved a hollow in her heart, a space that no amount of time could ever fully heal.

She knew that death was as natural as breathing, an inevitable conclusion to the lives of those she cared for. Yet, knowing this did not ease the burden of grief. If anything, it was a stark reminder of the relentless march of time and the finite nature of existence. Over three decades of her life, Genmei had stood by too many gravesites, had murmured too many final goodbyes. The faces of those she longed for often visited her in the quiet moments, their smiles as vivid in her mind as if they were still beside her.

There were indeed times, too many to count, when Genmei yearned to meet her lost loved ones again. To hear their voices, to share just one more moment together. Yet, she recognized that such desires were beyond her control. The tapestry of fate was woven by forces greater than herself, by the gods and the immutable laws of the universe. She could no more alter these threads than she could stop the sun from setting.

And while she might wish to join those she had lost, to find solace in their ethereal presence, Genmei knew that her place was still among the living. There were people who depended on her, who needed her strength and guidance. Her duties anchored her to this world. To abandon those responsibilities for her own grief would not only be unfair but a betrayal of the trust placed in her.

Genmei accepted her grief as a companion, one that reminded her of her humanity, of the deep connections that had enriched her life, even if those connections eventually led to pain. She allowed herself to feel the sadness, to embrace it fully, for she knew that it was through experiencing this pain that she honored the memory of those she loved.

As the chill of the morning dew caressed her skin, Genmei kneeled solemnly in front of the ancestral shrine, a sacred space where time seemed to fold in upon itself, linking past and present in an eternal embrace. Each bow she performed was a gesture of deep respect, her movements deliberate and full of reverence. As she rose and entered the hall, her flowing robes caught the gentle morning breeze, trailing behind her like whispers of the past.

This hall, with its rows of colorful columns and ornate marble niches, was where Genmei felt most vulnerable—stripped of her worldly titles and roles, laid bare as merely one in a long line of ancestors. Here, under the watchful gaze of those who had come before, she felt the weight of her heritage most acutely. The lilac eyes scanned the figures that lined the hall, each ancestor's ashes resting within their marble confines, their features forever immortalized in stone.

The faces carved into the marble seemed familiar to Genmei, as if she had seen them not just in the flesh but in dreams that bridged the gap between life and death. Walking slowly along the hall, she whispered each name with a soft reverence, a ritual of remembrance. To know one's ancestry was to hold a map of one’s soul’s journey; it was the Mikoto way—a deep-seated belief that understanding where one came from provided the guidance needed to navigate life and, eventually, find one’s way in the afterlife.

Unlike the Zenin, who often eschewed such traditions in favor of strength and power, the Mikoto cherished these rites of heritage and memory. The Zenin might believe strength was the sole measure of worth, but to Genmei and the Mikoto, these moments of quiet communion with the past were a source of inner identity. They believed that the blessings and wisdom of ancestors fortified them, offering not just guidance but also a reminder of the responsibilities they carried as their living descendants.

Genmei paused before a particularly intricate carving, the face of a long-departed matriarch whose stories were legend within the family. Ryomen Hiromi stridently glared back at her in stony tenderness. She placed her hands together, bowed her head, and took a moment to praise her, to thank her, to worship her, to ask for guidance. Every Mikoto needs to. If there was no Ryomen Hiromi, none of them would exist.

As she continued her solemn procession through the hall, each step was a reaffirmation of her commitment to uphold these traditions, to honor the legacy of her ancestors, and to carry forward their teachings not just in memory but in action. In this sacred space, surrounded by the watchful eyes of her ancestors, Genmei renewed her vow to lead with integrity to her duty.

In the subdued light of the ancestral shrine, the air hung heavy with the scent of incense and the quiet whispers of the past. Genmei's steps were measured and reverent as she approached a particularly modest memorial, distinctly less ornate than the others that lined the sacred hall. This was her father's resting place, a reflection of the man he had been in life—unassuming, grounded, and wise in his simplicity.

"Father, your loving daughter comes to pay respect to you," Genmei whispered softly, her voice barely audible above the gentle flicker of the candles that cast a warm, dancing light on the stone surface. She knelt gracefully before the memorial, her movements fluid yet full of the profound respect she held for the man who had shaped so much of her life. Her bow was swift, deep. Only for her father. “I came to see you, and nii-sama.”

"How have you both been, father?" she murmured, settling back on her heels as she gazed at the inscription bearing his name. Though she spoke to the silence, the question was laden with genuine curiosity and the hope that, wherever he might be, he was at peace.

Genmei paused, allowing the silence to envelop her, half-expecting a whisper of wind or some subtle sign that would serve as her father's reply. In these moments, she felt closer to him than ever, bridging the gap between the physical and spiritual with the strength of her memories and the sincerity of her words.

The shrine around her felt alive with the echoes of her ancestors, but it was her father's teachings that resonated most profoundly in her heart. He had taught her the value of humility, the importance of staying true to one’s principles and the strength that lay in simplicity. These lessons had become the cornerstones of her own philosophy, guiding her actions and decisions throughout her life.

“I haven’t seen both of you and nii-sama in a long time, I’m sorry.” The lilac eyed woman whispered. “I hope you are both reassured that I am well. Satoru takes care of me, he takes good care of Megumi too, nii–sama. Don’t worry about him.”

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, feeling the weight of her responsibilities momentarily lift as she imagined her father's hand on her shoulder, steady and reassuring. It was a moment of solace, a brief respite in which she could lay down her burdens and just be a daughter again. It had been nearly twenty years since her father had died and still, she longs for him. She longs to have a father again.

As Genmei stood before her father Naoki's statue in the shrine, she couldn't help but feel a surge of pride and a profound sense of loss. The statue captured more than just his likeness; it seemed to embody his essence. Even carved in cold stone, Naoki’s eyes radiated a warmth and tenderness that was rare among the Zenin clan, known for their ruthless and often cold demeanor. His smile, gentle and inviting, seemed almost out of place in the hall filled with stern, imposing figures of his ancestors.

Naoki had always been an anomaly within the Zenin family. His kindness and empathy set him apart in a lineage celebrated for its stoicism and strength. Growing up, Genmei remembered how the servants and lower-ranking members of the Zenin manor would often speak of her father with a fondness and reverence that was seldom afforded to other members of the clan. They were relieved that Naoki, unlike many of his relatives, carried his power with grace and used his influence to shield rather than to demand.

This difference in character, Genmei knew, was largely attributed to Naoki's mother, who had been known for her compassionate nature. It was often said that Naoki was more his mother’s son, which, while a badge of honor in any other context, was seen as a weakness by the more traditional and harsher members of the Zenin family. Perhaps it was this gentleness that had fueled the animosity between Naoki and his father, Naobito.

Genmei reflected on the tragic narrative that had clouded clan leader Naobito's life. His heart, once perhaps capable of warmth, had turned to stone after the death of his beloved wife during childbirth. The loss had been too great, and instead of seeking solace in his son, Naobito saw only the cause of his greatest pain. His grief had manifested in bitterness and an increasing dependence on alcohol, which only further estranged him from his son.

Naoki, for his part, carried the heavy burden of misplaced guilt throughout his life. He believed, as his father had so cruelly insinuated, that his birth had been the cause of his mother's death. Yet, despite this, Naoki never harbored resentment toward Naobito. He understood his father’s grief, even if he fell victim to its sharper edges.

Standing there, Genmei felt a deep connection to her father's enduring empathy and strength. Naoki had managed to transform his pain into compassion, reaching out to those around him with kindness rather than succumbing to bitterness. It was a legacy of love over resentment, of understanding over judgment.

Genmei touched the cold stone of her father's statue, tracing the lines of that all-too-familiar smile. She whispered softly, "You taught me the strength of kindness, Father. In a world that prizes power, you showed me the power of heart. I hope to carry that forward, as you did, and make you proud."

“You speak so highly of a man who’s long dead.” Naobito had said, his voice carrying a dismissive edge that immediately set Genmei on edge. “How interesting, little girl.”

The air in the shrine thickened with tension as Genmei faced the Zenin clan leader, Naobito, his presence an unwanted shadow on what had been a moment of private reflection. For a moment, Genmei’s eyes turned bright purple. Naobito snickers. It was obvious. He could see that she was upset to know he was there. The aura around him, as always, was charged with the abrasive charm that had marked his leadership—effective, yet isolating. She hated it.

“What are you doing here?” she asked quickly, more sharply than she had intended. Her lilac eyes, usually a soft echo of tranquility, hardened into icy shards as she faced the intruder. The sight of him, dressed in the dull colors of autumn, his haori reminiscent of dead leaves, was distinctly unwelcome.

“You are not welcomed here,” she stated flatly, her lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure.

Naobito’s response was a snicker, dismissive and irritatingly calm as he began to close the distance between them. “Am I not welcome to visit my own son’s grave? Of my kin?”

“You hate your family, I doubt you’d be welcomed here for loving them enough.” Genmei shot back, matching his nonchalance with her own icy detachment. Her eyes narrowed slightly, a clear indicator of her disdain. “I thought you would rather I go to pay my respects to you in Zenin manor myself.”

“It would be too much to deal with Naoya and his temper,” Naobito retorted, referencing another member of their troubled clan. “Too much trouble for me to handle, little girl.”

Genmei couldn't help but snicker at the mention of Naoya, her disdain for the man barely concealed. “And I would have killed him,” she said flatly, her tone half-joking yet edged with seriousness. “That you know, clan leader.”

“Are you a kinslayer?” Naobito’s question was pointed, intrigued. “You seem so true to your word, little girl. Tsk, to desire to kill your uncle.”

“I am a Zenin, after all,” Genmei replied, her voice laced with bitter irony. This response was layered, acknowledging the ruthless reputation of their clan while also critiquing its brutal legacy.

Gojo Genmei's thoughts lingered on the clan leader as she processed their recent confrontation and the complex dynamics of their relationship. Naobito's visits, rare as they were, invariably left a bitter taste. Over the years since she had decisively stepped away from the core activities of the Zenin clan to forge her own path with the Gojo and the Mikoto, Naobito's sporadic appearances had been laden with contention and thinly veiled disapproval.

Each visit seemed to underscore a broader struggle between the old guard represented by Naobito and the progressive forces within the jujutsu society championed by Satoru and herself. His challenges weren't just personal; they symbolized the tension between tradition and innovation—a clash of ideologies where Naobito often appeared as an unyielding bastion of the past.

And yet, his behavior was unpredictable. Sometimes, he was overtly antagonistic, pushing against the changes Gojo Satoru advocated with a stubbornness that bordered on cruelty. Other times, he was merely a silent, brooding presence, an enigma that left more questions than answers. There were moments when his laughter rang out, harsh and mocking, as if he found some dark amusement in the shifts occurring within their world or perhaps in Genmei's defiance of Zenin expectations.

Despite these challenging interactions, there was a part of Gojo Genmei that acknowledged the complex role the clan leader played in maintaining a certain level of peace—or at least a balance of power—within their clan's politics. His distance, while often a source of personal pain, ironically kept the family discord from escalating further. It was an uneasy peace, fragile and fraught with undercurrents of unresolved conflicts, but it was stability of a sort nonetheless. Genmei sighed deeply, crossing her arms as she reflected on this paradox.

Naobito's words hung in the air, thick with emotion and a complexity that Genmei found both unexpected and suspect. His expression softened slightly, an uncommon vulnerability that seemed out of place on the hardened features of the Zenin clan leader. Yet, Genmei remained wary, her experience with the clan leader teaching her to tread carefully around his often ambiguous intentions.

"I have to ask again, clan leader, what are you doing here?" Genmei whispered, her voice low and steady as she held his gaze. "If there was business, you ought not to desecrate my father's grave."

Naobito sighed deeply, his arms crossed defensively, a gesture that seemed to shield him as much as it signified his own internal conflict. "A father also longs for his son, too. I would not desecrate my son's grave by hurting his only child," he responded, his voice carrying a trace of sincerity that was rare and disarming.

Genmei's initial reaction was skepticism, her mind racing as she assessed his statement. Her features softened involuntarily, reflecting a momentary lapse in her guarded demeanor as she contemplated his words. The thought, 'How much of a liar are you?' echoed in her mind, a silent question that stemmed from years of navigating the tumultuous and often deceptive waters of clan politics.

Yet, despite her doubts, there was a part of Genmei that wanted to believe there was truth in his words—that perhaps, in this moment, Naobito was reaching out not as the stoic and manipulative clan leader, but as a grieving father longing for connection with his late son through her, the granddaughter he so rarely acknowledged in any affectionate capacity.

"I want to believe you, clan leader," Genmei finally said, her voice a blend of cautious hope and lingering suspicion. "But you must understand why that's difficult for me. Your visits are seldom without motive. Can you blame me for questioning your reasons now?"

“I can’t.” the clan leader whispered at his grand-daughter, his fingers tracing against his whiskers. “I visited my son. And now my grand-daughter.”

She snorted. “To express concerns of my husband’s actions, ones which offend your clan.”

He laughs harshly. “You speak as though you were never a Zenin, girl.”

“I have always been more than that, clan leader.”

Naobito’s laughter dwindled into a wry smile, the harshness fading as he acknowledged the iron in Genmei’s voice. It was clear that while she bore the name and blood of the Zenin, she did not confine herself within the boundaries of their legacy—a point of both pride and contention for the old man.

“You have indeed,” Naobito conceded, his tone softening. “You’ve forged your path, integrating the Gojo and Mikoto influences into your being. It’s an amalgamation that some in the Zenin find... difficult to accept.”

Genmei’s expression hardened slightly, a clear indication that she was fully aware of the traditionalists' disdain within her clan. “And yet, it is this very amalgamation that has allowed me to see beyond the narrow confines of what our clan believes strength to be."

“You ought to be proud that I continue his work.”

Naobito nodded slowly, the trace of a smile lingering as if he appreciated her resolve, even if it ran counter to his own values. “Yes, your father would be proud,” he admitted, his voice carrying a note of genuine respect that surprised Genmei. “He too believed in the evolution of our ways, even if he could not enact it himself.”

Naobito's snicker, dismissive and tinged with a hint of the patronizing attitude that often characterized the older generations of the Zenin clan, was a stark reminder of the deep-seated beliefs that still governed many within their ranks. His perspective, focused inward on the power and preservation of the clan rather than the broader implications of their actions, was reflective of a mindset that Genmei had long found constraining and, at times, dangerously shortsighted.

"Not all should be about the wider world, silly girl," he said, his voice carrying a blend of amusement and rebuke.

"It is precisely because we are part of a larger world that we must consider the broader impact of our actions," she responded calmly, her voice steady and clear. "The isolationist views of the Zenin may have served us in past conflicts, but the world is changing. New threats and opportunities demand that we adapt."

“Traditions must also be kept in a changing world, should it not?”

She paused, her gaze steady on her grandfather, challenging him to consider the bigger picture. "Not if we wish for such tradition to continue. If we remain inward-looking, focused only on our own power and survival, we risk becoming obsolete—worse, we risk becoming oppressors or tyrants blind to the real needs of those we might otherwise lead or protect."

Naobito frowned, the lines on his face deepening as he considered her words. For a moment, the dismissive facade seemed to crack, revealing a flicker of the strategic thinker he had once been, a leader who had navigated the clan through turbulent times with a firm hand.

"You think the old ways are no longer sufficient?" he asked, his tone less combative and more reflective.

"I believe there is wisdom in many of our traditions," Genmei conceded, her approach diplomatic yet firm. "But wisdom also lies in recognizing when change is necessary. Satoru’s initiatives, while challenging, are not about discarding our tradition. It is stupid to think that way, clan leader.”

His eyes, which had wandered in contemplation, now met Genmei's with a clarity that conveyed both the depth of his entrenched beliefs and his acknowledgment of her steadfastness. “I see you and I will be just like your father. Never to agree.”

“Perhaps that is a curse to you, as it must be a blessing to me.” She paused, allowing the words to resonate within the sacred space, surrounded by the memories of those who had come before. “Disagreement does not have to lead to disconnection. It is only you who sees it that way.”

Naobito considered her words. He nodded slowly, an acknowledgment of her wisdom. “You have your father’s way with words and ideals,” he conceded, his voice softer than before. “And perhaps, if you had married your uncle, there would have been such charges to change for our clan. A level headed heir is better than a foolish one. A mad dog, even.”

Genmei laughs. “Perhaps not, clan leader. I would rather not wed a man who would have deprived me of my liberties.”

“You would have killed him first before he ever did anything.”

“Perhaps.” Genmei nodded at him. “But it shouldn't ever happen now. I have married a good man.”

“I’d like to learn how good he truly is, if he wasn’t such a—”

“I’d like to remind you that I would never tolerate such words said about Satoru like that.” She glares at the old man. “He has cared for me well. More than Naoya would have ever done.”

He did not say anything.

He knew Genmei to be right.

Naoya would have killed her.

And it would be shrugged off.

Jinichi killed his own wife too.

Naoya would find a way too.

As Naobito neared the threshold of the shrine, poised to leave, he paused, turning back to Genmei with a look that signaled unfinished business. “Before I go,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of authority he was accustomed to wielding, “What of the vessel of Sukuna? The elders council is in disarray over it. Surely, you must have an opinion.”

Genmei turned slowly to face him once more, her stance firm and resolute. “The council’s disarray does not concern me as much as the consensus of those who understand the broader implications,” she responded calmly, her gaze steady. “And as for the vessel, my position is clear and supported by Mikoto. We seek a path that is not bound by past fears alone.”

Naobito’s eyes narrowed, the mention of Mikoto bringing a flicker of annoyance—or perhaps apprehension—to his features. “Your vote, or Mikoto's stance, does not align with tradition. The Zenin have always—”

“My vote,” Genmei interjected firmly, “And the vote of the Mikoto no longer requires your validation, clan leader. The council respects our perspective for a reason. Times are changing, and so must our strategies. Sukuna is a threat, yes, but how we handle this vessel, Itadori Yuuji, could redefine our future."

The old man’s jaw set tightly, a clear sign of his frustration with her words. It was difficult for someone of his generation and convictions to accept such shifts in policy, especially from a younger family member, albeit one as formidable as Genmei.

“You tread dangerous waters, silly girl,” Naobito warned, his tone darkening. “To think that handling Sukuna’s vessel with anything less than absolute lethal intent could be anything but catastrophic is naive.”

Naobito scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “And what of the danger he poses? What if Sukuna gains control?”

“Perhaps.” Genmei conceded, her voice still calm, “But the Mikoto believes in looking at bigger picture. Itadori Yuuji is not just a vessel; he is a potential asset. And moreover, he’s a child. We must be cautious, yes, but we must also be wise. We cannot afford to act in haste based on old fears.”

“That is a risk,” Genmei admitted, “But one that comes with potential gains. We monitor, we prepare, and we act swiftly if needed. But to eliminate a potential ally out of fear is to act no better than the curses we seek to eradicate. The Mikoto will not endorse such a path.”

There was a long pause as Naobito considered her words, his expression unreadable. Finally, he let out a long breath, as if releasing some of the weight of the argument. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “I see that your mind's made up, and your influence on the council is not insignificant. But be cautious, silly girl. Not all are pleased with this... progressive stance.”

“I am always cautious, you know this best.” Genmei replied, her tone unwavering. “Thank you for your concern, clan leader.”

With a stiff nod, Naobito turned and left the shrine, his steps echoing slightly in the quiet morning air. Genmei watched him go, feeling the weight of the confrontation slowly lift from her shoulders.

Gojo Genmei sighed deeply.

She wished that duty would end.

At least for today, it has to end.

She needs to get some more sleep.

IT WAS A RELIEF TO FINALLY RETURN TO TOKYO. As Genmei sat by the window of the gently rocking train, her gaze occasionally drifted out to the blur of passing landscapes, but her mind was anchored firmly in the present — burdened by the weighty discussions with Zenin Naobito and the decisions that lay ahead. The rhythmic clack of the train on the tracks seemed to echo her repetitive thoughts, cycling through the implications of each word exchanged, each potential shift in clan dynamics.

Her sighs filled the quiet compartment, mingling with the soft hum of the train. The concerns with Naobito weren't just fleeting worries; they were deep-seated issues that threatened to resurface time and again. Each recollection of their conversation deepened her resolve but also underscored the complexities of her position.

Beside her, Nobuhiko's presence was both a comfort and a reminder of simpler times. He had always been a grounding force, his steadfast nature balancing her more strategic inclinations. As they traveled together, his occasional pouts and the childlike sulkiness he displayed when discussing his duties in Kyoto brought a rare smile to her face amidst the swirling anxieties.

Yet, as Genmei observed him, she couldn't help but feel a surge of nostalgia for the days when life was less complicated, when the boundaries of their world were defined merely by the adventures they concocted in their youthful play. Back then, Nobuhiko's pouts were about who got to lead their imaginary quests, not about the weighty responsibilities of a Jujutsu Tech instructor.

It was heartening, yet poignant, to see traces of the young boy she had known in the accomplished instructor he had become. Nobuhiko had grown into his role at Jujutsu Tech with commendable dedication, shaping the minds and abilities of his students with a passion that mirrored his own commitment to growth and learning. His reluctance to leave Kyoto, even temporarily, was a testament to the bonds he had formed there, the responsibilities he felt, and the identity he had carved out for himself independent of the family legacy.

“Do I really have to stay here?”

“Todo would be depressed if Nobu–sensei leaves.” She teases him, a wide grin on her face.

“Not you too, Genmei–sama. This is….” He started turning red. His lips form a sharp line. “It would be better, if I was by your side.”

Genmei raised a brow. “But aren’t you always by my side?”

Nobuhiko's face flushed deeper, the ruby hue of his pin almost mirrored in his cheeks. His discomfort was palpable, caught between his duties and his longing for a different path—one alongside Genmei, where he felt more directly impactful and perhaps more appreciated.

His frustration momentarily silenced him, the words catching in his throat as he grappled with his emotions and the stark reality of their discussion. The simple, teasing question from Genmei wasn’t just a casual remark; it was laden with deeper meanings about loyalty, presence, and the invisible ties that connected them despite their physical separations.

“You know what I mean, Genmei-sama,” Nobuhiko finally managed, his voice a mix of earnestness and exasperation. “Yes, in spirit, perhaps, but there’s a difference in being actively involved in the same causes, in fighting the same fights side by side.”

Genmei’s expression softened, understanding the depth of his feelings. She knew too well the complexities of their lives, pulled in multiple directions by responsibilities and roles that often left little room for personal desires. Yet, she also recognized the strength of their bond, one forged not just in shared childhoods but in continued mutual respect and support as adults.

“Nobuhiko, you are vital where you are,” Genmei responded gently, her tone conveying both sympathy and firmness. “Your work at Jujutsu Tech isn’t just about teaching techniques—it’s about shaping minds, guiding the next generation. That’s no small feat, and it’s every bit as crucial as the battles we fight in Tokyo. It’s what we need, if this is to work, this change.”

She paused, her gaze steady on him, ensuring her words sank in, not just as platitudes but as sincere recognition of his contributions. “And know this,” she continued, “Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, you are always by my side in the ways that truly matter. It’s only a three hour ride away. If you feel that tedious, use a warping spell. Come and see me, hm?”

Nobuhiko listened, the initial flush of frustration gradually fading as he absorbed her words. The tight line of his lips relaxed slightly, a sign that he was reconsidering his stance from a broader perspective.

“I understand, Genmei-sama,” he admitted, though his voice still held a hint of reluctance. “And I appreciate your faith in me. It’s just... sometimes the distance seems more significant than it is.”

Genmei nodded, acknowledging his feelings. “Distance can be bridged,” she reassured him, her voice imbued with a conviction born of years navigating similar challenges. “You know that better than I.”

Genmei stepped out of the car, the soft click of the door closing behind her muffled by the ambient sounds of the bustling train station. She turned to face Ichiji, her expression a mix of gratitude and exhaustion. The journey had been long, the rhythmic hum of the train wheels accompanying her weary thoughts as she traversed the miles between Kyoto and Tokyo.

"Thank you, Ichiji," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, yet laden with genuine appreciation. Ichiji, her loyal attendant, nodded in response, his expression a blend of solemnity and understanding. He had been with her through countless journeys, his steadfast presence a reassuring constant in the ever-shifting landscape of her duties and responsibilities.

"It was my pleasure, Genmei-san," Ichiji replied softly, his tone respectful yet tinged with a hint of concern. He had sensed her weariness, her burdened spirit evident in the subtle lines etched upon her face. “Welcome back to Tokyo.”

Genmei offered him a faint smile, a fleeting expression of warmth amidst the weariness that weighed upon her. Despite the fatigue that tugged at her limbs, she knew that she must press on, her resolve unwavering in the face of the challenges that awaited her in Tokyo.

Turning away from Ichiji, Genmei gathered her belongings and took a moment to steady herself, drawing upon the inner reserves of strength that had carried her through countless trials before. With a deep breath, she straightened her posture, steeling herself for the tasks that lay ahead.

As she made her way through the bustling station, her footsteps echoing against the polished floors, Genmei's thoughts turned to the purpose of her journey. Tokyo awaited her, a city teeming with life and energy, yet also fraught with the weight of responsibility and expectation.

As Genmei walked through the gates of Jujutsu High, she was instantly enveloped by the dynamic atmosphere of the school. The campus buzzed with the vibrant energy of young sorcerers honing their craft, each one focused and determined. The sounds of rigorous training filled the air, a symphony of discipline and hard work. Instructors barked commands that were met with immediate responses; the thuds of bodies grappling on the mats punctuated the air, underscoring the physicality of their training.

Yet, it was the loud boisterous laughter, the spontaneous bursts of joy amidst the stern discipline, that truly characterized the spirit of Jujutsu High. It was a reminder that despite the grave responsibilities these students would eventually shoulder, they were still young, still capable of finding lightness amid the severity of their training. Genmei couldn’t help but be nostalgic about her own days there in Jujutsu High too.

Gojo Satoru had always looked happy at Jujutsu High. This was the environment where Satoru thrived, his formidable talents— but most of all, his youth. Genmei thinks about when she first met him, quite brash and self–centered. A true little prince. But in his three years here, Genmei could only remember him as he was now to be what he was in Jujutsu High. Genmei thinks she can only be glad for it. He’d ended up being someone she was proud to be married to.

Genmei's eyes were focused on the training grounds, watching her husband in the distance. He was fully engaged, demonstrating a complex maneuver to a group of attentive first-years, his movements fluid and precise. Watching him, Genmei felt a surge of pride. He was bringing the world he had always dreamed of to life. The one that Genmei had seen him dream of for all the years they’d been together. It feels so good to know his hard work was not wasted.

The lilac eyed woman drew closer, watching the intensity of the training session. But Genmei was certain that they seemed to have dialed down a notch as Satoru caught sight of her. Genmei thinks her husband was quite a dog, with how he seemed excited even from afar. His face lit up with a mischievous grin and waved at her. Genmei laughed, waving back half–heartedly.

Satoru called out to the students, "And that's how you ensure your technique is flawless!"

As Genmei stepped closer, the dynamics among the students shifted palpably. Megumi's sigh was not one of irritation but of familiarity, a testament to the countless times he had witnessed such warm exchanges between Satoru and Genmei.

He understood too much that Gojo Satoru was a man who truly, deeply, passionately, tenderly, does so loves his wife. He’d known that all his life, living with them and all.

Yuji Itadori, the energetic boy with striking pink hair, tilted his head, his eyes wide with curiosity. Next to him, Nobara Kugisaki, poised and observant, also turned to look at Genmei. Genmei waved at them, a tender smile on her lips.

Both were new enough to not fully grasp the personal life of their enigmatic teacher, and their faces mirrored their intrigue and slight bewilderment at the obvious affection displayed by Satoru. Gojo Genmei seemed so normal. So utterly normal. And compared to their teacher, this loud, boisterous, crazy enigma of a man —it leads to confusion, most definitely, how you both seem to be married.

As Genmei walked up, Satoru sauntered over with a playful swagger. "And here comes the only person who can outmatch me," he declared with a theatrical flourish, reaching out to pull her into an embrace. “My most beautiful, beloved, darling, extraordinary, one and only, wife!”

Genmei felt laughter echo against her belly and gently pushed him away, not missing a beat. "Behave yourself," she chided, through her eyes twinkled with amusement. Turning to the first years, who were watching the exchange with wide eyes, she extended a warm smile. "You must be the new first year. I'm Gojo Genmei, Gojo–sensei's wife."

“You’re just not my wife, darling! You’re my most beautiful, beloved—”

“You’re embarrassing yourself to your students, Satoru. Think of Megumi!”

“I don’t wanna be part of this conversation.” Megumi crosses his arms, looking down at his shoes. “Exclude me…please.”

Satoru’s lips turned into a pout, “My son turning on me like this, I never thought I’d see the day!”

“I’m not your son—”

“Now, now, calm down.”

The students' expressions shifted from amusement to shock, Nobara Kugisaki's eyes widening, "You're married to Gojo–sensei?" she blurted out, clearly trying to reconcile this new information with the enigmatic image of their teacher. “How? How are you married to Gojo–sensei?”

As the shock registered across Nobara’s face, Satoru’s trademark grin only widened, clearly enjoying the ripple of surprise his announcement had caused among his students.

“Because she loves me!” he declared, throwing his arms wide as if to emphasize the sheer inevitability of it all.

Megumi, who had been quietly observing the scene, couldn’t help but snicker at his teacher's theatrics. “That sounds like a lie,” he muttered, just loud enough for those nearby to hear, his deadpan delivery a stark contrast to Satoru’s flamboyance.

Satoru feigned a wounded look, clutching his heart dramatically. “My son, turning against me again, Genmei!” he exclaimed, looking over at Genmei with exaggerated betrayal. “How is fate ever so cruel?”

Genmei laughed, shaking her head but deciding to keep out of this particular fray. “I’m not gonna get involved,” she declared with a smile, her tone light and teasing. “You and your son need to talk this through.”

Megumi sighed, “I’m not his son.”

Yuuji, who had been watching the exchange with a growing smile, jumped into the conversation, his enthusiasm unchecked. “Wow, sensei never mentioned he was married! It’s great to meet you, Genmei–sensei!” His voice carried a mixture of excitement and a touch of awe, as if the revelation added yet another layer to the already complex puzzle that was Gojo Satoru.

Genmei grinned at Yuuji's exuberance, appreciating his straightforward and lively nature. “It’s lovely to meet you too, Yuuji–kun. But please call me Genmei.” But then Genmei turned to Nobara, who blinked at the sudden turn of the elder woman. “And you too, Nobara–chan.”

Satoru, not one to let a teaching moment slip by, even if highly embellished, wrapped an arm around Genmei’s shoulders. “You see, everyone, this is why you always keep them guessing. Keeps the mystery alive,” he said, winking ostentatiously. “Right, wifey?”

Gojo Satoru's grin broadened into a full-fledged smile, his cerulean eyes sparkling with amusement at Nobara's expressed candid astonishment. His posture relaxed as he leaned back slightly against his wife, clearly reveling in the students' reactions.

"How do I bag a woman like her?" Satoru echoed, gesturing towards Genmei with a dramatic flair. "It's simple really—I'm irresistible." His tone was teasing, laden with his usual cocky humor, designed to elicit more laughs than serious consideration. “I am quite a good gentleman. How could she not fall for me?”

Genmei shook her head, a gentle, indulgent smile playing on her lips. She decided to play along, stepping closer to Satoru with a mock-serious expression. "Actually, it took him a lot of effort. He had to prove he was more than just a pretty face and outrageous antics. Isn’t that right, dear?" she said, giving Satoru a playful nudge.

The students burst into laughter again, watching the banter between their sensei and his wife. Yuuji, still grappling with the novelty of the situation, added, "So there was a lot of persistence involved, huh? Gojo–sensei must have gone through a lot, an adventure!”

"Mmm, something like that," Satoru agreed, nodding sagely. "But let's just say it involved a lot of proving that I could be a responsible adult when needed."

The blue–green eyed Megumi sighed, “Gojo–sensei, you’re just saying anything and everything.”

Satoru’s eyes twinkled mischievously, embracing Megumi's skepticism with his typical flair for theatricality. “Ah, Megumi, you’ve uncovered my secret,” he declared with an exaggerated bow. “My entire life has been a carefully orchestrated performance designed to woo Genmei!”

Genmei laughed, stepping in with her own playful jab. “And he almost failed the audition, too.” she quipped, winking at the students who were now thoroughly enjoying this rare glimpse into their sensei’s personal life. “He was such a klutz, you know?”

Yuuji, unable to resist joining in, chimed in. His eyes were shining. “So what was the final move, Gojo-sensei? How did you clinch the role well?”

“Well, Yuuji,” Satoru said, adopting the tone of a wise sage sharing ancient secrets, “It involved a lot of strategic thinking, a grand romantic gesture involving perfectly timed sakura blossoms falling like snow, and… a cat.”

“A cat?” Nobara echoed, her eyebrows arching in disbelief. “This is too far-fetched, Gojo–sensei.”

“No no, I’m not. It was a cat,” Satoru nodded solemnly. “You see, wifey here has a soft spot for stray cats. I found the scruffiest, most endearing little stray and presented it to her, claiming it reminded me of myself.”

Genmei rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her amusement. “What he’s not telling you is that the cat immediately scratched him and ran off. It was the most honest review of his character I could have hoped for.”

The students burst into laughter, picturing the usually unflappable Gojo Satoru being bested by a stray cat. It was a laughable thing. But Satoru often does this every time someone asks how they met. Megumi narrows his eyes, almost as though he was having a flashback. Genmei was certain that Satoru had traumatized Megumi enough about it all. He was the one who always gossiped with the school moms, after all.

“See, it’s all about resilience,” Satoru grinned as he continued, totally unfazed. “The key to winning someone over is not giving up, especially if you love someone. Even when attacked by small animals.”

Yuuji shook her head, still laughing. “This feels less like romance and more like a battle strategy, Gojo-sensei.”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “It seems to me that he’s just being crazy.”

“You definitely are correct.” Megumi added, which caused Genmei to snicker.

“Ah, but love is the greatest battlefield of all!” Satoru exclaimed, spreading his arms wide as if embracing the whole world. “And I won the best of the best!”

Genmei gave him a gentle shove, chuckling. “Alright, that’s enough for you. These students came here to learn about Jujutsu, not your questionable courting techniques.”

“But wifey!” Satoru’s pout got even worse. “We’re just starting to have fun!”

“No buts, Satoru.”

Satoru’s exaggerated pout didn’t last long under Genmei’s amused but firm gaze. He knew well enough that his theatrical sulking wouldn’t sway her once she had made up her mind, yet he couldn’t resist playing up for his students. His arms remained crossed, and he huffed dramatically, managing to draw more laughter from the group.

“Oh, I forgot.”

Genmei turned her attention to Megumi, her smile warm and genuine. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small package, the familiar sight of moon cookies that she had thoughtfully brought with her. “Megumi, I remember how much you enjoyed these last time.” she said as she handed him the package. “Arisu oba–sama knew you liked them a lot too. So she gave you a lot.”

Megumi’s typically reserved demeanor softened noticeably at the gesture, and he accepted the cookies with a quiet, “Thank you, Genmei-san.”

Noticing the curious glances from Yuuji and Nobara, Genmei chuckled and handed each of them a cookie as well. “I asked the temple for quite a few of them. I thought it’d be nice to share some with all of you. Just let me know if you’d like more later, okay?”

Yuuji’s eyes lit up as he took a cookie, his usual enthusiasm bubbling over. “Wow, thanks, Genmei-san! These look amazing!” he exclaimed, eagerly taking a bite and nodding in approval.

Nobara, too, accepted the cookie with a smile, her earlier shock at Satoru’s marital status now giving way to appreciation for Genmei’s thoughtfulness. “Thank you, it’s really kind of you to think of us,” she said, tasting the cookie and giving Genmei an approving look.

The light and friendly mood was palpable as each of the students enjoyed the moon cookies, their earlier training session momentarily forgotten in favor of the sweet treat. Genmei started to tell them about moon cookies and how it’s made.

Yuuji was asking questions about the ingredients, but failing – as it was a Mikoto family secret. Nobara was fawning over the cute packaging and taking pictures. Megumi, as he always does with moon cookies, ate them as though he was savoring them. Satoru admits that watching his students and wife interact made his feigned pout slowly transform into a genuine smile. All he has now is his pride and joy.

“See, it’s not just Jujutsu techniques I’m good at sharing,” Satoru quipped back at her, finally uncrossing his arms and stepping closer to join the circle more fully. “I’m also excellent at sharing the best snacks, thanks to my better half here.”

Genmei gave a light laugh, shaking her head at Satoru’s attempt to regain some of the spotlight. “Well, we all have our strengths, dear,” she replied, giving him a playful nudge. “Mine just happens to include giving people the motivation to live.”

The students responded with a mix of laughter and nods, appreciating the familial and caring atmosphere that both Genmei and Satoru brought to what could have been just another grueling day of training. Yuuji, still not quite over the novelty of meeting Genmei, turned to Satoru with a mischievous grin.

“So, Gojo-sensei, does this mean we get snacks at every training session now? Is that part of the curriculum?” he asked, the hopeful tone in his voice eliciting more laughter from his peers.

Satoru raised an eyebrow, then looked at Genmei as if considering the idea. But he laughs soon after. “Well, if my most amazing loving wife is willing to keep supplying, who am I to deny you all such delicious motivation?”

Genmei laughed, amused by the turn of the conversation. “I think that might make the temple suspicious if I start clearing them out of moon cookies every week. But perhaps for special occasions…”

Megumi, who had been quietly enjoying his treat, looked up at her with a tender look in his eyes. Genmei thinks that he’s the most passionate about moon cookies. “It’s a good incentive to perform well, Genmei–san.” he noted, his voice low but clearly suggestive. “It’s good for morale.”

Nobara nodded in agreement, her expression one of mock-seriousness. “Absolutely, I think performance-based rewards could really enhance our training outcomes,” she chimed in, playing along with the theme, with a grin playing on her lips. “You know we’d come out the best in Jujutsu High with this!”

The group continued chatting and joking about potential “cookie rewards” for outstanding Jujutsu sorcery maneuvers. This continued on as the sun went and set, the end of the day just bursting with the conversation that was full of laughter. It was nice to take it easy, that was for sure.

Genmei thinks her years in Jujutsu High were rigid with Gakuganji creating hell for them. But Kaiko and Namie always made it fun. Genmei was glad that they were together, these three. These three were, after all, still kids living this cruel life. It’s the least she could do.

It wasn’t long after that when Satoru thought that the day should end on this high note for the kids. He had them start cleaning up the training materials, but Genmei is scolded him about ordering around the kids and soon enough, the strongest sorcerer of this life time, was carrying bamboo spears back into the storage huts as his wife enjoyed the remainder of the moon cookies he had on his own packet.

“Remember, you’re all welcome to come by anytime you need advice, training tips, or just a friendly chat,” Genmei called out as she and Satoru started to head back. “Just call me, okay? Megumi has my number!”

“I’m not giving it to them.”

Nobara frowned. “Yes, you will! Porcupine, get me your phone, now!”

“Don’t call me that.” Megumi responded back, mirroring her frown.

“Thank you, Genmei-san!” Yuuji called back, waving energetically. “And thanks for the cookies!”

As they walked away, Satoru slipped his arm around Genmei’s shoulders, squeezing gently. “You really made their day, you know,” he murmured softly.

Genmei smiled up at him. “And they just made mine. I’m very glad to see them together, finally.” she replied, her voice filled with warmth. “They reminded me of youth.”

“They really do, don’t they?” Satoru's tone was playful, infused with affection. He smiles down at her too. “But I make you day too, don’t I?”

His wife laughs tenderly at his words. “Yes, yes. You always do.”

“Ah, my wifey is such a beautiful romantic!”

Genmei laughed, the sound mingling with the fading echoes of the bustling campus around them. "Only for you, my love." she responded, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "But I still have to learn to keep up with your dramatic flair somehow."

Satoru grinned, clearly delighted by her comeback. "Ah, but who could resist such charm? And even then, who am I to resist your charm? You keep me grounded, wifey. You always have." His voice softened, the playfulness giving way to sincerity. He squeezed her shoulder a bit more tightly, reinforcing his words with the gentle pressure of his touch.

As the doors behind them closed, shutting off the sounds of the outside world. Satoru and Genmei entered a quieter world within the confines of Satoru's dorm room, a space that often doubled as a strategic meeting point for discussions far removed from the ears of even trusted allies.

The transition from light-hearted banter to serious tension was almost palpable, as if crossing the threshold into the room also required a shift in mindset to address the challenges that lay ahead.

The walls of the room, lined with books and various artifacts from past missions, served as a reminder of the many facets of their lives as sorcerers. Satoru walked over to a map pinned across one wall, dotted with notes and markers, each representing an event or a point of interest that required their attention.

Satoru’s face furrowed with concentration. Her husband somehow liked marking where he goes to missions often. Genmei thinks that she should suggest he get a new map. It was already too full to tell, she couldn’t tell anymore where he hadn’t been just yet. But he’d never replace it. He’s too attached to it. It’s been with him for ten years after all.

Genmei crossed her arms as she observed his focus and slowly approached and stood beside him, her lilac eyes scanning it all. "The stakes are getting higher, Satoru. With the postponement of Yuuji's execution, we've bought some time, but it's only a temporary reprieve," she said, her voice steady despite the weight of their discussion. “But we’ll have to be careful. I’m not sure how long before they’ll break it.”

Satoru nodded, leaning against his desk, his demeanor becoming more contemplative. “I know,” he replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. “We can’t let our guard down. I don’t trust them one bit. Not even those elders in Mikoto who said yes.”

Genmei purses her lips. “I know. This will also stir more tensions between us against the higher-ups and the clans. It’s already a controversial thing. They won’t sit quietly with this kind of disruption to the status quo.”

Satoru crossed his arms, his gaze drifting towards the window before returning to meet Genmei. “We need to be vigilant. Some of them might see this as an opportunity to undermine our plans or to push their own agendas more aggressively.”

Genmei nodded, her mind racing through potential scenarios and countermeasures. “We’ll need to keep a close eye on the movements of the clans, especially those who have always been less than supportive of us. And it’s not just the clans—we should be wary of any unusual activity among the higher-ups as well. The kids, we’ll have to have closer eyes on them.”

Satoru pushed off from the desk and started pacing slightly, a sign of his growing concern. He withdraws his blinds and lowers them. Her eyes meet his own. “I agree. We can’t afford any surprises. Yuuji’s case is sensitive, and any misstep could be catastrophic not just for him but for the fragile balance we’ve been trying to maintain at the school and within the wider jujutsu community.”

Genmei watched him pace, her mind equally busy with strategizing. “I’ll start by enhancing our intelligence network. I’ll have Nobuhiko and mother look into everything. I’ll see if I can get in touch with Todo. If there’s even a whisper of a plan against Yuuji or us, even the school, we need to know about it before it becomes a threat.”

Her husband stopped pacing and turned to face her, a determined look on his face. “Let’s also make sure to keep it as quiet as possible. The less, the better. I’ll talk to my mother. I’ll have her watch the higher ups.”

Genmei nodded at her husband as she stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “We’ll manage this, Satoru. We’ve faced tough challenges before. We just need to stay one step ahead, as always.”

Satoru’s expression softened slightly, and he placed his hand over hers. “Thank you, darling. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The way Satoru looks at her made her fall in love again.

She pulled him close and wrapped her arms around him.

Satoru felt the scent of vanilla scent, returning the embrace.

“I love you so much.” Genmei whispers to her husband. “I do.”

He grinned at her, kissing her temple. “I love you too, darling.”

He was the only family she truly had; she thinks of it now.

Gojo Genmei thinks that Gojo Satoru was her forever home.

facts about the chapter

ryomen hiromi in her will changed the family name to mikoto, consolidating her second husband's clan with her own. she did so to cut ties with sukuna.

the mikoto clan were always the biggest voice when it comes to the matter of ryomen sukuna. they consider it their duty to see sukuna eradicated from the world.

the mikoto, unlike the rest of the clans, kept their ancestral home in their ancestral province. its still under the ryomen name and all mikoto are expected to spend some time there to train their jujutsu.

ever since her marriage to satoru, it became more apparent that genmei has had conflicting views with the wider jujutsu society. being satoru's wife also means they can't do anything about it.

genmei was the one that adopted nobuhiko in the clan in 2003. she raised him from then on, giving him his name and his position in life.

nobuhiko teaches in kyoto jujutsu high and is in charge of the third years. todo is his student - who is very happy about his answer when asked about his type.

naoki zenin refused to be buried in zenin manor, so the mikoto buried him in their shrine. the zenin had been asking for his body back, but they have always refused.

genmei buried toji with her father after he passed. she thinks its only right that toji and her father are together.

genmei does not have a good relationship with any of her family, except megumi, mai and maki.

genmei has a particular hatred for naoya more than her other uncles. she considers him the most vile.

megumi doesn't like too much sweet things, but he fell in love with the moon cookies when he first visited mikoto manor as a child. he eats it often with black coffee.

genmei is very close to all of satoru's students and considers them as her own children. but genmei is closest to megumi, since she's raised him.

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esteemed-excellency · 7 months

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I compiled a list of all the Exceptional Stories I played, to be updated with every new one I play or buy. The bolded ones fit with Hiram's storyline, and the stars are for my favourites:

A Stretch in the Sky

Discernment

Dernier Cri

The Exile's Chalice

Stolen Stanzas

The Queen of the Elephants

The Path of Blood and Smoke

The Deadly Dapperlings

Where You and I Must Go

Slobgollion

The Sinking Synod

Trial and Error

Inheritance

HOJOTOHO!

Lamentation Lock - Left with the Listless Pugilist, the Ascetic Housebreaker and the Hollow-Eyed Turncoat

Cut with Moonlight - Meridian House continues to operate

The Art of Murder - [played both endings, killing the snuffer was the most in character option but I liked her character]

Written in the Glim - The Entomological Astrologer continues her activities

The Magician's Dream - The Haunted Magician keeps working for the Glass

The Gift ⭐️ Sided with the Princess

A Trade in Souls - Spirifier ending

The Waltz that Moved the World ⭐️ Danced the Waltzing Duke to his death and took his secret

Totentanz ⭐️ Danced the true Totentanz and preserved its instruments

Adornment - Escaped Mr Stones' mines thanks to the Superstitious Smuggler's sacrifice. goddammit mr stones

Mistress of the Skies - The Collective moved to Parabola

A Devil's Due - Helped Verity recover the Lyrical Soul

SALON SCANDAL! - The Foreign Office declined to comment (and the Monster had wings)

The Hollow Triptych - Freed the Conjunction of Absence

A Bright Future - Brokered a compromise between Mr Fires and the Futurist

Cricket, Anyone? ⭐️ Gave the Broken Word to Hell, the Game must go on

Codename: Sugarplum ⭐️ Mr Stones kept the bomb, and the Bazaarine Correspondent went West. Hiram has the dog the dog

The Mudlark's Lament ⭐️ Befriended the Precocious Tosher and helped the Drownie

Flame, Lead, Clay, Glass - Both the Engineer and the Correspondent survived and will probably get together again in the future, the Correction was dealt with

For All the Saints Who From Their Labour Rest ⭐️ The Intrepid Deacon became an agent of the Brass Embassy

The Stolen Song - The final verses of the Enigmatic Drownie's song convinced the Accused Contralto not to join her in the zee

The Bloody Wallpaper ⭐️ Payed the debt to the Fingerkings, shouted at the Manager

The Children of the Glow - Chose to not reveal the truth about the Luminous Miss Sparks and her glowing paint

The Stone Guest ⭐️ Filmed with stage magic and The Grand Hunt

The Stripes of Wrath - Left the tiger to die in peace

Say it With Flowers ⭐️ Met with the Brooding Captain and the Lady in Lilac to mess with the Princess' plan, the messengers are safe.

The Green King - The Green King died, though Lady Jane bound herself to him

A Newt by Any Other Name ⭐️ Sacrificed The Lure, left The Newt in the vault, and kept the diamond newt

The Persona Engine - Destroyed the Machine

The Twelve-Fifteen from Moloch Street - Uncovered The Lily's secret and entered Hell

The Century Exhibition - entrusted the Wind of Ages to Hell, and kept its location from the Empress' regiment

The Season of Skies - the Gracious Widow will continue the Polymath's work, hoping for London to see the stars again

The Icarian Cup ⭐️ Saved the Zeefarer and won the race, the Zeefarer and the Explorer parted in friendship

The Tale of Old Fritz ⭐️ The Doomed Diver returned home safe

The Tempest - The Tempestuous Urchin learned to let go of her anger, and she remains with Silvvy

Reunion - The Prince remained in London, forsaking the royal family

Caveat Emptor ⭐️ Preserved the original parasitic sigil and its copy on the deed

The Marriage of Feducci ⭐️ The marriage fell through

The Fair Unknown ⭐️ Won the tournament with the Red-Handed Queen's favour and claimed the boon

A Crown of Thorns - Accepted and destroyed the Belligerant Prince's honey batch, helped with the Thorned Manservant's campaign

The Last Dog Society - The Sunken Admiral had his revenge killing the Sequencer and the Shamble-Man

The Sunken River - The Zubmariner and the Heart returned to London, safe from the Admiralty

#this is mainly for me to remember all the endings #sharing here if anyone's curious about the stories #I don't remember all the details of the older ones tho #hiram lore #exceptional stories #es list #stories list

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nancydrewfiend · 1 year

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Current List of Nancy Drew Books I’ve Read

Classic Series

The Secret of the Old Clock The Hidden Staircase The Bungalow Mystery The Mystery at Lilac Inn The Secret of Shadow Ranch The Secret of Red Gate Farm The Clue in the Diary Nancy's Mysterious Letter The Sign of the Twisted Candles Password to Larkspur Lane The Clue of the Broken Locket The Message in the Hollow Oak Mystery of the Ivory Charm The Whispering Statue The Haunted Bridge The Clue of the Tapping Heels Mystery of the Brass-Bound Trunk Mystery of the Moss-Covered Mansion The Quest of the Missing Map The Clue in the Jewel Box The Secret in the Old Attic

Nancy Drew and the Clue Crew

#2 Scream for Ice Cream

#3 Pony Problems

Nancy Drew: Girl Detective

Lights, Camera...

Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys

Gold Medal Murder

Nancy Drew Files

Volume I

Tall, Dark, and Deadly

Graphic Novels

Nancy Drew Vampire Slayer Part I

Nancy Drew: The Palace of Wisdom

The Demon of Riverheights

Writ in Stone

Nancy Drew Diaries

Mystery of the Midnight Rider

Once Upon a Thriller

#Nancy Drew #Nancy Drew Books

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pocketsizedmania · 12 days

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My Colors of the Rainbow

Disclosing the lack of love.

Rather the frustration of fire burning within.

What lies when it’s just me?

Alike the fireflies-I burn out as soon as I’m lit

Interchangeable intricacies.

The smile says it all.

Am I here for me?

for the attraction of others?

Producing without eyes isnt belittling

Without eyes- having to adorn yourself

I could be red.

Sitting in this red-

Entangled embarrassments.

Infuriated by the desperation of self knowledge.

Enraged with no understanding

The entrancing side of enlightenment.

Lost between the ages of too late and two steps forward, steps above the sun.

To take a step back is the hug of home. warm and inviting.

Into the shades of red I retreat.

I could be yellow

the center of the most delicate florals.

Pardon my language but to be yellow is to be untouched by elemental forces.

Movements of humanity

I will never yearn be yellow.

Irrevocably untouchable.

I could be yellow.

I will never be yellow.

I could be lilac.

Purples define the hallows of hatred.

Composed of blues melded with the burning of my pinks.

Momentarily I identify within the purples-

Almost a complete feeling.

Up until I’m human do I reside within.

I could be lilac.

I could be green.

Resonating within the frequencies of understanding.

A wall sits between green and I.

I am desperate partial of green.

To the pinnacle of humanity.

Unable to put myself aside to understand the urgency of connection.

I could be green.

Until humans cease.

I desperately could be green.

But there’s that structure-

Structures so impenetrably constructed.

I could be green.

I could be blue.

Past shades haunt me.

Hospitals and therapists thrown into the hues.

Harm induced by yours truly.

Marking my skin permanently.

Marking my soul.

Forever desperately searching for the ladder out of this hole.

Deeper it sinks into my heart.

Forever running from the bottom.

I could be blue.

I have been blue.

I could be blue.

Tones of orange.

Needle picking numbness.

Stinging with disgust.

Rotting away.

These rusts ruminate inside us all.

What doesn’t escape your brain resides here.

The price of humanity-

Being the reader of all censored thoughts.

I could be orange.

Oranges make me ill.

I could be orange

Rose rage

Orange rot

Yellow sun

Green goddess

Blue bound

Purple pounding

What colors make honest humanity?

What collaboration of prisms procreate a visible spectrum?

That answer resides in my rainbow.

The mist has yet revealed my favorite color.

Nevertheless, appreciating my rainbow colors on my skin.

I could be rose.

I could be orange.

I could be yellow.

I could be green.

I could be blue.

I could be purple.

But I am affectionate to my rainbow.

Suffering in mediocrity.

Sore and open as I am.

Raw and burned as I am.

Feeling my colors.

#poetry #writing #writers on tumblr #sad poem #real life

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promptfairy · 3 years

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❥ 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 [ 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂 ] .

headcanon prompts with questions based on plants & what they represent in flower language . happy roleplaying !! ♡

abatina : is there anything in life your muse has changed their mind about over time ( due to becoming more educated on the topic , certain experiences , etc . ) , or that they would change their mind about under certain circumstances ?

acanthus : is your muse deceptive , or willing to lie or deceive to achieve certain means ? why or why not ?

aloe : how does your muse handle grief ?

amaryllis : what is something or someone that your muse takes pride in ? how do they express that pride ?

anemone : how does your muse view the world ; as a cruel & unforgiving place , a land full of wonders , or something in - between ? where does that world view come from ( what experiences , life lessons , etc . ) ?

angelica : where does your muse draw inspiration in life ? what motivates them ?

apple blossom : how does your muse go about expressing or not expressing their sexuality ?

bachelor’s button : does your muse actively seek romantic companionship , or cherish the liberties of being single ?

basil : does your muse have a love - hate relationship with anyone or anything ?

bay tree : does your muse seek glory & accolades , or do they favour a simpler , more personal life ?

begonia : how cautious is your muse ? are they prone to noticing red flags , or paranoid to the point of untrusting most everyone ? why or why not ?

belladonna : how does your muse respond to silence ? do they take comfort in soundlessness , or seek to fill the void with noise ?

bluebell : does your muse learn from their past , or are they prone to repeating the same mistakes ?

carnation : what is your muse’s relationship with their gender ? how do they express or not express this relationship ?

chamomile : what is your muse likely to take away from a painful experience ? are they one to be haunted by adversity , or to use what they’ve gone through to become stronger ?

chrysanthemum : how does your muse express romantic love ? how do they feel about love as a concept ?

daffodil : is your muse one to be loyal in relationships , or are they likely to quickly move from one bond to another ?

daisy : did your muse ever feel as though their innocence had been lost ? what moment in their life could be described as the end of their innocence ?

edelweiss : what was the bravest moment in your muse’s life ? are they known to be courageous from then on ?

fern : does your muse believe in magic or cosmic forces , or are they more likely to think their life is ultimately a matter of their own control ?

forget - me - not : has your muse ever forgotten something that is or was important to them ? are they afraid of forgetting things like that ?

gardenia : is your muse one to confess romantic feelings early on , or to conceal them for long periods of time ?

gladiolus : describe a moment from your muse’s life that they will never forget .

goldenrod : does your muse believe in luck or fortune ? why or why not ? where do they believe these things come from ?

heliotrope : does your muse believe in soulmates ?

hibiscus : how does your muse view the gentler , daintier things in life ? as things worth preserving & caring for , or things only bound to wither & disappear ?

holly : how strong is your muse’s sense of intuition ? are they aware of it ? do they ever fear that it is only paranoia ?

hollyhock : how strong is your muse’s sense of ambition ? what’s something they strive for in life ?

hyacinth : is your muse athletic ? does it come naturally to them , or have they had to work for their physique and/or skill ?

hydrangea : how much does your muse value communication in their relationships with others ? are they prone to being misunderstood ?

iris : if your muse could convey one last message to someone they have lost or left behind , what would it be ?

ivy : what are your muse’s views on marriage ? do they believe it is something strictly for love , or an institution rooted in business & social benefits ? do they desire or have they desired to be married ?

lavender : how easy is it to gain your muse’s trust ? once their trust is broken , how might one go about mending it ?

lilac : what was your muse’s childhood like ? how has their upbringing affected them as they’ve aged ?

lily : how does your muse view their mother ?

lotus : has your muse ever felt as though they’ve been reborn ? have they ever desired the feeling of a fresh start , or a better understanding of themself and/or the world around them ?

magnolia : describe your muse’s relationship with nature & the natural world .

marigold : is your muse prone to jealousy ? how might they handle envious feelings ?

mint : does your muse view themself as virtuous & moral ? what do these words mean to them ?

nasturtium : describe your muse’s relationship with their birthplace , or homeland .

oak : who would your muse consider the strongest person they know ?

pansy : does your muse often reflect on their own actions ? do they ever think a lot about the past , and what they could have done differently ?

parsley : describe a holiday your muse enjoys , and why they enjoy it .

peony : what would a ‘ happy life ’ look like in your muse’s eyes ?

poppy : what comforts your muse ?

rhododendron : is your muse receptive to warnings & advice given by others ?

rose : how much does your muse value other people ? do they wish to have many friends , lovers , and/or associates ? are they an easy person to love ?

sage : what is your muse’s legacy ? what do they want to be remembered for & what might they actually be remembered for ?

salvia : is your muse possessive over people or things that matter a lot to them ? how do they express that possessiveness , or lack thereof ?

snapdragon : is your muse merciful ? why or why not ?

southernwood : how seriously does your muse take themself ? do they prefer a solemn & intellectual atmosphere or do they delight in jokes & banter ?

sunflower : what brings your muse the most joy in life ?

tulip : how does your muse view people in general ?

violet : how does your muse respond to betrayal ?

willow : how does your muse handle sadness & depression ?

zinnia : how has the loss of fallen comrades and/or loved ones affected your muse ? has it taught them anything or given them any new perspectives ?

#headcanon meme #headcanon prompt #rp meme #roleplay meme #roleplay prompts #rp prompts

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circular-bircular · 3 months

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Good lord. Alright.

You cannot be supportive of DID if you’re ableist to anti-endos.

That’s it. That’s the post. No more syscourse for me tonight.

#lilac bound hauntings #I’m not sure how the others do this so regularly to be frank #Tumblr syscourse is so… Yikes!#And of the 2 public servers I feel safe enough to mention syscourse in only one has what feels like non-stressful conversations #syscourse

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circulars-reasoning · 1 year

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This just came to my mind amidst discussions around anti-endo being an inaccurate label, and the generalizations pro/endos often come to regarding those who use the label.

I remembered today that, well. Pro-endo, as a label, is not anymore trustworthy than anti-endo is inherently untrustworthy.

I’ve seen numerous people in the past who used pro-endo as a label, only to be the sort who fully believed that endogenic systems cannot exist and that they were all just traumagenic systems in disguise. And this was not a case of “they’re anti-endo and pretending” - they genuinely believed themselves to be pro-endo. The reason behind this is because they supported endogenic systems rights to label themselves as such, because “I was in denial about my trauma too, they’ll figure it out one day.”

It’s frustrating to me, as a syscourse unaligned individual, to constantly be called an anti endo due to my critiques of the endogenic community, when endogenic systems often overlook the fact that their own labels are also confusing to others.

For instance; I’m functionally pro-endo. I simply don’t use the label because it makes me panic when applied to myself. My mind goes back to who I used to be and how I was manipulated in pro-endo spaces. But because I don’t actively use that label, and because I find myself open to hearing all sides of arguments, I am sent harassment by endogenic systems for being anti-endo (a label I *also* have trauma over).

There’s just many feelings surrounding these labels. I would love to have discussions about them, but I fear that both “sides” of syscourse are too obsessed with the strawmen they’ve created to have an actually healthy and worthwhile discussion about it.

#syscourse #syscourse ramblings #syscourse unaligned #Lilac Bound Hauntings

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itsapapisongo · 3 years

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NOLI TIMERE | Q. KUN

Cast: Hufflepuff!Kun and Slytherin!Gender Neutral Reader ft. Yuta, Doyoung, Ten, Jungwoo, Hendery, Renjun, Jeno, Haechan, and Chenle

Genres: Dramedy | Fluff | Fantasy

Tropes: Acquaintances to Friends | Hogwarts AU | Non-Idol AU | Slice of Life

Content Warning: Language throughout and a scene depicting a character experiencing a panic attack.

Word Count: 13.3k

Summary: Having friends in common, you and Kun have crossed paths over the years. In your sixth year, what once was an acquaintanceship slowly blooms into a friendship. And what better way to strengthen the bond than by dealing with a boggart and helping out a trio of would-be troublemakers.

Notes: Though there are references to the books and films, Noli Timere takes place in a continuity of its own. Cards on the table: this story is a messy mess and it's sort of all over the place; I started writing with a single scene in mind—confronting a boggart—and filled the gaps as I wrote around that.

Part of @danishmiilk's of witchcraft and wizardry collab

ON THE THIRD floor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in an unused classroom, something was stirring in the dark.

It stirred, unseen and unheard, until making itself comfortable within a writing desk. It found that, yes, this was comfortable, but not comfortable enough to make this its home.

And thus it stirred once more until it found an empty cabinet in a corner of the classroom. It settled there, content with its new home, glad to have found somewhere after being banished and popping back to the ether.

It couldn’t die and it was glad about that.

✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜

THE GREAT HALL was bursting with conversations, laughter, and groggy complaints about waking up too early. Four tables, each the length of the Hall itself, were gradually becoming full as students made their way down or up from the respective common rooms. Breakfast was already served, a diverse menu that seemed never-ending and had been magically cooked with culinary expertise.

When Qian Kun entered the Great Hall, eyes cast downward as he read a leather-bound and worn copy of Magical Creatures: A Field Guide to Magizoology, he was met with a loud commotion. Unsurprisingly, the first thing he saw was Lee Ten entertaining a pair of first and second years with a particularly morbid tale about a gytrash that haunted the Hufflepuff Basement. Only one of them, a lilac-haired girl, seemed rather fascinated by the story.

“Gytrashes, you see, appear when you least expect them,” said Ten, concealing a smirk that was more devious than charming. “So beware of the—”

“What are you doing?” Kun asked, closing Magical Creatures with a dry thump. He glanced around the table and smiled at his juniors. “Don’t believe a word he says, weans.”

“There isn’t a gytrash in the common room, right?” asked one of the youths, a second year with curly hair, trying to look relieved but not quite succeeding.

“Why, I’d never tell any of you a lie.” Ten feigned outrage, a hand gently laid against his green-and-silver tie. He crossed an x on his chest and winked. “Cross my heart. . .”

Kun scoffed. “Sure, sure,” he mumbled, rolling his eyes.

The first and second years stared then seemed to loosen up as they chattered amongst themselves, discussing the probability of encountering a gytrash when they returned to the common room. Ten chuckled and followed Kun further into the Hall, walking past some third and fourth years.

“Every time I look at you, you’ve got a book underneath your arm.” Ten pointed at the book underneath Kun’s arm. “As if you didn’t know enough already.”

Kun dropped into a seat at the Hufflepuff table, opposite Kim Jungwoo.

“Reading is fundamental,” Kim Jungwoo replied, though if he was being sarcastic Ten couldn’t tell.

Jungwoo greeted both of them with a groggy smile. With one hand, he brushed his copper hair off his eyes and took a spoonful of breakfast with the other.

Ten grimaced then shrugged, sitting to Kun’s right. “If you say so,” he said and served himself some toast and juice. “So, darlings, do our paths cross over during this most auspicious day or are we destined to only glimpse at each other from afar?”

“Och,” Kun grumbled, holding back a grin. “Easy there, Billy Shakes. Don’t waste all your verbosity with the likes of us.”

“Yah!” Jungwoo whispered as he leaned forward, close enough for Kun and Ten to hear. “Did you down a shot of firewhiskey this early in the morning?”

“I wish—” Ten frowned, feigning disappointment. “—but no.”

Jungwoo examined what remained of his breakfast—slice of toast, sausage, beans—and grimaced. “Shame, innit?” he said, pouting. “I’d love a shot of firewhiskey.”

Kun half-smiled, his eyes gleaming with endearment. “You don’t drink,” he pointed out, serving himself a plate of scrambled eggs and fried tomatoes.

“Not yet, anyhow,” Jungwoo retorted, rolling his eyes. “One of these days, I hope.”

“Fingers crossed, lad,” Ten mumbled in agreement, his mouth full. “I’ll buy you your first drink. I know a guy in Hogsmeade that can fetch me a bottle of firewhiskey for a fair price.”

Kun nearly choked on a tomato. He slowly turned to Ten and raised an eyebrow, his mouth set into a thin, disapproving line.

“Smuggling now, are we?” he whispered sternly, serving himself a cup of coffee.

Ten chuckled and reached for his juice, mumbling around the rim, “Live a little, Qian.”

“Dangerously, right?” Kun tried to conceal a smile.

“Something like that.”

Ten smirked, but Kun merely shook his head. He wasn’t concealing his smile any longer, as much as he wanted to. Though they were in different houses and came from different environments, their upbringing polar opposites, they got along well and indulged in good banter. They both were clever and model students, but whereas Ten was pragmatic and keen on doing as he pleased, Kun was more by-the-book and cautious in his actions. In many ways, this difference in demeanor complimented their relationship.

Jungwoo, on the other hand, met them halfway. He was a clever chap—studious, affable—but he wasn’t exactly keen on following rules. He’d follow them up to a certain point, but he’d happily ignore them if he thought they were stupid. Which was, for the most part, almost always.

As Ten finished his breakfast and Kun served himself seconds, Jungwoo examined the new timetable with a furrowed brow.

“Who’s the madman who thought having History of Magic in the morning was a good idea?” he asked, rubbing his forehead with a groan. “I swear someone’s taking the piss.”

“It wouldn’t be Binns, though,” Kun blurted out, renewing his reading of Magical Creatures.

Jungwoo raised an eyebrow. “How come?”

Before Kun could reply, Ten answered with a cackle, “He’s a bleeding ghost, that’s why.”

“And ghosts can’t take the pish,” Kun added with a small shrug.

“If you explain the joke it doesn’t—never mind.” Ten stood up and adjusted his tie, giving the Slytherin table a cursory glance. “Well, boys, I’m off. I can see Doyoung looking all pouty. It seems he can’t live without me.”

“Modest as always.” Jungwoo snorted.

Ten winked and drained the rest of his juice. Jungwoo watched him go, chuckling to himself before returning to frown and pout at the piece of parchment before him. The timetable was depressing him.

“I just hope it’s Professor Gorski instead of that boring old ghost,” he whispered, holding his chin with the back of his palm, knuckles against his jaw. He sighed dramatically. “I might as well just skip it, don’t you think?”

Kun shrugged, eyes on his book. “Up to you,” he replied absentmindedly. “I’d skip it.”

“I’ll take that as permission to skip it then.”

“Skip what?” said the familiar voice.

“Morning, Hen.” Jungwoo’s smile was wide and reached his eyes. He pointed an idle hand at Kun and chuckled. “Mr. Qian here is telling me it’s okay to skip History of Magic.”

Huang Hendery blinked and looked between his fellow Hufflepuffs with a furrowed brow, confusion and amusement apparent in his face. “Did I hear that right?” he asked. “Is Mr. Prefect genuinely telling us to avoid taking a class?”

Kun looked up, bewildered, then realized that he had spoken out loud without meaning to. He rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, closing the book again with an exasperated flick of his wrist.

“I said I’d skip it. Not that he should,” he objected with a sigh. “And I’m not—”

“We know you know you’re not a Prefect, but you might as well be,” said Hendery, waving him off as he helped himself to a bacon croissant. “I’m still wondering why you rejected the position.”

“As much as I’d love to have more responsibilities, I’d rather not. Being a student is already an arduous endeavor.”

Jungwoo raised his eyebrows and glared at the timetable.

“You got that right enough,” he grumbled.

“What’s up with him?” Hendery asked through a mouthful of croissant.

Kun looked at Jungwoo then back at Hendery. “History of Magic,” he said plainly.

That was enough of an answer because Hendery nodded knowingly, leaned forward, and reached across the table to gently pat Jungwoo’s wrist. Jungwoo, seemingly distraught, pouted and rested his forehead on Hendery’s hand, who kept eating as though he didn’t mind the gesture.

“What else do you have for today?” asked Hendery, giving the piece of parchment in Jungwoo’s hand a cursory glance.

Jungwoo sighed and read through his timetable. “Potions on my second period. Divination on the fourth and—oh, daebak—Defense Against the Dark Arts after that.”

“Day doesn’t sound that bad.”

“It does seem to get progressively better.” Jungwoo’s pout softened into a half-smile.

“There you go, dear,” said Kun, taking a sip from his coffee. “Aren’t you glad there’s always a silver lining?”

“Sometimes,” Jungwoo and Hendery chorused.

They exchanged a glance and laughed. They were still in the same position—Hendery leaning with his hand extended, Jungwoo resting his forehead against it—and seemed to be okay with that. Kun, who hadn’t noticed, looked up and frowned out of confusion but immediately wrote it off as normal behavior between the two.

“I’m off,” he told them, patting Hendery’s back.

Hendery raised both eyebrows, munching loudly. His hair—bubblegum pink with blond highlights—was parted in the middle and covered half of face. “Off to where?”

A smile spread across Kun’s face. He tapped the spine of his back and nodded towards the Great Hall’s entrance.

“Care of Magical Creatures,” he replied. “See you when I see you.”

Hendery and Jungwoo waved back, still sort of leaning on each other from across the table.

✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜✨📜

THOUGH IT HAD rained the previous day, the grounds looked green and fresh. The sky was clear—a nice blue hue with a handful of clouds drifting by—and the grass was springy and damp underfoot as you went down the sloping lawns that led to Rubeus Hagrid’s hut.

The small wooden cabin, which was on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, had been gradually renovated over the years. A puff of greyish-black smoke rose from the chimney and was softly being blown towards the forest by a passing breeze.

As you neared the hut, you spotted two faces ahead of you talking with a Hufflepuff you’d often seen but had never quite made conversation with. Qian Kun—handsome, sheepish smile, big-brained, Mr. Almost-A-Prefect—was smiling and nodding at something Ten was saying whereas Doyoung seemed unfazed, as if he’d rather be somewhere else. It was then that you realized that you and the rest of the Slytherins would be having lessons with the Hufflepuffs.

When you approached them, Kun whispered something to Doyoung, who was now doing his best not to crack a smile. Ten openly cackled, clapping his thighs not before giving Kun’s shoulder a mighty shove. You could only wonder what they were talking about.

“Lads,” you said, standing between Ten and Doyoung.

Doyoung’s nod was subtle. “Alright?”

You nodded back and offered a small smile. Kun smiled back while Ten pulled a face and mockingly stuck out his tongue.

“As alright as one can be,” you replied, nudging Ten’s side with your elbow.

“Cool, cool.” Doyoung stared then looked away, distracted by Hagrid stepping out of the hut. “At least he’s wearing something new.”

Ten fixed his gaze forward and snorted. “Not too shabby, eh?”

Kun’s eyes lingered a second too long on you before he turned to look at your professor, who was waiting for the class at the door of his hut. Rubeus Hagrid was twice the size of a man and three times as wide with a long mane of greying black hair and a thick beard that seemed almost impossible to shave or comb. Though he was in his late eighties, only the lines around his dark eyes seemed to indicate he was no longer in his prime.

Hagrid stood in a moleskin overcoat, but it was a new one—light brown instead of black—and wore it proudly as he glanced at it every so often as if waiting for a compliment.

“Good mornin’, ev’ryone!” he called as his class approached. “How’s ev’ryone doin’ on this fine mornin’?”

There were enthusiastic and groggy greetings, but nothing that Hagrid could respond to without asking for everyone to repeat themselves. You noticed he was beaming by the glint of his dark eyes. You always thought they looked like black beetles.

“Got a real treat fer yeh today!” Hagrid clapped his enormous hands and motioned the class to follow him with a wave. “If everyone’s here, we should get a move on.”

The class followed Hagrid as he strolled off around the edges of the tree. Five minutes or so later, you found yourself staring at a square paddock where a dozen of plump, fluffy-feathered birds were pleasantly chirping.

“I reckon they’re supposed to be cute,” said Doyoung.

You scoffed. “They’re cute.”

Doyoung shook his head, curling his lips. “I beg to differ.”

“What are they, though?” Ten stood on the ball of his feet, unconsciously pulling a face that was a mixture of curiosity and disgust.

“These,” Hagrid answered, pointing a finger at the flightless birds, “are Diricawls.”

Most of the class, you included, awed as they observed the wee birds. They seemed like cuter relatives of the dodo, though there was something about the way they moved and chirped that told you differently. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Kun approaching the paddock cautiously; not like he was hesitating but rather being aware and considerate of the Diricawls’ personal space.

Hagrid clapped, startling some of the students. “Gather ‘round ‘ere,” he called, looking over his class to make sure everyone had joined him around the paddock. “Can any of yeh tell me what these little critters are?”

“Dunno, but they look like dodos,” said a Slytherin girl.

“Eh?” Hagrid chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “Close but no’ quite.”

“They can vanish at will,” said a manly yet gentle voice.

You turned to see Kun leaning forward, waving a hand over the paddock’s fence to catch the attention of four birdlings. He was beaming, his eyes glinting with interest. The birds approached without hesitation and gave little jumps, trying to peck the tip of his fingers.

“They just—poof—disappear and reappear elsewhere,” Kun added with a half-smile, standing straight to face Hagrid. “Sort of like Apparating but on a smaller scale.”

“Very well said, Mr. Qian.” Hagrid gave an enthusiastic nod. “An’ since they pop’n an’ out of place, Muggles confused them fer the dodo bird an’ thought they were extinct.”

“Bunch of dafties,” said a voice from the crowd, chuckling.

Someone cleared their throat behind you and you didn’t have to turn to know that it had been Doyoung. You glanced over your shoulder to see him cross his arms and narrow his eyes at a lanky, greasy-haired Hufflepuff boy.

“Do you get paid for snide comments like that, McDade?” Doyoung’s voice was low, his tone laced with vitriol. He spoke loud enough for McDade to hear but not so much that Hagrid or anyone else but you and Ten could hear. “Or do you wake up and decide to be a prick for free?”

McDade sneered. “Shut it, Kim.”

“How about we act like civilized people and pay attention to Hagrid?” You took a step forward so that you occupied the space between McDade and Doyoung. You were doing your best not to grit your teeth or glare. “It’s that or me stunning the both of youse so that I can have some peace and quiet during the rest of the lesson.”

“Ball’s in your court,” Ten intoned with a mischievous smirk.

“Prick,” said McDade, glaring over his shoulder.

“Cu—” Doyoung began but didn’t finish when you elbowed his side. “What?”

“Everythin’ alrigh’ over there?” Hagrid asked, his brow furrowed.

“Yes, professor,” you answered before anyone could open their mouths and dig a hole deeper than the Black Lake. “Just commenting on how adorable they look.”

Hagrid turned to the paddock. It seemed he was grinning because his beard twitched upward, reaching his eyes. “Aye, they’re adorable alrigh’,” he conceded with a nod. He opened the paddock and stepped in. “Righ’ then, here’s what we’re gonna do. Yeh’ve got ter feed them without havin’ them vanish in front of yeh.”

The class exchanged looks. You chuckled when you heard Ten groan and saw Doyoung pull a face, which was a mixture between exasperation and displeasure. They obviously weren’t keen, but you were.

Something caught your eye as the class began to follow Hagrid. That’s when you saw Kun briefly stop to talk with Changkyun. They were taking off their robes, folding them, and putting them on their school bags, which they left hanging on the paddock’s fence.

“Yah! Kun-ge!”

You flinched as an ash-blond haired bloke—Jinjin, what a surprise—walked past you, waved at Kun, then joined him by the paddock’s entrance. They greeted each other with a smile and a fist-bump as Kun rolled up his sleeves up to his elbows.

Intrigued, you followed behind them and noticed two things. Firstly, there were visible scars on each of Kun’s forearms, some were small scratches and the others were blemishes that had once been deep slashes. And, secondly, they were talking about Quidditch. The way Jinjin motioned he was smacking something away on top of a broom gave it away.

Typical. You found yourself wondering, by the way Jinjin was leaning and squeezing Kun’s bicep, if Jinjin was doing his best to convince Kun to try out for Hufflepuff’s Quidditch team.

“Are you going to get a move on or are you going to stand there, making googly eyes at him?”

“Huh?” You blinked and felt Doyoung’s gaze upon you, bringing forth a sense of embarrassment and annoyance. “Making eyes at who? What are you on about?”

“You just—” Doyoung widened his eyes and titled his head. The droopy stare he had put on conveyed the image of someone being absentminded or easily distracted. One could even say it was a look of blatant infatuation. “—dozed off.”

“I didn’t—”

Doyong raised a hand that hovered inches from your face. Through his fingers, you saw him shake his head and smile that annoying half-smile of his that indicated he was both judging and mocking you. He leaned in and hooked his arm to yours, dragging you towards the paddock as the rest of the class joined Hagrid inside it.

“Do you fancy him?” Doyoung inquired with a raised eyebrow. The question came across not as malicious but curious; you could tell he was genuinely interested in your answer. “To be fair, even I fancy him a bit. He’s quite the looker, y’know?”

Where was the lie? He was right and you knew it. Kun, whom you had seen time and time again from a distance and a handful of others up close, was but an acquaintance to you. Over the course of your past five—now going on six—years at Hogwarts, you’d always felt the desire to befriend him but never had the courage to do so.

And it was strange that you hadn’t. He and Ten were inseparable. Doyoung even had dated, however briefly, Kun’s half-sister, Astrid, and you and her were on good terms.

Kun never failed to be polite and affable. He’d always greet you with a smile and nod. As reserved and shy as he was whenever Ten or Doyoung were absent, he’d make an effort to make small talk. If there was something you appreciated about him was the fact that he always waved whenever you saw each other in the corridor.

Such gestures installed a sense of familiarity, of comfort, whenever you saw him. So, no, you didn’t fancy him as much as you were intrigued by him. Everything he did, he did so passionately. And he was nowhere more passionate than when he was around Hagrid or magical creatures.

“He seems like the type of bloke you’d have a drink with,” you replied and did your best not to roll your eyes when Doyoung snorted mid-chuckle. While he enjoyed himself, you chose to change the subject. “You reckon you can feed a Diricawl without it disappearing on you?”

Doyoung grimaced. “I don’t think I can touch one, let alone feed one,” he retorted. “So I sincerely doubt it.”

“Ah!” It was your turn to poke him. “That’s the spirit, boyo!”

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DOYOUNG WAS RIGHT. He didn’t touch a single Diricawl nor did he manage to feed one. In the end, he gave up and settled with gleefully seeing Ten cringe whenever a Diricawl came close to their little corner of the paddock.

You managed to feed two of them. It took you half the lesson to do so but you got the hang of it. Granted, Kun intervened and lent a helping hand; it had been both kind of him and mesmerizing to witness. He was immensely patient not only with you but with anyone else that called him to help them.

By the end of the lesson, Kun had essentially fed all the Diricawls by proxy. He didn’t seem to mind, especially since most of the class—with the obvious exception of Ten and Doyoung—managed to do what Hagrid had tasked them with for the day’s lesson.

“Yeh’ve done a fine job,” Hagrid announced, clapping his hands so enthusiastically that two or three Diricawls vanished in a puff of feathers. “Some of yeh need to loosen up a bit an’ get in there. Participatin’ in the lesson’s important, yeh know?”

No one responded, though several people nodded and mumbled under their breaths.

“Alrigh’,” said Hagrid, sighing. “That’s enough fer today. Be prepared fer our next lesson. We’ll be discussin’ and handlin’ Mokes.”

You tilted your head, curious. Mokes? It sounded familiar but you couldn’t remember why. You’d have to look them up later. Hagrid waved the class goodbye as he opened the paddock’s gate and kept an eye on the Diricawls, making sure none of them were trudged on or sneaked out by mingling with the crowd.

Looking up, that passionate smile of his present in his face, Kun was saying something to Hagrid. You noticed his sleeves were still rolled up, noticed the veins and the scars and the dirt that smudged his skin. For whatever reason, you couldn’t look away. He always wore long sleeves, even when wearing casual clothing.

A second before you looked away, you and Kun made eye contact. You weren’t surprised to meet his gaze, sure, but you immediately looked away with a hitched groan that remained lodged in your throat. Without looking at Kun, you walked past him and joined the rest of the Slytherins as they filed out of the paddock.

On your way out, you thanked Hagrid for the lesson. Who thanked their teachers for a lesson? Apparently, no one but you. Oh well. C’est la vie, right? Hagrid had chuckled and thanked you, sounding a tad emotional and grateful as he closed the paddock behind himself. That was nice, you thought. To have a teacher that was still passionate not about the subject but imparting it to his students.

“Hey,” you heard Kun call after you and suddenly you didn’t know whether to stop or sprint up the sloping lawns without looking back.

You preferred it if you didn’t turn back.

You turned back.

“Hey,” you repeated with a small nod, sounding sheepish. “Alright?”

Kun was smiling a shy, friendly smile. “Are you in a hurry?”

“No—er—not really.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“Er—” you blinked, looked at the class walking up the lawns, then shrugged. “—not really, no.”

He nodded. “Magic,” he exclaimed, shouldering his school bag. “After you, then.”

You walked together in silence for about a minute or two when you decided to just break the ice.

“That was a—uh—that was a nice lesson.”

“It’s not every day that you get to feed and dote on vanishing wee birds, huh?” Kun sniggered, rolling down and smoothing his shirt’s sleeves. “They’re adorable.”

“Funny, too.” You smiled. “I wonder where they go when they vanish.”

“Somewhere nice, I hope.” Kun gave a small nod as he tilted his head in consideration. “I imagine they have a wee kip before—pop—reappearing, but the truth is they don't go that far.”

You agreed with a slight tilt of your head, as if to say fair point. “Sounds nice.”

“Must be nice.”

Silence. Until—

“I wonder how we’ll deal with the Mokes,” said Kun. He sounded truly fascinated. “They’re, y’know, skittish.”

“Oh, yes, skittish.”

Kun chuckled but quickly cleared his throat. He was looking at you, not mockingly or unkindly, but fondly. You didn’t know what to make of that.

“You don’t know what a Moke is, do you?”

“I do. Pfft. Of course—” You paused, blinked, then shook your head. “No. I don’t have a bloody clue what a Moke is.”

“They’re essentially lizards. Not that big or that small.”

“And what’s the catch?” You raised an eyebrow and pointed at a thumb at the paddock that was now behind both of you. “Diricawls essentially Apparate.”

“They shrink,” Kun replied with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Mokes, that is.”

“They—” You blinked, impressed at and weirded out by the concept of shrinking lizards. If they could shrink at will, then it stood to reason that they could also return to their original size. “Wait, are you telling me that Mokes are choranaptyxic?”

“Bingo, they’re—” Kun paused, looking absolutely gobsmacked. A bright smile spread across his face and reached his eyes, crinkling them. He looked down at his feet then turned to you with a glint of delight in his eyes. “Mokes are chrono—corona—no, nae chance.” He snorted. “I can’t pronounce it.”

You shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t worry. It took me ages to say it right.”

Kun sighed. “It might take me an eternity then.”

“Hopefully not.” You shook your head and gently, but unconsciously patted his shoulder. “I mean if you can feed vanishing dodo birds. . .”

Kun sniggered and whispered, “Magic.”

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YOU THOUGHT FREE periods would be, well, free of responsibility.

How wrong you were. Anything Ten said should never be taken at face value. Who would have thought that within a few weeks of your sixth year starting, you’d be overwhelmed by the vast amount of homework you were being set with?

No one, you supposed. Certainly not you.

Once or twice you thought about simply wandering into the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night and vanishing without a trace. It was a morbid yet recurring notion that you cringed at. And to think you called Doyoung dramatic.

You constantly took notes during lessons and made frequent visits to the library. It wasn’t necessary, but it helped ease that anxious feeling that overwhelmed you every so often. It made you feel on top of things since most classes, even those you excelled at, were frustrating you. Whereas Potions nauseated you, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Transfiguration left you mentally and physically exhausted. The less you said about Divination and Ancient Runes the better.

As a sixth year, nonverbal spells were expected and routinely practiced in and out of the classroom. It wasn’t unusual to see classmates—in the common room or at mealtimes or free periods—groaning and mumbling expletives under their breaths after each failed attempt at wordless magic.

For about two weeks, the Slytherin Dungeon echoed with the faint mumbling of exasperated classmates while they waved their wands wordlessly and hopelessly expected results. Most of the time, nothing happened. In the rare occasion that they managed to perform magic, the spell either backfired or something else entirely occured.

(Several people—including Doyoung and a second year—had to go to the infirmary due to the effects of spells and charms gone wrong. Doyoung, for example, had somehow managed to conjure freckles all over his face. The second year, Chenle, was the victim of a stray spell; he ended up growing a thick, white beard that reached past his knees.)

Due to the enormous workload and long, often frantic hours of writing essays, memorizing runes, and practicing magic, you had been unable to even consider joining Slytherin’s Quidditch team. It’s not like you were going to actually do it, but it had been in your mind ever since Yuta had suggested—then asked—you several times to go to the tryouts.

But, as Kun usually said, nae chance.

Surprisingly enough, in spite of everyone being far too focused or overwhelmed by homework and their lessons, Kun had found time to mingle with Doyoung and Ten. Which, to your surprise, meant he also “mingled” with you. It began with both of you discussing schoolwork until it transitioned into shared interests, such as discussing magical creatures, counter-charms, and defensive spells.

You even talked about your future. Whereas Kun yearned to be a Magizoologist, you had simpler ambitions and yearned to finish this school year.

It was a Saturday morning when you’d asked Kun to help you with an essay for Professor Tablo’s Charm lesson. Truth was, you didn’t need help and simply wanted to spend some time with him. You were in the library, which was surprisingly full of people for such a sunny day.

“Chin up,” Kun mumbled absentmindedly, skimming through on an old copy of Silentium: A Handbook for Nonverbal Magic. He was reviewing some notes he had written in a notebook.

You nodded with a groan, stretching your hands above your head. You shifted in your chair, feeling your arse numb after an hour and half of sitting. Half an hour more and you’d call it an afternoon. Until then, though, you had to pretend to be studying and not indulging in patter with Kun.

“Chin up, eyes forward.” You drawled, rubbing the bridge of your nose. You heard him chuckle and looked up to meet his gaze. He was looking at you with a glint of endearment in his eyes. “That’s wha—that’s what you said, innit?”

He nodded. “That’s what I said, aye.” He turned to his book, continued scribbling on his notebook. “You’ll get through this.”

“Don’t you mean we’ll get through this?”

“Och, alright, sure.” He nodded and playfully rolled his eyes. “We’ll get through this.”

You winked and gave him a thumbs-up. “That’s the spirit, boyo.”

Kun raised a fist above his head and shook it, the gesture one of agreement and encouragement.

“Hwaiting!” he exclaimed, but shrunk and winced immediately when he noticed he had startled the quartet of girls sitting opposite you and was being glared at by Madam Pince. “Sorry,” he apologized in a small, almost wheezy voice. “Didnae meant to make a ruckus.”

Madam Pince appeared next to them, having approached the table to simply glare at both of you. It was then that you noticed that age hadn’t done her any favors. She looked like an underfed vulture that hadn’t seen better days because it had never had better days.

As you decided to intervene, she humphed and said in a shrill, nasal voice, “And yet here you are making a ruckus.”

Kun offered a sheepish grin. “Aye. My bad.”

“I don’t need to remind both of you that the library is reserved solely for study lessons and not for chatting or mucking about or—” She paused, looking aghast at Kun as he began closing his books and putting them away in his school bag. “Am I boring you?”

You snorted and looked away, hoping that the stern librarian wouldn’t chastise you. If she noticed your outburst, she didn’t show it. Kun, who was doing his best not to laugh, opened his mouth to reply but closed it as soon as a witty remark popped in his head. He briefly frowned and cleared his throat then turned to Madam Pince and gave her a smile so charming that you thought for a second the old hag would melt. The librarian’s lips twitched as Kun stood up and shouldered his school bag.

“No, ma’am, you aren’t. I just prefer to study elsewhere so as to not bother anyone,” he answered and bowed respectfully. He glanced at you through his periphery and gave you a small nod. “Coming with?”

“Er—” You blinked, eyes wide, caught between laughter and embarrassment. “Sure, I’ll come with.”

“Madam Pince.” Kun bowed his head and walked past her. “Always a pleasure.”

“Boy,” she said, unconsciously bowing her head. “Always—er—likewise.”

Both of you walked past her, eyes on the ground. The moment you reached the library’s entrance and stepped into the corridor, both of you started laughing. Kun’s laugh was laced with self-deprecation and you found that rather winsome. He had doubled over and leaned on a column, his shoulder shaking and his laugh echoing in the corridor. Whereas he laughed openly, you clasped a hand on your mouth to cover your amusement; it didn’t make it any easier or helped you not indulge in the moment, it only exacerbated your sniggering.

“Och, she’s terrifying,” said Kun, red in the face. “That—that old—”

“That old what?” you managed to blurt out in between breaths.

“I cannae—” He cleared his throat and shook his head. When he spoke, his accent was audibly less pronounced. “I cannot say it. It’s too mean.”

“What, calling her a hag? It wouldn’t be mean. It would be stating facts.”

He gaped at you then slowly turned towards the library’s entrance. “Hush, now,” he whispered, half-smiling. “She might hear you.”

You snorted. “That would mean she hears like a bloody bat.”

“She might as well.” He sniffed, wiping tears from his tears with the back of his hand. He stretched and adjusted the bag that loosely hung from his shoulder. “Dunno about you but I’m starving.”

“Your treat?”

Kun patted his pockets and wiggled his eyebrows. “I’ve got a few galleons on me.”

“Your treat it is, then.”

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ON THE THIRD floor, in an unused classroom, three third years—a Gryffindor, a Ravenclaw, and a Slytherin—wandered in. They were discussing who was going to open and set off the Rocket Box the Gryffindor had bought off from a fifth year.

The trio was unaware that in the empty cabinet by a corner of the classroom something had been stirred awake by their patter. It didn’t like visitors, especially when it had been resting and minding its own business.

“I bought it!” exclaimed the Griffyindor, Jeno, pulling the Rocket Box off the Ravenclaw’s hand. “Therefore I get to open it and set it off.”

The Ravenclaw, Renjun, scoffed. “Remind me again who gave you half the money to buy it?”

“Good for both of you, but I can’t be arsed,” said the Slytherin, Donghyuck, flicking Jeno’s forehead and taking the box off him. “I just want to see these go off.”

Jeno rubbed his forehead and shot daggers at Donghyuck. Renjun, on the other hand, was rolling his eyes and groaning.

“I know how we can settle this dilemma.” Renjun rolled up his jumper’s sleeves and balled his hand into a fist. “Rock paper scissors.”

“Ugh.” Donghyuck rolled his eyes, tongue in cheek. “Fine.”

Renjun glared. “Oh shut it, you prat.”

“Can we just do this and set off the fireworks?” Jeno lifted his head to groan and stare at the ceiling. He mumbled a string of complaints and expletives before facing the other two. “Hands up.”

“Hands up,” Renjun and Donghyuck chorused.

Rocks.

Paper.

Scissors.

“What a load of—” Jeno complained, though didn’t finish when Renjun glared at him. “Tosh. Load of tosh. I wasn’t going to say anything—er—vulgar.”

“Pity, I would have enjoyed a nice fuck out of you,” said Donghyuck, feigning disappointment not before showing a wicked smirk.

“That doesn’t sound right.”

Donghyuck wiggled his eyebrows. “Maybe to you. Sounds alright to me.”

“Yah!” Renjun smacked Donghyuck’s shoulder. “Let’s settle this already.”

“Hit me again and I’ll hex you—” Donghyuck reached for his wand, but he felt someone holding the hand in his robe’s left pocket. He slowly turned to glare at Jeno and was torn between pushing him off himself or smacking Renjun with his free hand. The Gryffidnor’s grip on his forearm was getting a little tight for his taste. “Let go, you Samoyed-looking prick.”

“Did you just compare me to a dog?”

“So the whole prick thing just—” Renjun motioned something going over his head, baffled. “—doesn’t bother you? Doesn’t even register, eh?”

Donghyuck sniggered. “Daftie.”

“Samoyed?” Jeno blinked, confused. “Do I really look like a—”

A rattling sound startled them. The three of them turned to the cabinet on a dark corner of the classroom. It was old, battered, and brown; someone had scratched their names and several lewd limericks on its surface.

“What—what was that?” Jeno’s face contorted with fear, his eyes almost nonexistent.

“Aren’t Gryffindors supposed to be brave?” Renjun narrowed his eyes, relented from smacking Jeno in the back of the head.

“Apparently not.” Donghyuck raised an eyebrow, eyeing Jeno up and down and shaking his head. “So much for bravery, determination, and chivalry.”

The Gryffindor deflated. “Aren’t any of you going to let me be or are you going to take the piss?”

“Take the piss.” The Slytherin scoffed. “Duh.”

The cabinet rattled once again, followed by the scratching of sharp claws against wood. They could hear a low, ominous lowing akin to that of a beast that was awakening after a long slumber. Renjun and Donghyuck exchanged a look and pulled their wands. Jeno remained a few steps behind, Rocket Box in one hand and his wand in the other.

“Lumos,” Renjun whispered and the tip of his wand lit up.

Donghyuck and Jeno averted their eyes as Renjun shone a bright light across the classroom. Besides an empty desk, the cabinet, a pile of dusty books, and six writing desks, there was nothing else to look at. It didn’t make this place any less unsettling, though. With every step they took, the cabinet rattled. By the time they stood about four steps away from it, the damn thing had stopped moving; the eerie lowing, on the other hand, hadn’t stopped.

Renjun hesitated. “Are we sure this is a good idea?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“We were about to set off fireworks in a classroom.” Donghyuck shrugged. “You tell me.”

Renjun lifted his chin, nodding at the Gryffindor. “Jeno?”

“Is this a terrible idea?” he blinked, then nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“Say no more.” Donghyuck aimed his wand at the cabinet. “Alohomora.”

The cabinet’s lock clicked, its door slowly creaked itself open. For a brief second, they stood there looking at a dark, empty cabinet until they were all pushed back by a rush of hot air. Donghyuck, who had been the closest to the cabinet, landed on top of Renjun. The Ravenclaw collapsed under the weight of his legs, dragging Jeno along with him to the ground.

“Is everyone okay?” Renjun asked mid-groan.

“No—” Jeno began, but found himself speechless.

Crack!

Before him, unfolding like a curtain, was black cloak that didn’t quite touch the ground. It glided slowly, ominously, towards Jeno. He screamed, his eyes wide with fear, but the cloak changed directions the moment Donghyuck stood up; it immediately focused on him. The Slytherin had a fraction of a second to see the cloak twist into itself, like a ball, then—crack!— turn into a large beast with a low-slung body covered in thick reddish-brown hair with five legs, each one ending in a clubfoot.

“QUINTAPED!” Donghyuck yelped at the top of his lungs. He aimed his wand at it, prepared himself to defend himself but he was screaming so loud that he couldn’t hear himself say the incantation. “Stu—Stupef—!”

Donghyuck couldn’t pry his eyes away from the quintaped’s simian-like face as it bore its fangs and tried to bite his right leg. Panicked but not completely petrified by fear, he kicked one of the quintaped’s legs then used another to push himself away from it. In the split second that it took him to put some distance between himself and the beast, he blindly reached out for Jeno or Renjun but found himself empty-handed.

“Jeno—Renjun—where are you?” Donghyuck yelped, his eyes clenched closed. He outstretched his hand, aimed his wand forward, and uttered, “Lumos!”

A ball of white-hot light burned on the tip of his wand. The quintaped, momentarily blinded, turned away from Donghyuck. He heard the beast snarl and squeal until he couldn’t hear it anymore.

The next sound that echoed in the classroom was that of Renjun cursing in Mandarin, followed by a low, almost hollow hiss. Donghyuck opened his eyes to see Renjun helping Jeno off his feet, wand leveled at a lanky, stiff-looking man clad in an indigo tang-suit and trousers. It wasn’t a man, Donghyuck realized, but a living corpse with fangs like those of a vampire. The man’s countenance wasn’t only pallid but in a state of decomposition; it was sort of green, as if mold had bloomed across his flesh.

It was a jiangshi, and it was Renjun’s worst fear. Donghyuck knew because he had teased him with a particular story about how his uncle had encountered one and lived to tell the tale. The whole story was utter bunkum, but this . . . this felt too real.

It was a quintaped a second ago, Donghyuck thought, and now it’s a bloody vampire?

And then it hit him. This thing—this shapeshifting terror—was a boggart.

“Back off, you spooky bastard!” Renjun yelped, his voice quivering. Though his hand was shaking, his resolve was unwavering. “Back off or—er—just—”

“It’s a boggart!” Donghyuck rose to his feet and closed the distance between his friends and the jiangshi. “Don’t stun it!”

“Don’t stun it?” Jeno blurted out, face contorted in confusion and exasperation.

Renjun cackled. “I suppose you’d like us to ask him to stop being a spooky prick!”

“You don’t stun boggarts, you idiot.” Donghyuck pushed Renjun back. He raised his wand above his head, unconsciously taking a dramatic, if impractical pose. “You laugh at them.”

“HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO LAUGH AT THAT!” Renjun exclaimed, his legs turning to jelly.

“Riddi—” Donghyuck began but found the incantation stuck in his throat.

Since he and Jeno were protecting Renjun, essentially creating a barrier between themselves and the boggart-jiangshi, the shapeshifting terror was now focused on two new victims and couldn’t choose on which one to terrify first. The boggart made an inhuman shriek as it twisted into several shapes, never quite settling on something.

When one of them shouted “RUN!”, they sprinted out of the classroom without a second to spare. The last thing they heard as the door closed behind Donghyuck was a hoarse, cold cackle. On the ground, crumpled and forgotten, the Rocket Box lay unopened.

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YOU AND KUN heard the commotion before you almost stumbled upon them.

A pair of third years—a Gryffindor, a Ravenclaw, and a Slytherin—ran out of a classroom, scared out of their wits: pale in the face, holding onto each other, wands tightly gripped in their hands as they looked over their shoulders.

You recognized one of them—dirty-blond, tan skin, handsome if mischievous face—and tugged on Kun’s arm, nodding your head in the third years’ direction. Though Kun frowned and seemed unsure, he immediately broke into a sprint. You followed, impressed not only by how fast he was but how quickly he assessed the situation. His stride was purposeful, like that of a father intervening to keep their children out of harm’s way.

“CLOSE IT—CLOSE IT—DON’T LET IT OUT!” shouted one of them, the Ravenclaw with two-toned hair, waving his hand in the direction of the classroom’s door. “CLOSE IT—”

“I heard you the first twelve times!” the Slytherin, the lad you knew, retorted with a roll of his eyes. He aimed his wand at the door then lowered it, looking shamefaced. “I don’t know the spell to lock the bloody door.”

“Colloportus!” Kun exclaimed, wand out. There was a loud click followed by something slamming on the other side. He looked at the door then at the third years. “Is everyone alright?”

“NO!” the trio answered in unison.

Kun suppressed a chuckle. “Good to know,” he said. “So if you’re alright, I reckon we—” he pointed at himself and you, “—can go on our merry way?”

“No, please, don’t—” the Gryffindor muttered, shaking his head.

The Ravenclaw gave the door a terrified glance over his shoulder. “There’s a bloody jiangshi in that bloody classroom—”

“It’s not a bloody jiangshi!” snapped the Slytherin, doing his best to look brave as he turned to you. “It’s a boggart!”

“Did you banished it?” You asked, infusing your voice with warmth.

The Slytherin scoffed. “Sure, we banished it!” he retorted. “That’s why we ran out there with our heads held high and definitely not screaming our bloody heads off!”

“All three of you saw it?”

You saw the boy turn to Kun and immediately deflate as all traces of fear and exasperation were instead replaced with relief. The Ravenclaw was still shaking. The Gryffindor held his hand and rested his head on the other’s shoulder.

“We did,” said the Slytherin.

“And, lo and behold, here you are.” Kun nodded. “Which means you did something right.”

“We ran!” exclaimed the Gryffindor, his voice laced with embarrassment.

Kun shrugged. “Nothing wrong with that,” he replied, his voice gentle and infused with empathy. “And besides—” he made sure to make eye contact and smile, “—it’s best to face a boggart accompanied than on your own.”

“It confuses them,” you added with a nod.

“Aye.” Kun pointed a finger in your direction, gave a small nod, then clicked his tongue. The third years softened at the gesture, looking less tense and scared. He outstretched his hand, shaking each of the third years’ hands. “I’m Qian Kun.”

You smiled and introduced yourself. The boys nodded then gave the door a cursory, if horrified glance.

“What are your names?”

“Lee Jeno,” said the Gryffindor.

“Huang Renjun,” said the Ravenclaw

“Lee Donghyuk,” said the Slytherin.

Kun beamed at them. “Pleasure to meet you.” He glanced at the door, his eyes narrowed. “Is it still there?”

The third years kept their eyes on Kun as they nodded. You found it amusing how in sync they were.

“Good.”

“Good?” Donghyuck’s face was one of disbelief. “How’s that good?”

“Because you already softened the boggart for us,” you explained, giving Kun a side glance but he wasn’t looking at you. “Right, Kun?”

“Absolutely! Nae danger!” he exclaimed, nodding with crinkled eyes. “We’ll handle it.”

“We can help,” squeaked Jeno.

Renjun narrowed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. “We just ran out of there, our tail between our legs, and you think we’d be of help,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “Come off it.”

“You want to help?”

“Not really, no,” Donghyuck mumbled, unconsciously. His eyes widened when he realized you were staring at him. He cleared his throat and offered what he thought was a sheepish smile but it was in fact rather impish. “Sorry.”

Kun’s smile didn’t falter as he stood to his full height. “Shall we?” he asked, turning to you, wand at the ready.

“Let’s,” you replied, nodding.

“What can we do?” asked Jeno, his voice varying in pitch.

“What can you do?” Kun raised an eyebrow in consideration. “You could wait for us in the Great Hall.”

Donghyuck made a face. “What for?”

“I recommend getting some chocolate. It’ll calm your nerves.”

“We could—” Jeno began but didn’t finish when Renjun took him and Donghyuck by the wrists and began to pull them away.

“We’ll meet you there,” said the Ravenclaw with a nod.

“Magic!” You heard yourself say and found yourself surprised. Though Kun didn’t face you, you noticed that he was grinning. “I mean—er—yeah, we’ll see you in a bit.”

The trio scurried away. You could hear them bickering amongst themselves until you couldn’t and you were left alone with Kun. There was minimal movement on the corridor, which meant you wouldn’t come across another student or staff member that often.

“Have you ever dealt with a boggart before?” you asked him, aware that the two occasions you had had to confront a boggart it had been under the school’s premises surrounded by fellow classmates and instructed by an adult.

“I have,” he replied in a soft voice, his tone matter-of-fact.

You nodded, pouting with an impressed nod and a tilt of your head.

“Out of school?” you added.

Kun chortled. “Where else?” he glanced at you over your shoulder, beaming. “There are several boggarts in the reservation. One of them hid under Astrid’s bed before she banished it.”

You shuddered, then caught on what he had said.

Did he just say—

“Reservation?”

“Huh?” Kun’s left hand was around the doorknob, halfway through opening the door. He gaped then realized what you meant. “Oh, right. I’ve spent the last three summers at a wildlife reservation for endangered creatures.”

You remembered he had mentioned his mum was a dragonologist and that his da—actually, his stepfather—was a herbologist. No wonder he was so passionate.

“There are dragons, snidgets, phoenixes, occamies, graphorns. . .” Kun trailed off, slowly stepping into the classroom. He faltered and seemed to take a step backwards only to disappear through the dark door frame. “This is downright chilling,” you heard his voice bounce off the classroom’s walls. “Lumos.”

You entered the classroom and saw him standing in the center of the classroom, which looked like something had torn it apart. Desks had been tossed across the room and were pulverized; a desk had been split into two, and a pile of books had seemingly caught fire. The only piece of furniture that remained intact was an old and battered cabinet.

Kun slowly turned to you, feigning uncertainty. “Place looks deserted,” he said loudly, nodding his head towards the cabinet. “It seems those third years were just mucking about and scared themselves.”

You took careful steps towards the cabinet. While Kun walked across and scrutinized the right side of the classroom, you took the left.

“There’s nothing here,” you intoned, chuckling and quickly glancing at Kun. Though you weren’t scared, you were still cautious.

“Seems like—” Kun stopped. He seemed to be glaring at the cabinet as it wobbled violently; its door was half-closed. “There you are!”

The cabinet burst open and a pale, sickly looking figure slithered out. For a moment, you thought it was an Inferius until you realized it was a strange fusion of man and beast. Covered in a thin, black coat, the lanky figure had the face of a man and his body was covered in reddish-brown fur up to its neck; it had four arms, each one ending in a clawed clubfoot.

Kun looked at the confused boggart with a frown, disgusted. “You are by far the mankiest Yeti I’ve ever seen!” he exclaimed.

The boggart turned. Before it could focus on its victim, Kun aimed his wand at the dusty curtains of a nearby window.

“Diffindo!” he exclaimed.

The curtains split diagonally from where they were hung. With a flick of his wrist, you made the curtains float above the boggart until they collapsed over it, completely covering it in a tight, dusty embrace.

“Nice one!” you heard Kun exclaim and chuckled at his enthusiasm.

The boggart heard your amusement and twisted within the curtains, trying to find a way out, trying to find space to shift, until it tore through the curtains’ fabric with ease and zeroed in on you. It took only a second for it to—crack!—transform into the thing you feared most. Standing before you, glaring and looking disheveled, was yourself.

You took two steps backwards, spared Kun a terrified glance, then stumbled on your feet. One second you were standing, the other you were on the ground. You felt your wand slip out of your hand, heard it clatter and roll away. Fear overwhelmed you so much that you couldn’t take your eyes off the ghostly visage before you.

“YOU’RE A DISGRACE!” Boggart-You shouted, tilting its head to the side with a sickening crack. “YOU’RE A DISAPPOINTMENT!”

“I’m—” you began but felt the words die on your throat, your heart thudding faster and faster. “I’m–this isn’t real—you’re not real!”

That seemed to give the boggart pause; it blinked at you then slowly approached, dragging a leg as if it were broken.

“NOT REAL?” it screeched, twisting its neck until—crack!—turning into an equally glaring and disheveled Doyoung with dark shadows under his eyes. This Doyoung stared at you with hatred. “YOU’RE A TERRIBLE FRIEND!”

Doyoung reached out with a bony, rotting hand, then—crack!—turned into Ten.

“A WASTE OF SPACE!”

Crack! Where Ten had been was Professor Tablo, half his face rotting, his usual charismatic demeanor replaced by vitriol.

“A WASTE OF A BRAIN! A LOUSY STUDENT!”

You clenched your eyes shut, feeling your entire body go stiff with dread. You could hear your heart pounding on your chest, louder and louder, as the boggart’s judgement became harsher. Tears began to stream down your face and you couldn’t wipe them away because your hands were trembling so hard as you held yourself in a tight embrace.

The technique usually worked, but this time you felt like it wouldn’t. You heard the boggart get closer, heard it speak in the voice of your family—your mother, your father, as well as that of uncles, aunts, cousins, and your grandparents—until it began to cackle; you heard yourself and wished that the ground beneath you opened and you fell through it.

“HERE!” shouted Kun suddenly, hurrying forward.

Crack!

You didn’t hear yourself any longer. As matter of fact, you didn’t hear anything but Kun’s shallow breathing. You opened your eyes to see what seemed like a black cloak, slowly swirling above him—only, you realized, it wasn’t a cloak. It was a strange incorporeal, fluid-like cloud that whispered in tongues and shrunk and increased its size with every breath Kun gave.

Kun, much like you, was paralyzed; there was a glint of abject terror in his eyes. He gripped his wand tightly but didn’t raise it. When the cloud seemed to approach, he took three steps backwards; he never took his eyes off the boggart. He was about to raise his wand when the boggart—the cloud—struck and violently exploded into a torrent darkness that enveloped the entire classroom.

It lashed out but missed him. For a brief second, you thought Kun was injured—not dead, never dead—but you saw him raise his wand and shout with great effort, “RIDDIKULUS!”

CRACK! The torrent of darkness turned into a balloon the size of a wheel’s car, deflated over your heads, then puffed itself into a cloud of foam. Kun’s desirive cackle echoed across the classroom; it was a triumphant, but unnerving sound.

“Kun,” you whispered, your vision becoming blurry.

You got a glimpse of Kun swaying then falling to his knees, breathing hard and slowly turning to look at you. You wanted to say something, to thank him, but you felt your mouth dry and your body heavy.

A second later, as everything turned black, you passed out.

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“I WONDER WHAT they saw.”

“Their biggest fear, you daftie.”

“Well, yeah, I know that. . .”

“Then why are you asking?”

You heard familiar voices whispering, but couldn’t make sense of them whatsoever. You weren’t sure where you were or what had happened, let alone how you’d got wherever you were. All you knew was that you felt sore, as though someone had embraced you to the point of nearly cracking every bone in your body.

“I thought seeing a boggart was scary—”

“Jeno, would you please shut up?”

Biggest fear . . . scary . . . boggart. Your eyes snapped open. You were lying in the hospital wing. The third years were gathered around your bed. Renjun and Donghyuck remained standing while Jeno was sitting on the edge of the bed. They looked apprehensive then immediately relieved to see you conscious.

“Hey,” said Jeno, offering a small smile. “How are you?”

You blinked at them. Your mind going back to the boggart in the classroom—the loud crack everytime the boggart transformed—that entity that hurled your worst fears at you wearing your face—that cloud that attacked Kun . . .

“How long have I been unconscious?” You asked, sitting up and leaning your back on the bed’s creaky headboard.

“I’d say a few hours,” said Donghyuck.

That isn’t very comforting, you thought.

“What—what happened?”

“We don’t really know,” said Renjun. “We waited for you in the Great Hall but you never arrived. Hyuck told what happened to one of his hyungs and we went back to the classroom . . .”

Donghyuck nodded, looking shaken. “Only to find both of you passed out.”

“Who did you tell?” You asked, hoping it hadn’t been Doyoung or Ten.

“I told Yuta,” Donghyuck’s answer came as a whisper. “He immediately ran up to the third floor.”

“Scared the living shit out of me, you did,” said a new voice.

You turned to the hospital wing’s entrance and saw Yuta coming in, Doyoung and Ten right behind him. They weren’t the only ones that were visiting because they were accompanied by two Hufflepuffs and a Griffyindor.

You raised an eyebrow. “All this for me?”

Yuta shook his head. “All this for the two of you.” He faintly smiled as he pulled a chair and sat down next to you. “I’m assuming you’re feeling better.”

“Not really.”

“Hmmm.” He nodded, as if expecting such an answer. He put his hand on his hoodie’s pocket and pulled out a comically large chocolate bar. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

He broke out a piece, handed it to you, then continued to break the rest of the bar and handed it out to everyone in the room. The third years ate it apprehensively, eyes still on you, whereas Doyoung and Ten devoured it in the blink of an eye.

The Hufflepuffs smiled or waved and the Gryffindor stared, not confident enough to say hi; they, accompanied by Ten, walked over to the bed opposite you. There, still sleeping, was Kun. You were still so groggy and wondering what had happened that you forgot about him. How was that even possible? You shook your head, trying not to overthink or burden yourself with guilt.

Kun’s chest rose and fell softly, his lips pursed in a pout. He looked pale and exhausted, as though someone had cursed him with advanced aging. You felt the impulse to get out of bed, run up to him, and embrace him, but everything hurt and moving wasn’t the best course of action.

“How is he?” you asked loud enough for the Hufflepuffs to hear you.

“He’s fine,” said Ten, looking and sounding relieved. He ran a gentle hand through his friend’s hair. Then, more to himself than anyone else in the room, he mumbled, “He looks like utter shit, though.”

The smallest of the two Hufflpuffs giggled, caught himself, and awkwardly cleared his throat. He had a kind face and pink hair that reminded you of chewing gum. “According to Madma Lina, rest is doing him good,” he added.

“Rest would do anyone good,” said the other Hufflepuff, scoffing. “Bloody sixth year.”

You chortled but stopped, noticing you were choking up. He was okay. Unconscious but okay. That was something. Better than the alternative, you thought.

“He’ll be fine,” said Yuta, glancing at Kun with a small, sad smile. “I know he’ll pull through.”

A wave of emotion overwhelmed you. Though you didn’t want to cry, you found yourself doing so; there was no point in holding back tears. Yuta’s eyes widened as he took your hand, the expression on his face one of immense worry.

“I feel like it’s my fault,” you mumbled. “I hesitated—I could’ve handled it but—”

“Fear is a tricky thing, innit?” Yuta caressed your hand then held it with both of his hands. “We don’t always act as we’d like or expect. It’s okay. Sometimes we’re strong, others not so much.”

“I didn’t even get to say the incarnation.” You closed your eyes, remembering how afraid you’d felt. “I fell and let go of my wand.”

Yuta nodded, understanding. “I’ve been there.”

He had. Back when Yuta was a third year, you were a second year, and he had told you how he felt when he had to confront a boggart in a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. How he had failed to laugh at the boggart, how terrified he’d felt, how everyone had rallied up around him despite initially laughing at his hesitation.

“Fear is overwhelming,” Professor Ok had said, comforting Yuta, “but fear is as strong, as daunting, as you allow it to be. It’s not easy, but you’re capable of being fearless.”

Yuta had taken those words to heart, lived by them. You hoped you could too.

“What did you see?” Yuta asked, stirring you from your reverie.

“I—” you hesitated, unsure if to admit you had seen yourself—and all of your loved ones—verbalizing the things you thought were true about yourself. “I saw a Lethifold.”

“Really?” Jeno perked up. “So did I!”

“You’re afraid of a flying cloak?” Donghyuck scoffed.

Jeno glared. “You’re afraid of quintapeds.”

Donghyuck punched Jeno’s shoulder, outraged. “That’s just common sense!”

“Did you just—” Jeno looked at his shoulder then back at Donghyuck. He balled up a fist and slowly raised it only to lower it when he felt Yuta narrowing his eyes at them. “Sorry.”

“I think it’s time we leave these two to rest,” said Yuta, standing up and waving a hand towards the door as he wrangled up the third years. “Let’s go, children.”

“I hope you feel better soon,” said Renjun, bowing. He followed Yuta and waited for his friends to catch up.

Donghyuck smiled, bowing hastily. “See you in the common room.”

Jeno glared at him, bowed, then walked behind him; he was still clenching up a fist and muttering threats under his breath. As soon as the third years and Yuta left, Doyoung approached your bed and sat down on the chair Yuta had used.

“You look like utter shit,” he said, as a matter-of-factly.

“YAH!” Ten exclaimed from across the room. He glared for a second, then turned to you and his eyes widened. “I mean—er—he’s out of line, but he isn’t wrong.”

“I wonder what I’d do without you.” You shook your head, feigning a heavy sigh.

Ten shrugged, unconsciously playing with Kun’s hair. “You’d be a mess,” he replied.

You found yourself wanting to hug him. The way he was staring at Kun made your heart melt; he was genuinely worried even if he hadn’t said it aloud. Ten caught himself moping, cleared his throat, and made a joke at his own expense; he left Kun’s side and joined Doyoung. He would never admit it, but he felt like he was robbing Kun’s friends of their time to be there for him.

“You’d be the biggest mess around,” he continued teasing, plumping down on the edge of the bed.

“Correction: I’m already a mess.”

Doyoung and Ten exchanged a glance, nodded, then looked at you.

“No shit,” they chorused.

You chuckled. “We’re all big messy messes.”

They agreed with another nod. There was a pause then the three of you laughed, loudly, free of any burdens or fears.

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DOYOUNG AND TEN stayed with you for about an hour. They left with the Hufflepuffs—Hendery and Jungwoo—and the Gryffindor—a third named Yangyang—and said they would meet you in the common room.

Madam Lina informed you that you’d be on your feet in no time. You were glad to hear that. You weren’t so glad, however, to see that Kun hadn’t woken up. Even when his friends came by and sat by his side, he stirred and turned once or twice, but remained unconscious.

“Is it normal?” you asked Madam Lina.

She glanced at him, then offered a small smile. “It depends on the person and what they’ve faced,” she said, uncorking a bottle of dittany. “Though I don’t think the reason he hasn’t woken up is entirely connected to what you both encountered.”

“So is he—er—faking?” You narrowed your eyes, glancing at Kun suspiciously.

“No.” Madam Lina chuckled. She approached Kun’s bed and drizzled two drops of dittany on a cloth, applying it to his shoulder and collarbone. “I think he’s just knackered and the boggart—whatever it turned into—just drained him.”

“Bloody sixth year,” you grumbled, looking at the ceiling.

“He’ll wake up soon. Don’t—oh, hello.”

“Where—what happ—” You heard Kun whisper in a groggy, husky voice. He cleared his voice and grunted, eyeing the matron with a blank expression. “Alright?”

Madam Lina chuckled. “I’m alright as one can be,” she replied, beaming. “I’d say good morning, but it’s almost evening.”

“Is—”

“I’m alright,” you interjected, smiling.

Kun stirred and sat up so suddenly that Madam Lina gasped and reached out, gently placing her hand on his forearm. He looked less pale now, a bit more like himself, but he still appeared to be fatigued; his green-mint hair was a mess, as though someone had run their fingers through it. He looked unsure, confused, until he met your gaze and a bright smile spread across his face.

“Magic!” he exclaimed, beaming.

“I’m glad you’re well,” you admitted out loud, feeling warm at the thought of Kun being okay.

He half-smiled. “Same here.”

Madam Lina looked between the two of you, relieved. She finished dabbing Kun’s injuries and turned to him.

“You need to rest for a wee bit more, but you’ll be out of here before dinner’s over.” She corked the bottle of dittany with a lazy flick of her wand. “I’ll arrange for you to have dinner here, though. You should enjoy as much silence as possible.”

“Silence sounds good.” Kun groaned as he glanced at the injuries in his shoulder—a crescent moon-shaped first-degree burn—that had now looked several days old. He was looking at his new scars intently, his brow furrowed. “A boggart caused this?”

Madam Lina stared at him intently. “Apparently so,” she conceded.

“Well . . . shit . . .” Kun caressed his collarbone, shocked.

The matron cleared her throat, calling attention to herself. “I’ll be in my office,” she said, waving her wand again to illuminate the hospital wing. “If you need anything—anything at all—let me know.”

“Thanks,” you and Kun said in unison.

You watched her go, waiting for her to enter her office and closed the door behind herself. Silence fell and enveloped both of you. Kun was staring blankly at the foot of your bed, looking lost in thought. When you were about to look away, he met your gaze and stared; he didn’t emote as he seemed to be still stuck in his head.

“What did you see?” you asked, scrutinizing that blank look in his face.

“Nothing but dust underneath your bed,” he mumbled, blinking.

“No, I meant—” you bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “What did you see in the classroom?”

“The boggart?”

You gave a small, if apprehensive nod.

“An obscurus,” he confessed, without a trace of embarrassment or hesitation. His eyes widened and drifted to his bed’s footboard, as if he’d seen one appear above your head. “They’re nasty things.”

“Obscurus?” You frowned. “Those are real?”

“Very,” he said in a tight voice.

It was the first time since you’ve known him that you’ve seen him afraid. You could see in his eyes that he’d been shaken by the event. He avoided eye contact and slumped back on his bed, staring at the ceiling rather despondently.

A parasitic force, an Osbrucus was a dangerous entity. It came to be when a child—always a wizard or witch—repressed their magical abilities; this could occur unconsciously or consciously. Abuse was often a reason for the manifestation of Obscuri.

Your mother had told you about them, recalling an event form her childhood; whenever she mentioned it or was asked about it, she would look pale in the face. You never thought they were real because it seemed like just a tall tale, but after seeing the boggart turn into one, displaying the destructive force of an Obsrucus, you were a skeptic no longer.

“Are you okay?”

“Not really,” he said, smiling ruefully, “but I’ll be fine and dandy after I’ve had a steak pie.”

You nodded. “A steak pie sounds good right about now.”

“It would be smashing, aye,” he agreed, his accent thick. “With a pint of butterbeer.”

“Magic!” you exclaimed, winking at him.

Kun’s smile reached his eyes. His laugh reached your heart.

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YOU ENTERED THE Slytherin Common Room not long after dinner and saw the usual suspects—Doyoung, Ten, Yuta—and Donghyuck gathered around the fireplace. They were talking in hushed tones, when Yuta noticed your arrival, immediately got to his feet, and started clapping. The others followed suit. Donghyuck seemed to be the most enthusiastic of the four.

“How are you holding up?” Yuta asked, sidestepping over the furniture to embrace you in a side-hug. He gently kissed the top of your head. “Ten was worried sick.”

“I wasn’t!” Ten exclaimed, outraged, but you could tell he had been worried sick.

You winked at him. “I know you have a reputation to uphold.”

He stared, winked back, then mouthed his thanks.

“I’m assuming you had something to eat.” Doyoung interjected, hooking his arm with Ten’s.

You nodded, grinning. “Steak pie—”

“Smashing,” said Doyoung, nodding.

“—and butterbeer,” you finished.

While Yuta raised an eyebrow, Doyoung, Ten, and Donghyuck stared, gobsmacked. Doyoung opened his mouth to protest but was interrupted by the third year, who in a whiny tone of voice said, “Butterbeer?”

Donghyuck blinked, jealous. Ten joined him in his indignation.

“Where did you get butterbeer?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

You shrugged, playing coy.

“Alright, then . . .” Ten nodded, tongue in cheek. “Keep your secrets.”

“I shall,” you replied, smirking. “And in order for me to keep my secrets properly, I reckon I need a good night’s sleep.”

“By all means, yes. Rest should do you good.” Yuta clapped, once more wrangling his fellow Slytherins like an experienced father dealing with noisy children. “Off to bed.”

“But—” Donghyuck began, pursing his lips into a thin line.

“But what?”

“I wanna hear what happened.”

Yuta raised an eyebrow. “Not now.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” you answered before Yuta could chastise the third year. You raised your pinky finger and offered it to him. “I promise.”

Donghyuck stared, smiled, then interlinked his pinky with yours. “Wicked,” he said.

“Happy?” Yuta titled his head. “Good. Now sod off to bed.”

“Oh . . . alright . . .”

The third year wandered off, accompanied by his seniors. Ten lazily waved goodbye. Doyoung glanced back with narrowed eyes; he was no doubt bitter about missing out on a good pint of butterbeer. That only left Yuta. He hugged you, bid you goodnight, and left for the dormitories. You were going to follow but instead decided to relax on your own. Seeing as there were only a handful of people—no more than six—you sat on one of the dark green button-tufted, leather sofas with a heavy sigh.

You wondered if other students had heard of what had happened. It was best if they didn’t. Some part of you was embarrassed by what had happened. Then there was a part of you that didn’t care what others thought.

“You’re capable of being fearless,” you whispered to yourself and found that these words strengthened your resolve.

Feeling reassured, you stood up and made your way towards the dormitories. As you reached your room, your thoughts wandered towards Kun. You hoped he was doing well.

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“DON’T YOU EVER get tired of reading?”

Kun looked up from his notebook, quill in his hand, and smiled. He was lying in bed, duvet up to his stomach. He looked across the room to see Jinjin waving his hand around, his face red, his jaw set. He’d been practicing nonverbal spells for the past hour and half with little to no success.

“I’m not reading,” Kun replied. “I’m writing.”

“To who?” Jinjin waved his wand at the ground in frustration. He grunted, threw his head back, then looked at Kun. “Is it ‘to who’ or ‘to whom’?”

Kun blinked, looking equally puzzled. “I honestly don’t know,” he replied, then eyed the bed to his immediate left where a figure was currently sleeping. He pointed at his neighbor with his quill. “But I reckon Wonwoo knows.”

Jinjin winced. “I’ll ask him in the morning.”

Kun chortled.

“So—” Jinjin threw his wand on his bed, looking defeated. “—who are you writing to?”

“My mum.” Kun kept scribbling upon the piece of parchment, focused but not entirely ignorant to his surroundings. “Felt the need to let her know that I sort of faced my biggest fear.”

“How come?”

“Dunno. Just felt like doing so.”

“How do you think she’ll take the news?”

“In good spirits, I hope.” Kun sighed, dipped his quill on the ink bottle, and continued to write. “The only silver lining is that it was a boggart and not the real thing.”

“All hail silver linings.” Jinjin approached Kun’s bed, sat by his feet. He stared at his friend worriedly then cleared his throat. “Are you—”

“I’m not. You shouldn’t worry, though.”

Jinjin’s face contorted with indignity and worry. “Don’t worry? Are you serious?”

“Not serious, but fairly somber.” Kun nodded, pouting. “I’ll be fine. I just need time to—” he paused, looking for the right phrase, “—plow through this.”

“Hmm.”

“Och,” he dismissively waved a hand, “nae danger, Jinjin. Some rest should—no, will—do me good.”

“You’ll finish the letter then go to sleep, right?”

Kun nodded, looking up to smile at his friend. “I will.”

“Alright.”

Kun finished the letter to his mum, then started writing on a new piece of parchment.

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SINCE YOU WOKE up early—earlier than usual and what you’d prefer—you decided to make the best of your day. You finished your essay for Professor Tablo, did some reading on Mokes, then headed for the Great Hall.

Sunday mornings were usually quiet, peaceful mornings wherein one could walk the castle without bumping into a lot of people. After all, Sundays were days of staying in: of relaxation, studying, and last minute essays.

When you reached the Great Hall, you saw a handful of people at each of the tables. Half a dozen Gryffyindors were in Quidditch gear, no doubt eating something before heading out for some practice on the pitch. Some Ravenclaws had plumped down and were either reading, writing on long scrolls of parchment, or practicing nonverbal spells; the same applied to the Slytherins and the Hufflepuffs.

There were familiar faces but none that you would share company with. You felt like you wanted some space, some time for yourself. You found a space on the Slytherin table away from fellow classmates and sat down, serving yourself some pumpkin juice. You were about to serve yourself breakfast—bacon or sausages?—when a skinny, orange-haired second year with a plae five-o’-shadow approached you with a tightly-gripped note on his left hand.

“Morning,” you said, looking at him apprehensively.

He extended his hand and waited for you to take the note.

“This is for you,” he blurted out.

“Thanks?”

He shrugged. “Welcome,” he mumbled, then turned on his heel and walked out of the Great Hall.

You raised an eyebrow, snorted, then mumbled, “Oh-kay.”

Looking down at the note, you recognized the writing. It was Kun’s. Something akin to panic took a hold of you. For a second, which felt like forever, you felt your heart skip a beat. Slowly, as if afraid of ruining the parchment, you opened the note.

It read:

To whom it may concern,

Noli Timere. It’s a phrase that my mum taught me. Latin for ‘don’t be afraid.’

I’m aware that it’s easy to say and hard to think we can be fearless when we’re afraid, but the truth is we can be; especially when we’re terrified and think once we give in to this dread we’ll lose ourselves. But, as I’ve learned, that’s when we can be the strongest; that’s when we can gather our courage and stand up to that which scares us.

— Q. Kun

PS; I didn’t mind boggarts before—at best, they’re nuisances; at worst, a pest—but now I definitely loathe them. I think they’re manky, daft pricks.

You smiled bittersweetly at the note, digits caressing the parchment.

“Noli timere,” you whispered, committing the phrase to memory.

KUN WAS SITTING by a towering beech tree on the edge of the Black Lake. He was alone, a book on his lap, overlooking the calm waters of the lake. You weren’t surprised to find him lost in his thoughts, finding it endearing and so characteristic of him.

“Waiting for the Giant Squid to make an appearance?”

Even before he turned, you saw his grin. His mint-green hair was held back by a toothed headband and he wore casual clothing that wouldn’t look out of place in a gym. He closed the book and stood up, meeting you halfway.

“He already did.” Kun glanced at the lake, then raised an eyebrow with a tilt of his head. “Or she. I honestly dunno its gender.”

“What did it do?”

“Sort of passed by, waited for me to give it something—a bacon croissant, if you’re wondering—and then it just disappeared under the lake.”

“Must have been a sight.”

“It was.” Kun nodded, beaming.

You gave the lake the once-over, gathered your courage, then said, “I received your letter.”

“You did?”

“Yes. This kid gave it to me and left without a word.”

“Och.” Kun shook his head, looking disappointed. “Forgive Chenle, he’s—” he paused, pursing his lips, “—rather exuberant some of the time and extremely aloof the rest of it.”

“You sent him but not Donghyuck?”

Kun shrugged, pacing the lake’s bank. You followed.

“Either of them would have read the note. I just—” he shrugged again, “—put a charm on the parchment. If he tried to open it, his hand would be instantly glued to it.”

“So he wouldn’t be able to open his hand—”

“Until the note was delivered, yes.” He looked at you, that glint of endearment ever present in his eyes. “Listen, I—er—dunno how to say this, but—” he grimaced, then cleared his throat. “I wrote the note more for myself than for you as a reminder that I—well, we—can be fearless. It’s more than anything a reminder that I’m—we’re—not alone in being afraid.”

You smiled, felt tears forming in your eyes. “I appreciate that.”

He nodded, looking sheepish. You reached out and pulled him into a hug. At first, he was stiff. He loosened and gave in, hugging you back, when he felt you resting your head on his chest. You remained like this for longer than you should, but it felt right; it felt warm. You didn’t feel alone; you felt supported. You thought that he felt supported too; you hoped so.

He broke the embrace to look at you. “That hug was magic,” he chuckled.

“Best kind of magic.” You agreed. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“I gave mine away so . . . no.”

“What if I buy you breakfast? My treat.”

Kun laughed, throwing his arm around your shoulder.

“Alright,” he said. “Your treat.”

#ficscafe network #hogwarts au #hufflepuff!kun #nct x hogwarts #qian kun #kun #kun fic #kun scenarios #kun imagines #kun x reader #kun x gender-neutral reader #nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct x reader #nct x gender neutral reader #wayv scenario #wayv imagines #wayv fic #wayv x reader

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valhalla-studios · 3 years

Text

Love Blossoms Earlier than the Pink Flowers of a Cherry Tree

Summary: You reminisce about your life with your two husbands, Taehyung and Jungkook.

Pairings: Taehyung x Reader; Jungkook x Reader; Taehyung x Jungkook, Taekook x Reader

Genre: Fluff and Slight Angst

Tags: Mentioned Yoonmin, Mentioned Namjin, Mentioned Hobi, Reader is wheelchair bound, Sick reader, Artist!Taehyung, Unspecified!Jungkook, Love triangles (not the toxic kind), Fluff, Hurt/comfort, slight angst, Hoseok was kinda a dick, unspecified character death, Memory loss, and Found Family.

A/N: Hey I finally posted this on Tumblr! Crossposted on Ao3, and don’t forget to like/reblog so I can actually get my fics out there pls! Check out my pinned for my Masterlist!

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The weather was pleasant for a day like today. Warm enough to sit outside in the morning, but cool enough to wear a sweater. It was quiet in the house, the old wood having made enough sound in its lifetime to remain subdued in its current days. Slowly opening your eyes, you glance at the ceiling, still dark out. You turn to your right to get a better view of your husbands. Tangled together in a flurry of limbs and blankets, you only slightly envy Taehyung and Jungkook for how languid they always sleep. You take a few deep breaths, before deciding that you had had enough sleep, and you sit up and look at the clock. 5:34 am. Just before the sun rises, your favorite time in the morning. Pulling the wheelchair closer to the bed, you hoist yourself in as quietly as possible, glancing back just to make sure you didn't wake them, and make your way down the hall to the kitchen.

You decide it's a good day for your lavender lemon tea, one of your favorites, although you save it for special occasions. Tea was very important to you. Today you feel very calm and... nostalgic, maybe? You can't pinpoint exactly what you are feeling, but it's perfect for a morning like this. You close your eyes, and envision peace and clarity while handling the tea leaves. Once the water was hot enough, you pour some in the mug and pour it out, just to warm the mug. Handling the tea leaves with care, you pour the water in a serene manner, to infuse the tea with clear intentions. Once the tea is done steeping,you gently pour it into your most used mug. The one you had made a few years ago with your husbands.

"Come on baby, it's not that hard." You laugh when Taehyung gets frustrated over not being able to make a solid shape even close to the bowl he had wanted to make. He huffs and tries again. You appreciate his determination to do this. He was never too artistically inclined, but he was here for you. Today was all about you. Jungkook to your left was intently working on his vase, which was coming out beautifully. No surprise there, he was always good at anything you three tried.

Opening the doors to the backyard, you look over the expanse of your garden. The soft scent of roses and lilacs licked your nose. It had rained while you were asleep, the dirt still quite damp. Wheeling over to the edge on the left, you look at the lake. Ducks honk to your left, far off in the distance. A mother duck with new ducklings teaches them how to swim. A morning dove lands a few feet in front of you as you sip on your tea, the sun just peaking over the horizon. The rain, still slick over the grass, looks inviting, so you lean down to move the bars to the side and set your feet down on the earth. It's a comforting feeling, one you don't get to experience too often.

Looking at your watch, it's only a couple minutes till 6 am. You hear the hooting of an owl right before it flies across the lake from one side of the forest to the other. It's a beautiful sight, albeit haunting. Finishing the last of your tea, you sigh. It's calming. A slight breeze picks up, bringing new scents from the lake. You lean back and look at the sky. Purple hues morph into lilacs and pinks, in and out of oranges, and you have half a mind to photograph it, but decide not to. You don't need to preserve this memory. You know it will stay with you forever.

You think back to the first time you three moved to this cottage. That day started out so bad, and it had only gotten worse. From the movers breaking some of your most prized artworks, to it starting to thunderstorm before you could move everything inside, it was a mess. It took weeks to unbox everything, and many arguments on what rooms were whose. Sometimes there still are. But it was all worth it once you got settled in. From the moment you set your eyes on this place, you knew it was the perfect place to settle down. Of course Taehyung and Jungkook thought so too. They had immediately started planning out where everything was going to go. They even looked to see what was nearby. There were a lot of mom and pop shops that you loved to frequent.

When you first moved in, there was a diner you frequented almost everyday. Usually just one of your husbands came with you, which the owner, a sweet old lady in her 80’s, thought was odd. One day while you and Taehyung were eating, she came to talk to him while you were in the restroom. She asked if he Knew his wife was seeing another man, in this exact diner no less? Jungkook just laughed and asked if it was his other husband, Taehyung. The lady had just gasped, meanwhile, Jungkook, ever the one with words, went on a 30 minute spiel Talking about polyamory and how your guys' relationship worked. Even as old as she was, she accepted it. Anytime you came in to get food, she insisted you call her Granny, and she always pinched Taehyung and Jungkook’s cheeks.

A small black crow flaps down to the edge of the rock patio and squaks at you. You ponder a moment, but he flies away before you can make a thought. So much life today that you get to experience. It's an amazing feeling, knowing that there is life all around you that you get to see. Thousands of lives, but only a few that you are intertwined with. How many have you seen? How many will you remember?

How many will you forget?

Some days are better than others. Today is a good day. No crying because you can't remember most of your life, your life before the boys, your parents, any brothers and sisters you may have had. Memories with any friends are gone, lost to your mind. No hating your body for failing you. Being stuck in a wheelchair. Some days you can walk, most days you can't. It's a back and forth thing. Today you decide that it's alright. You are here to live as best as you can. It's not bad anymore. Most days you aren't in pain, and that's good. Definitely not today, today you feel over the moon.

You reach to your right and grab the cane attached to your wheelchair. Over the years, everyone had chipped in, adding layers and layers of stickers, the original ones buried under the new ones. Carefully, you sit up and slowly make it out of the chair. Your goal is the apple tree not 10 feet away from you. It's rough, your legs feel like weights, too heavy to move, but you focus on each step. Left foot forward, right foot forward, left foot forward. Until you reach the tree. You reach up and pluck a ripe apple sitting down on the wooden bench right beside you. You take a bite of the apple. Bitter, just like you like it.

Over the years, you had planted all your favorite fruits, apples, strawberries, grapes, blueberries, lemons, pears, and even a small kumquat tree. Jimin and Yoongi used to come around a few times a week and would plunder your supply. You would always yell at them for coming over for food and not to hang out with you three, but deep down it really didn't bother you. They haven't had much time to hang out since they had adopted their twins, Lucas and Luna. You don't mind, spending time with their children was a must. Namjoon and Seokjin had moved a substantial distance away into the city. They had finally opened their own law firm just like they both wanted. Namjoon often messaged you, just to see how you were doing, even more so after your last hospital visit. It was natural for people to worry, but it was always bittersweet. It messed with your emotions, having to unlearn a lot, and learning how to accept help and emotions from others. You occasionally see posts from Hoseok on Instagram of his adventures of being one of the most renowned choreographers in LA. You two don't talk much anymore after the falling out, but you had still invited him to the wedding. Jungkook and Taehyung were his younger brothers, how could you not invite him to their most important day ever? He gave you a warm welcome, but there are some things that can never be fully repaired.

You look at the small gold ring on your left hand, inside was scribed with all three of your initials. Nothing too fancy or elegant. Just a reminder. You remember everyone's faces when you stood up from your wheelchair to walk down the aisle. It was the first time you had ever walked on your own since the boys had known you. The glistening of tears in Taehyung and Jungkooks eyes had looked like a thousand stars in the night sky. Your wedding dress, an atypical Auburn, had made you feel like you were royalty. Jungkook and Taehyung definitely thought you were. You had chosen to get married under the full moon during October. The boys of course had spared no money on making it everything you could ever wish for. Even though you had no family show up, you were surrounded with support and love that day, being accepted into both your husband's families without hesitation. They had opened up so many opportunities for you, and you always tried to express your gratitude to everyone in your life.

You look down at your feet in the grass, feeling the weight of a thousand regrets holding you down. Not often do you feel like this, but as Jimin once told you, it's okay not to be okay. It used to be a lot worse. Especially 10 years ago, right when you met the Boys. Taehyung brought up the idea of a quaint get together to celebrate a decade of being in your life, and you not too keen on parties, told him no. His puppy dog eyes however, were something no one could deny. They were in the process of getting everyone together in July. There were still months before then, so everyone could plan to come at the same time. Jungkook had been looking up new recipes to make, even some old ones. You had expressed wanting to try to cook again, oh how you missed it. You used to cook for them back when they all lived together. Seokjin had become your mentor in the kitchen, teaching you many new things to make. You showed him once your favorite bread, the strawberry chocolate mini loaves. He would always bring some fresh made bread whenever he could from his dad’s bakery.

The trees swayed in the breeze, the weather unusually warm for mid March. Everything was bustling with life, a small caterpillar slowly inching its way up the leg of the bench caught your attention. They always fascinated you, the way their entire life would one day be uprooted, turned upside down, only to be reborn as a beautiful butterfly. Why would anything have to go through something so traumatic just to flow to its next phase of life? You brought this up to Yoongi once, as he was always itching for philosophical discussions. He explained that it was just a part of life. Everything in life will go through a terrible experience, but in the end, you grow from it. You transform into an even better version of the you that once existed. You had rebutted telling him that you thought that it wasn’t fair that humans had to go through something traumatic to become better. It was a long discussion, but that was you and Yoongi’s forte.

The wind picks up from the west, the smell of saltwater from the ocean miles away fills the ambient air. Hoseok loved the ocean, still does, and it saddens you a bit to think about it. You wish things had gone in a different direction, maybe you could patch things up with him this July. 5 years was a long time, yet also such a short time, to mend the rift between the two of you. Taehyung and Jungkook once asked you individually what had happened that day in the studio. You brushed each of them off, saying it wasn’t your story to tell.

“I want to learn how to dance, Hobi.” With one simple phrase, Hoseok turns around, looking at you with those eyes. Weary, cautious, afraid. He takes a long gulp of water, and stares at you for a moment. Clearly trying to figure out how to say it without offending you. “I would love to teach you, Y/N, but I think…” He trails off, and you already know what he was going to say.

“I know, I have to learn how to walk first, but I see your face when you dance. The euphoria, I want to experience it.” You wheel up to him and take his hand in yours, pleading.

“One step at a time, Petal. I would be glad to teach you. I promise I will. How long do you think it will be?” An open ended question with no real answer. It was a touchy subject, one he knew he shouldn’t bring up. But Hoseok never really knew when to stop, did he?

“I don’t know. I don’t… know.” You cast your eyes down. The anger starts bubbling up. “Who knows if I will ever be able to walk again.”

“Sooner or later, you are going to have to tell them the recent news. I don’t like keeping them in the dark, and they deserve to know. It's been 3 months since Doctor Hwan told you there was more damage to your spine. Taehyung is starting to wonder, he asked me the other day if the physical therapy was helping. Jungkook would rather take you, but I know you asked me to for a reason, Y/N. Why?” The damage on your spine was irreversible, and quite painful. Doctor Kwan said any physical activity could cause further damage, and that he thought walking was near impossible.

“I don’t want them to know yet, they worry too much. I thought about it, you know? I don’t deserve them. Any of you.” Hoseok scoffs.

“Stop leading them on then. Stop acting like everything is okay when it's not!” His sudden burst of anger surprises you. You know it's been building up a while. “I’m tired of keeping secrets, especially when it's detrimental to you. Get out of your head, Y/N, and face the facts. You can’t go around acting like everything is going to be fine when you are getting worse.”

“So what? It's my life, I’ll tell them when i’m good and ready. I confided in you thinking that you of all people would support me no matter what!” You yell out, tears already forming in your eyes. Hoseok saunters away from you, and grabs his jacket to put it on.

“I supported you, and I always will. But this is going to backfire in the end, you need to understand that. Things are getting worse, you have to tell them that. I can't let them be blindsided when you take a turn for the worse, so if you won't let them in, you don’t deserve them. They don't need the stress of taking care of you! You sit there, not telling the two most important people in your life, and expect things to stay the same. Stop doing that. Save them the pain of watching you die and leave them to their life!” As soon as those words left his mouth, he regretted them immediately. But what’s done is done. Tears fill your eyes, overflowing down your face. Hoseok leaves without sparing you another glance.

Things were never quite the same after that. The others could blatantly tell something had happened, but neither of you would tell. It took months of ignoring each other for something to finally happen. It was Yoongi’s birthday, and all of you had gathered at his apartment for a nice dinner. You had been set right across Hoseok, no doubt due to Jimin. He had always tried to get you to mend the scraps of the friendship you once had. It had been brought up multiple times how Hoseok was getting more popular as a choreographer and how he needed to start teaching them his talents. He mumbled how he still had a promise to keep, making eye contact with you. Later that night, while you were on the terrace, Hoseok had sneakily joined you. The two of you had talked for a while, easing on into the dark of the night, being swaddled into the light of the moon. You mended what you could and remained friends, but nothing was ever the same. Wounds heal, but the scars they leave are always a reminder.

Taehyung wakes up first. He rolls over only to find your spot empty and cold, so he turns over to wake Jungkook up. His kisses are slow and temping. They wake Jungkook up nonetheless. He kicks his feet off the side of the bed and stretches his arms way up, Taehyung almost purring and his husbands muscles. They decide to get up and shower together, an intimate chore they love doing together. Taehyung exits first, throwing on some lounge pants and an oversized shirt, heading to the kitchen to make some tea. Jungkook emerges a little bit later wearing black jeans and a Dark grey hoodie. They set on making breakfast for all three of you.

The sun rises higher in the sky, another hour had passed and you were growing tired again. Leaning back, you stretch your arms up and pluck another apple from the tree. The mornings are usually calm, Taehyung and Jungkook choosing to sleep in. Especially since it's Thursday, a day you guys claimed as your lazy day of the week. You figured you had another hour of alone time before they came to get you. There is so much that they do for you, so much love and patience, it is almost too much. Taehyung loves like the rough waters of the sea, crashing and eroding away the darkest parts of you. Jungkook loves like the quaint breeze before the storm, there to remind you that you can still feel. They tell you that you love like a rainstorm, constant and comforting. You close your eyes, set on remembering the love, and the life, they gave you.

They find you sitting peacefully under the apple tree, unshed tears still cloud your eyelashes. Jungkook calls for you, but you don’t stir. He lays his hand on your upturned one, only to find an absence of warmth. All at once, does he know.

Love blossoms earlier than the pink flowers of a Cherry Tree. You don’t remember where you read this, but you know it embraced you warmly. You know that love is patient, that love is kind, but love is also painful. Painful in a way that makes you fight, makes you crave more. Love is what makes you wake up in the morning, Love is the reason you were put here, set on loving Taehyung and Jungkook to the fullest. You loved them to your very last breath.

#BTS jungkook #bts taehyung #jungkook x reader #taehyung x reader #taekook #taekook x reader #Wheelchair bound #bts fluff #bts angst #artist reader #bts #BTS jimin #BTS jin #bts namjoon #bts yoongi #bts hoseok #sick reader #nostalgia

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